by Chris Carter
‘How long were they married for?’ Hunter asked.
‘Umm . . .’ Garcia thumb-scrolled the information on his cellphone screen. ‘Four and a half years. They got divorced just over two years ago.’ He thumb-scrolled back up before continuing. ‘Dr. Barnes ran her own small psychotherapy practice in downtown LA – West Ninth Street.’
‘How long had she been living at this address?’
‘Practically since her divorce.’ Garcia paused, made a face and shrugged at Hunter. ‘That’s it. That’s pretty much all we’ve got on her at the moment. Operations hadn’t had much time to dig things up. We’ll have a more comprehensive file on her by tomorrow afternoon.
‘Who did the killer call this time?’
‘The victim’s only sister,’ Garcia replied. ‘Erica Barnes.’
‘Is she local?’
‘Not that far. She lives in Carson.’
‘Are you guys with the UVC Unit?’ an LAPD sergeant asked, coming up to them. He was about five-foot-ten, with bony shoulders and skinny arms. His dark hair was cut short and neat. His eyes, which were just as dark as his hair, were shaped like sideways teardrops.
‘That’s us, yes,’ Garcia said, facing him and displaying his credentials. Hunter did the same.
‘I’m Sergeant Prado from the West Bureau, Wilshire Area Division.’ He spoke with a light Puerto Rican accent.
They all shook hands and began making their way towards the single-story, green-fronted house at the end of the street.
‘Two of my men were first response here tonight,’ the sergeant explained, pointing at two young and pallid-looking uniformed officers by a black and white unit. ‘I’ve got to tell you, this isn’t the quietest of neighborhoods, meaning that we get our fair share of violent homicides, but somebody did a job on that poor woman in there in a way I’ve never seen before. And I take it you’ve heard about the crazy nine-one-one call that came in, right? Apparently whoever did this called the victim’s sister and made her watch over a video-call. Is that sick enough for you guys at UV, or what?’
As they got to the front porch, two media vans rounded the corner at the top of the road.
‘The wolves are here,’ Sergeant Prado said, jerking his chin at the vans.
Brian Caldron wasn’t lying when he told Mr. J that Hunter and Garcia trusted no one when it came to the UVC Unit’s investigations. The press paid people inside the LAPD for information, and they paid well. That was the main reason why they keep their investigations off line. When it came to crimes, nothing sold more papers or increased the number of viewers nationwide like a serial-killer story, not even crimes involving Hollywood celebrities. But with the killer now claiming his third victim, keeping the story from leaking to the press had become a virtual impossibility, despite the UVC Unit’s efforts. It was now all just a matter of time. The best they could was to try to keep the story under control. The LAPD press office would probably issue an official statement soon. Their key concern now was to keep the details from being exposed.
‘Other than you and the two first-response officers,’ Hunter asked Sergeant Prado, ‘who else has walked the scene?’
‘Forensics. That’s it. No one else.’
‘And who else here knows about the nine-one-one call.’
‘No one except myself,’ he replied. ‘None of the details were passed on by dispatch.’
Hunter fixed the sergeant with a firm stare, but before he was able to say anything, Sergeant Prado nodded, lifting both hands.
‘Yeah, yeah, Detective, not a word to the press. I know the drill. This isn’t my first time, you know.’
They got to the front of the house and an agent handed both detectives the customary sealed bags containing a disposable white coverall each. In solemn silence, Hunter and Garcia suited up, signed the manifesto, and stepped into the house.
Seventy-Six
As the door closed behind Hunter and Garcia, Dr. Susan Slater, who was standing at the far end of the living room, turned to face them. A couple of feet behind her, the same photographer who had attended the previous two crime scenes was snapping away at something they couldn’t yet see. Two other forensic agents were busy dusting surfaces at opposite ends of the room.
‘Detectives,’ the doctor said in greeting, her head tilting forward slightly. She kept her voice quiet and subdued. ‘Over here.’ She motioned them closer with a hand gesture, while at the same time signaling the photographer to take a break.
