by Chris Carter
His father, who had never really wanted a child, preferred the bottle to the needle and the fist to dialogue. As a result of such a volatile mix, John Louis Goodwin grew up the neglected child – the proverbial ‘invisible boy’ – of a complicated, love–hate relationship.
All of that lack of love and affection didn’t go unnoticed by young John and from a very early age he realized that he just didn’t fit into his parents’ plans. The beatings he got became more and more frequent as he grew older, but to his mother’s surprise and to his father’s anger, instead of crying and running for cover, he would always stand his ground and take the beatings fearlessly and in silence.
But all of that came to an end one rainy summer night, just days before John’s fifteenth birthday. That night, after another drunken beating from his father, John returned to his bedroom, packed the very few items of clothing he had into a small rucksack and sat on his bed, arms hugging his knees, eyes focused on the dirty wall in front of him. For hours he listened and waited, until total silence took over his house and he was certain that both of his parents had passed out drunk in their bedroom. Without an ounce of regret, John opened his bedroom door and tiptoed into the kitchen. He knew exactly where his mother kept her drug money. After collecting the whole stash, he forever left the ‘living hell’ he was never able to call home.
For John’s plan to work, he needed to get out of that backwards town he lived in, pronto. At the city bus station, the only bus going anywhere that rainy night was heading to the city where angels were supposed to live – but instead of angels, all he found as he got there were demons.
At first, John roamed the streets in a fog, sleeping rough and eating out of garbage cans and back alley dumpsters, but the funny thing was that, in those dumpsters, he would usually find a better meal than any he ever had when he lived with his parents.
Life on the streets of LA was never easy, and though John had seen first-hand the destructive effects that drugs and alcohol could have on a person, at fifteen and homeless, he was literally powerless to escape the pull of those two vices. Soon, John also discovered gangs, girls, money, parties and a life that was exciting, frightening and dangerous in more ways than one. It was then that John came face to face with his first internal demon – his addictive personality.
It was that demon that made him grab on to that life of vice like a parasite, and he fell into it like an anchor into the deep sea. For three years that life was all he had and he lived and breathed it with every atom in his body, but the madness of it all was destroying him inside, eating away his brain, obliterating his emotions. He needed to escape it before it was too late. At the age of eighteen, John Louis Goodwin joined the US Army.
During his first tour of duty he acquired the moniker Mr. J. Three tours later, and after two medals and several commendations, John finally returned to Los Angeles, deciding he’d had enough of the military life. John was twenty-five then and, upon his return, he found out that without his fatigues, his country, the country he fought for, killed for, and would’ve given his life for, had decided to treat him as if he were diseased, and for the second time in his life he became the ‘invisible boy’. For the second time in his life he experienced neglect on a scale he never thought possible. No one would hire him, people looked at him as if he were scum, and his government did very little to help him out. Suddenly John found himself in the same situation he was in when he first arrived in the angel-less city, but this time he knew the streets and he knew whom to contact.
To John’s surprise, some of his old friends had elevated themselves to the very top of their ‘street’ organizations, and those organizations were stronger and more powerful than ever. Some had joined forces, forming a cartel. They had distanced themselves from their old ‘street trade’, acquiring several distinct businesses, including but not limited to casinos in California, Nevada, Louisiana and New Jersey. They were the ones who approached John.
‘We could use someone like you,’ he was told. ‘Someone with the kind of knowledge and skills you acquired while you were away.’
John considered himself betrayed by his own government, and that played a major part in his decision to join the cartel.
‘What we can offer you, if you make the right decision, no one else can. You know that, don’t you?’
‘If I take your offer,’ Mr. J had replied, ‘there will be a few conditions. One – I always work alone, not as part of an outfit.’
‘Go on.’
‘I want to lead as much of a normal life as I can, so I will need a front . . . a legit business that will pass any sort of scrutiny.’
‘That can be very easily arranged.’
‘And I’ll also need a new identity. The name I have is no good for me.’
‘But of course.’
Two years after that, Mr. J met Cassandra.