Just like the previous two crime scenes, nothing really seemed to have been disturbed. Nothing looked to be out of place either. If there had been any sort of struggle between the victim and the killer, there was no visible sign of it anywhere.
‘No dining chair this time,’ Dr. Slater said, taking a step to her left and finally allowing Hunter and Garcia to see what the photographer had been snapping at.
Both detectives stopped dead.
The victim lay naked on top of a six-seater wooden table in a crucifixion position. Her arms were wide open, pulled at the wrists by two pieces of nylon rope that had been firmly secured under the table. Her legs were also fully extended, with her ankles shackled together by a third piece of rope, but the entire scene was overshadowed by the grotesque disfiguration to her face and skull.
They didn’t need an autopsy examination to work out that several of her facial bones had been shattered. Her eyes, wide open and still full of terror, were completely bloodshot and skewed out of line, clearly indicating that her eye sockets and her cheekbones had been fractured. Her jawbone had been broken in at least three places, fissuring her lower and upper gum line and distorting her mouth completely out of place. Her ears, together with the skin on both of her cheeks, had been practically scrapped off, leaving behind a mess of dried blood and flesh. The sides of her skull had sunk in, as if someone had brought a hammer to it, with extreme prejudice.
‘You were right, Robert,’ Dr. Slater said, breaking the silence and bringing the detectives’ attention back to her. ‘Once again, the killer has changed several aspects of what at first appeared to be his MO.’
Hunter and Garcia joined Dr. Slater by the left side of the table.
‘At least a couple of his signatures are now also becoming very clear,’ the doctor continued. ‘He microwaves his victims’ cellphones and he likes to strip them naked.’
‘No sexual assault again?’ Garcia asked.
‘I haven’t checked it yet. We haven’t been here that long, but for that I’ll need to untie her legs. I was waiting for you guys to arrive because I knew you’d want to see the body in situ. But there’s no visible bruising to her thighs or groin area.’ She indicated as she spoke. ‘No scratches either, so chances are that, just like his previous two victims, he hasn’t touched her in that way.’
‘So why strip them naked?’ The question came from the photographer, who was standing across the table from them.
Everyone looked back at him.
‘Robert, Carlos,’ Dr. Slater said, nodding at the photographer, ‘this is Curtis Norton. You might remember him from the previous two scenes. He joined the team a few months ago. Transferred from Anaheim.’
‘Pardon the intrusion,’ Norton said a little timidly. He was about six feet tall, with a strong frame, a squared jaw and thick eyebrows shaped in a way that made him look like he was constantly sad. ‘I’m just curious. We never really got this sort of stuff back in Anaheim, but if the killer’s attacks have no sexual motive in them, why strip them naked?’
‘Humiliation,’ Hunter replied. He had repositioned himself at the head of the table and was carefully studying the injuries to the victim’s face and skull. ‘The technique was widely used in concentration camps during the Second World War. It’s still used today. It makes the victims feel even more vulnerable. More helpless. More frightened.’
‘Hard to imagine them feeling any more frightened than what they probably did,’ Norton commented.
‘This killer’s sadism is as psychologically bruta
l as it is physical,’ Hunter clarified. ‘He doesn’t only torture and murder his victims. He gets into their heads. He nurtures their fear. He toys with their emotions. That’s why he stalks them with notes beforehand. But, as we know, he doesn’t stop there either because he also likes to get into the heads of others.’
‘The people he calls,’ Dr. Slater said.
Hunter agreed in silence, as he began studying the table surface.
For a moment, Norton looked like he was about to say or ask something else, but instead he simply stepped away from the table, giving Hunter and Garcia some more space.
‘This is insane,’ Garcia commented, studying the victim’s injuries as he tried to visualize what had happened. ‘What did he do this time, put her head in a vise?’
‘That would be a pretty good guess,’ Dr. Slater confirmed, before explaining: ‘The types of fractures inflicted to her facial bones,’ she said, indicating the victim’s eye sockets, jawline and cheekbones, ‘couldn’t have been caused by an impact instrument, or by hand, or by smashing her face against a harder surface. All of those methods would’ve also caused lacerations, of which we have none. These fractures were caused by slowly applying hundreds upon hundreds of pounds of pressure to her skull until the bones cracked inside her. That’s why we have these injuries right here on the sides of her face. That’s why her skin was practically scrapped off. The jaws of whatever device was used were probably serrated.’
‘The table is clean of scratches,’ Hunter said. ‘No marks at all around where her head is located. A commercial table, bench, or drill-press vise, the type you can easily by from a hardware store, would’ve left grooves, marks, scratches . . . something on the table surface, but we’ve got nothing. Whatever he used, he either created himself, or had it made.’
Through the corner of his eyes, Hunter saw Norton scratch the back of his neck and look away.
Suddenly, the front door was pushed open again and a man who looked to be in his mid-forties stepped into the house. To everyone’s surprise, he wasn’t wearing the mandatory Tyvek coverall, which gave away the fact that he wasn’t part of Dr. Slater’s team. His hair was short, dull and uncombed, and the expression in his eyes, as they circled the room and paused on the body on the table, was one of pure shock.
Hunter immediately realized that he was someone known to the victim, but what he couldn’t figure out was how the man had been able to get through the wall of cops outside. He quickly moved towards him, blocking his path and his line of vision.
‘Sir, this is an LAPD crime scene. You can’t be in here.’
Disregarding Hunter’s words, the man lifted his head, trying to look over the detective’s shoulders. Hunter moved with him.
‘Sir? Did you hear what I said? Who are you?’
The man reached for something that was clipped on to his belt – an LAPD detective’s badge.
‘I’m Detective Julian Webb with the Central Bureau, Rampart Area Division.’
With over ten thousand officers and more than three thousand civilian staff, the LAPD was the third-largest municipal police department in the United States, just behind the cities of New York and Chicago. Linked to the LAPD, which officially was the police department that served only the city of Los Angeles, were over forty-five other municipal law-enforcement agencies, each with their own hierarchy of command, including officers, detectives, sergeants and captains. In total, the aggregated municipal law-enforcement agencies that formed the LAPD served an area of 498 square miles, and a population of over three and a half-million people. With such a large police department, it was no surprise that neither Hunter nor Garcia had ever crossed paths with Detective Webb.
Hunter and Garcia frowned at the badge. The Central Bureau, Rampart Area Division served the areas of Echo Park, Pico-Union and Westlake. Gwen Barnes’ house was located in Mid-City, which fell under the jurisdiction of the West Bureau, Wilshire Area Division.
‘Mid-City is way out of your jurisdiction, Detective,’ Hunter said. ‘How come you’re here and so quickly? Did you know the victim?’
Detective Webb was still trying to look past Hunter.
Hunter locked eyes with him. ‘Detective?’
‘Gwen and I were out on a date earlier this evening,’ Webb finally replied. ‘I was forced to cut the date short, but I promised her I would come back when I was done. That’s why I’m here.’ His eyes left Hunter’s and moved first to Garcia, then to Dr. Slater. ‘This can’t be true. I dropped Gwen back here less than three hours ago. I walked her to her door. How can this have happened? I should’ve listened to her. I should’ve believed her.’
Webb’s last few words made everyone pause.
‘What do you mean by that?’ Hunter asked.
Silence.
‘Detective?’ Hunter’s voice was commanding. ‘What do you mean by – you should’ve listened to her . . . you should’ve believed her?’
Once again, Webb matched his stare. ‘The note . . . the bracelet . . .’
All of a sudden, before anyone could question Webb further, everyone’s attention was grabbed by a loud female voice that was fast becoming hysterical. The voice was coming from just outside the front door.
Hunter immediately realized what was happening.
‘The victim’s sister,’ he said as he signaled Garcia to handle Detective Webb. A second later he was rushing out of the house.
Seventy-Seven
‘Erica?’ Hunter called, pulling down the hood of his Tyvek coverall. ‘Erica Barnes?’