Forty-Eight
Garcia stepped closer to have a better look at the victim’s head but, just like Hunter and Dr. Slater, he couldn’t see past the dense, sticky cluster of blood and hair.
‘Perforations to her cranium?’ he asked, his tone as skeptical as the look on his face. ‘Using what? A small drill?’ His gaze quickly moved around the room as if searching for the tool.
Hunter shook his head. ‘No, not a drill,’ he disagreed. ‘A drill would’ve cause her hair to twist around in speed.’ He made a circular motion with his index finger. ‘That would’ve created thick knots at the base of the wound, bunching her hair together like dreadlocks. We’ve got nothing like that here.’ A quick silent second went by before Garcia contorted his face as if he could feel the pain. ‘A hammer and nail.’
This time Hunter nodded. ‘Or something very similar.’
Hunter’s head movement was mirrored by Dr. Slater. ‘And that conclusion, I’d say, brings us to the only other similarity in MO I could find so far between this victim and the one from three nights ago. The first one being, as you remember, the dining chair.’
‘Torture,’ Garcia said.
‘Exactly,’ the doctor confirmed. ‘The first victim had her face lacerated little by little, this one had her skull punctured . . . a hole at a time.’
Hunter thought it was about time to give Dr. Slater a little more information. ‘There is a third similarity between the two murders, doc.’
She turned to face him.
‘The video-call,’ Hunter explained. ‘Just like with the first murder, the killer broadcasted the whole ordeal over a video-call. This time to the victim’s husband.’
‘Nothing is a hundred percent confirmed yet,’ Garcia took over, ‘as we’re still to talk to Mr. Jenkinson.’
‘Where is he?’ Dr. Slater asked.
‘Apparently on his way here right now, but he was in Fresno when he received the call.’
‘Fresno?’
Garcia nodded. ‘He’s a business consultant. He was away on a job.’
‘Another question game?’ Dr. Slater asked.
Garcia’s head tilted sideways slightly. ‘Apparently yes, and if the rules were the same as the first time, with every wrong answer the killer was given . . .’ He nodded at the victim. ‘She got punished.’
‘Another “face slam” into a glass container,’ the doctor said in thought. ‘Another hole hammered into her skull.’
‘Once the game was over,’ Hunter said, ‘the husband made the nine-one-one call.’
‘That would explain how come we all got here so fast,’ the doctor said. ‘Her blood is practically still warm. Rigor mortis hasn’t even started yet. I’d say she’s been dead for about two hours, maybe less.’
‘How many would it take, Doc?’ Garcia asked. ‘How many punctures into her skull before the game was over?’
‘Very hard to tell, Detective.’ Dr. Slater’s eyes, now full of pity, returned to the victim. ‘Different factors would influence that number – diameter of the nail used, location of the perforation, how deep the nail was driven into her cranium, and if it hit brain matter or
not. Depending on the killer’s accuracy and how much torture he wanted to inflict, the game could’ve been over with one wrong answer or ten. The killer controlled everything here.’
Hunter took a couple of steps back as he finally managed to drag his attention away from the victim. Just like he’d noticed in the Jenkinsons’ anteroom, nothing in their living room looked to have been either disturbed or moved out of place. He had already studied Cassandra’s fingers, hands and arms. There were no bruises, no scratches, and no hints of any sort of defensive wounds. She was a reasonably tall woman – five-eight, maybe five-nine, slim and muscle-toned enough to suggest at least one weight-training session in the gym a week. Unless she had been taken completely by surprise, or subdued at gunpoint, she would’ve put up a fight, and a good one, Hunter was fairly certain of it, yet there were no signs of a struggle anywhere – not on her body, nor in her house.
‘Has her cellphone been found?’ Hunter asked.
‘It has,’ Doctor Slater answered. ‘Would you like to have a guess as to where we found it?’
‘Microwave,’ Garcia said.
Doctor Slater confirmed it with a sideways head nod.
‘Computer? Laptop? Tablet?’