At the house’s front lawn, a woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties was frantically fighting being dragged away by two police officers. Her long and straight dark hair was bunched up into a messy bun above her head. Her dark-brown eyes were overflowing with tears, and her small, upturned nose had gone a light shade of pink from all the crying. In hearing her name, the distraught woman hastily jerked her arm away from one of the officer’s grip and looked back at Hunter. The expression on her face was a combination of desperation and anguish.
‘Let me go,’ she screamed at the officers, trying to free her other arm. ‘She’s my sister.’ Her voice was full of pain.
Hunter got to them in no time.
‘Sorry, Detective,’ Sergeant Prado said, looking a little embarrassed. ‘I don’t know how she managed to get through the tape.’
‘It’s OK, Sergeant.’ Hunter placed a hand on his shoulder and firmly but tactfully pushed him away from the fragile woman. ‘I’ll take it from here.’
Sergeant Prado let go of Erica. The officer with him followed suit.
‘Are you sure, Detective?’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’ Hunter had never sounded so confident.
‘My sister . . . where’s my sister?’ Erica cried out, trying to look past Hunter.
He placed a hand on each of Erica’s arms, delicately holding her in place. ‘Erica, I’m Detective Robert Hunter of the LAPD.’ He kept his voice calm and quiet.
Erica wiggled her body away from Hunter’s hold. ‘Gwen . . . where’s Gwen?’ She tried to push past him in the direction of the house.
Hunter stepped with her, blocking her path. Their eyes met and all Hunter could do was give her a subtle, but very meaningful shake of the head. ‘I’m so sorry, Erica.’
She kept her eyes on his.
‘No . . . no . . . no . . . no . . .’
With each new word, Erica punched Hunter’s chest with a closed fist. He kept his arms down, offering no defense, allowing all of her emotions to be taken out on him. As her arms finally lost the strength in them, Hunter gently hugged her, bringing her head to his shoulder and turning her around, so she wouldn’t be facing the house. She fought him for all of two seconds, before giving in to his embrace.
‘It can’t be true. It can’t.’ She exploded into a brand new barrage of tears.
Hunter held her in his arms for a full minute. ‘Erica,’ he finally said. ‘Do you mind if I call you by your first name?’
Erica
moved back from his grip and brought a hand to her face, wiping her runny nose with her palm.
Hunter unzipped his coverall and reached inside his pocket for a paper tissue. He always carried them with him.
‘Here,’ he said.
She hesitated for an instant before finally taking the tissue and blowing her nose. ‘Thank you.’
Hunter handed her the whole packet. ‘Why don’t you keep these? I have more in the car.’
Erica looked lost, her eyes unable to focus on anything.
‘How about we go have a seat somewhere?’ Hunter said, his head tilting in the direction of the road.
Erica allowed Hunter to guide her towards his car. As he walked past a uniformed officer, he asked him to get them a large glass of sugary water.
They sat inside Hunter’s Buick for several long minutes in complete silence. Erica couldn’t stop shaking or crying. Hunter gave her all the time she needed. He knew that nothing he could say would lessen the pain she was going through at that moment. Sometimes silence was the best conversation.
The officer finally returned with the glass of sugary water.
‘Here, Erica, drink this,’ Hunter said. ‘It will make you feel a little better. I promise you.’
Erica drank almost the entire glass of water in just a few large gulps.
‘I don’t understand,’ she finally said, looking back at Hunter. Her voice was still unsteady, but not as much as minutes earlier. ‘How can that phone call be true? How can that monster be real?’
‘Would you like to tell me about what happened? About the monster?’
Erica finished the rest of the water. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what to say. I’m not sure what is real and what isn’t anymore.’
Hunter waited, allowing Erica to dictate the pace.
‘I was home alone,’ she began, ‘just making some popcorn . . .’
For the next twenty minutes, Erica proceeded to tell Hunter everything her memory threw back at her. When she told him about the questions she was asked and about her phobia of cemeteries, panic took hold of her one more time.