‘We haven’t checked the whole house yet, but there’s a laptop on the kitchen counter.’ With her index finger she pointed in the direction of it.
Something new for IT Forensics to have fun with, Hunter thought.
Dr. Slater had gone back to studying the victim’s body. ‘This doesn’t make any sense,’ she said, dragging Hunter’s attention away from his thoughts.
‘You mean the apparent fluctuation in MO?’ he said.
She first nodded then paused, re-evaluating Hunter’s words. ‘Apparent? I thought I’d just described four major diverging points.’
‘And they were all correct and very valid,’ Hunter replied. ‘But I think that we’re maybe forgetting something here.’
‘And what’s that?’ the doctor asked.
‘If we are indeed talking about the same killer of three nights ago, this is his second offence. Right now, what really constitutes his MO, even his signature, is not totally clear because we have only one point of comparison.’
Dr. Slater thought about it for a quick second before accepting Hunter’s argument with an eyebrow movement.
He walked over to the fireplace and picked up a framed wedding photograph from the mantelpiece. It showed the victim and her husband standing at the steps that led up to a church entrance. Hunter recognized it as being the Cathedral of Our Lady of Angels in downtown Los Angeles. The smile on both of their faces told its own story.
‘Yes,’ Hunter said. ‘There are a lot of indications to what this killer’s MO might be. There are a lot of diverging points as well, but the truth is that right now he might just be experimenting.’
The doctor kneeled down in front of Cassandra to study her eyes. ‘Wait a second,’ she said, finally picking up the meaning in Hunter’s words. ‘If you’re right and he’s still experimenting, then we all know what this means, don’t we? This won’t end here. He’s going to kill again.’
Neither Hunter nor Garcia replied.
They didn’t need to.
Forty-Nine
As Mr. J joined the freeway heading towards Bakersfield and Los Angeles, he brought the speed on his Cadillac CTS-V up to seventy miles per hour, the maximum permitted by the California Department of Transport and the Highway Patrol. His head was still a mess. Thought processes would start at the back of his mind but, before developing into anything significant, they would be shattered into tiny pieces by flashback images of Cassandra being tortured in their own living room, by the hopeless look in her eyes, by the way she convulsed for the very last time. They would be drowned by the sound of that daemonic voice, a sound he knew he would never forget.
Mr. J took a deep breath and the effort made his whole body shake with sadness once again. He began coughing as if he was about to throw up, but his empty stomach produced nothing.
Coughing frenzy over, he checked the dashboard clock and then the speedometer. He’d already been driving for over an hour and even if he kept to the maximum limit throughout the entire journey, it would still take him around two hours to get back to Los Angeles and his house in Granada Hills.
‘Shit. Shit. Shit!’ he screamed at nothing and at everything while punching the steering wheel.
He knew that LAPD Detectives and a forensic team would already be there, probing through his house, disturbing Cassandra’s body. He knew it because he was the one who made the call. That had been the first of the three phone calls he’d made just before leaving his hotel room in Fresno. The second call was made to one of his contacts inside the LAPD. Someone who he paid well, but who also owed him a lot more than his own life. He owed Mr. J his wife’s and his kid’s life too.
‘Hello!’ Skeptically, the deep, rough voice answered the call after the second ring.
‘Brian?’ Mr. J asked out of courtesy. Besides being able to recognize Brian’s very distinctive voice anywhere, Mr. J had called him on the usual number. A number no one else knew about. A number no one else used, except for the two of them.
There was a long pause where Mr. J heard muffled footsteps, followed by the sound of a door opening and closing, then a few more muffled footsteps.
‘Mr. J,’ Brian said, letting out a heavy lung of air, his tone now a little anxious. Mr. J never called him at night. He never called him at home.
Brian Caldron wasn’t an LAPD detective. He wasn’t a police officer either. In fact, he could barely use a handgun. What he was, was a mega computer geek, a top analyst inside the LAPD’s Scientific Investigation Division, with a very high clearance level. A clearance level that gave him direct and unrestricted access to most national and local law-enforcement databases, and with that he was able to provide Mr. J with the most valuable commodity of the modern age – information.
‘I’m sorry for calling you at home,’ Mr. J said, ‘but I need a favor.’ As soon as that last word left his lips, Mr. J regretted it. It was never a favor, it was always business. The word ‘favor’ implied weakness. It implied that Mr. J would now be in Brian’s debt. He hoped Brian hadn’t picked up on it.
He hadn’t.
‘Can’t it wait until the morning?’ Brian asked.
‘No.’
Mr. J heard Brian take another deep breath. ‘So how can I help?’
‘A nine-one-one call was made to the LAPD not that long ago,’ Mr. J explained. ‘Probable homicide.’
Brian took down the address Mr. J gave him.
‘The first thing I need from you is – I need you to find out if the call was a hoax or not.’
For some reason, Mr. J was still holding on to a sliver of hope that all this could’ve been nothing more than some sort of sick prank.
‘OK,’ Brian replied. ‘And if it’s not a hoax?’
‘Then I need you to ghost this case twenty-four/seven. Everything, and I mean everything that gets logged regarding this investigation, I need to know.’ A short pause. ‘Is there any way you can get that confirmation from your place, or do you need to be back at headquarters?’
‘If confirmation is all you need right now,’ Brian said, ‘I can do it from here.’
‘OK. Let me know when you get it.’
Mr. J checked his speed again. He was still keeping to the speed limit.
Ring. Ring. Brian’s secret number popped up on the large screen display on Mr. J’s dashboard. He thumbed a button on his steering wheel and accepted the call.
‘Brian. So what do you have for me?’
‘The call was no hoax.’
Mr. J felt an invisible dagger penetrate his heart. His fingers began choking his steering wheel until his knuckles went white.
‘Female victim,’ Brian continued. ‘Forty-two years old. Her name is Cassandra Jenkinson.’
‘Any doubt about her identity?’ Mr. J asked. His hope was now just fantasy.
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br /> ‘Not according to the team at the scene. Official identification is just a matter of protocol. The victim’s driver’s license was found inside her handbag.’
The invisible dagger dug deeper into Mr. J’s heart. He could feel it lacerating everything inside of him.
‘Have they found her cellphone?’ Mr. J asked. Once again his voice was as cold and as emotionless as ever.
‘Cellphone? That I won’t know until a manifesto is logged into the system. Hopefully in the morning.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Mr. J thought. He would find that out before Brian could anyway.
‘She was married to . . .’ Brian tried to move on, but Mr. J cut him short.
‘It’s OK. For now this was everything I needed.’ A short pause. ‘Now. As I’ve told you, I need everything about this investigation ghosted. Same format as always. Same untraceable email as always. Any new discoveries you deem important, call me on this number ASAP. If I need any other information, I’ll be in touch.’
The call disconnected.
Mr. J peeked at the speedometer one more time. Seventy miles an hour just wouldn’t do. His Cadillac CTS-V went from zero to sixty in 3.7 seconds. It packed a 6.2-liter supercharged V8 engine under the hood, with a top speed of two hundred miles an hour. It was also equipped with a state of the art radar detector that could pick up a speed gun or camera from a mile away. The car was, without a shadow of a doubt, a super sedan. It was time to put all that power into use.
Fifty
By 2:00 a.m., Hunter, Garcia and Dr. Slater were just finishing up at the crime scene. In accordance to protocol, after being photographed and documented from all possible angles in relation to the location and position in which she’d been found, Cassandra Jenkinson’s body had finally been taken to the coroner’s office. The heavy rain that had started falling as they arrived had continued for over an hour, washing away any potential clues, including footprints that the killer might’ve left behind as he either approached or left the grounds of the house. Thanks to his quick work, the agent in charge of the driveway had succeeded in preserving the partial tire track he had come across earlier. After the rain had stopped, he had managed to lift an impression of it using a gelatin lifter – a sheet of rubber with a low-adhesive gelatin layer on one side that can lift prints from almost anywhere, including porous, rough, curved and textured surfaces.