by Chris Carter
Hunter asked the officer for a new glass of sugary water.
It took Erica another five minutes to recompose herself.
Then she told Hunter what she had done.
Seventy-Eight
As Hunter left the crime scene and exited the house, Detective Webb was finally able to focus his stare back on to Dr. Gwen Barnes’ body on the dining table. He knew it was her, but her facial disfiguration had been so severe, he just couldn’t recognize her.
‘This can’t be true,’ he said again.
‘Detective?’ This time the imposing call came from Dr. Slater. She walked over to meet him.
Webb blinked once before meeting her stern gaze.
‘I can’t have you contaminating my crime scene, do you understand me?’ She paused and took a breath. Her voice softened a little. ‘I am terribly sorry for your loss. I really am. No one should find out about the death of a loved one, or a friend, or anyone this way, but you are an LAPD detective, you should know better than to enter an unprocessed crime scene unprepared and unsuited. I can’t have you here. You are compromising not only this crime scene, but this entire investigation.’
‘Detective Webb,’ Garcia took over, approaching him. ‘Why don’t we talk outside, and allow forensics to process the scene?’ He gestured towards the door. ‘They have a lot to do in here. Maybe you can give me a little more insight on Dr. Barnes. We need all the information we can get on her. You can also tell me about the note and the bracelet you’ve mentioned.’
Webb’s professional side finally took over.
‘Yeah, sure,’ he said at last. ‘I’m sorry I’ve acted so impulsively.’
‘You were just being human, Detective,’ Garcia said, his tone friendly and understanding. ‘That’s what we all are.’
Webb allowed his eyes to rest upon the body on the table one last time, before exiting the house. As they stepped outside, Garcia unzipped his coverall and freed his arms, allowing the top half of the white jumpsuit to hang loosely from his waist. Once they reached the edge of the house’s front lawn, Webb reached inside his jacket pocket for his notepad, scribbled something down, tore off the page and handed it to Garcia.
‘What’s this?’ Garcia asked as he read the note.
‘My partner’s name and badge number. He’s the person who I went to meet after I dropped Gwen back here.’ Webb reached inside his pocket again, this time for a pack of cigarettes. He tapped one out and brought it to his lips before offering Garcia one.
He declined.
Webb lit his up and took a long drag. ‘There’s no reason for bullshitting here, Detective . . .?’
‘Garcia, but you can call me Carlos.’
‘There’s no reason for bullshitting here, Detective Garcia. I know how this works. I was the last person to see the victim alive. I was out with her on the night she was murdered and I was the one who drove her home. In short, right now, I am the suspect list.’ Webb had another drag of his cigarette.
Garcia regarded the man in front of him for a second. Webb did fit the basic description they had of the masked killer – tall, with broad shoulders – but then again, half of the male population of Los Angeles fitted that description.
‘This investigation goes a lot deeper than this murder alone, Detective Webb,’ Garcia said.
Webb looked back at Garcia, measuring his words before his eyebrows shot up his rugged forehead. ‘This guy has killed before.’ His intonation didn’t make it clear if it had been a question or a statement.
Garcia didn’t address it either way.
‘Why don’t you tell me about this note and bracelet you’ve mentioned?’
Seventy-Nine
Mr. J snatched the cellphone from the tabletop a millisecond after it started ringing.
‘Brian, you sure as hell took your time.’ He did nothing to disguise the irritation in his voice.
‘Sorry, Mr. J,’ Brian replied. His voice, on the other hand, sounded fatigued. ‘But you managed to pick one slick sonofabitch here. Gathering any sort of info on this guy hasn’t been easy . . . but we got lucky. Twice.’
‘So what have you got?’
‘You were right in your suspicions. Michael Williams isn’t his real name, but the name was picked for a reason.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘There are over half a million men called Michael Williams in the USA,’ Brian revealed. ‘Around five hundred and fifty of them live right here, in Los Angeles. It’s a common enough name to “escape him out”, but . . .’
‘Hold on, Brian,’ Mr. J cut him short. ‘Escape him out? What the hell does that mean?’
‘Sorry, it’s just a term we use. It means that with nothing else other than just a name to go by, and with approximately five hundred and fifty of them living in this city alone, it would take any law enforcement agency – LAPD, FBI, Sheriff’s Department . . . it doesn’t matter – days, maybe even weeks to track the correct individual down, if at all. That time frame would be more than enough for him to disappear . . . escape.’
‘OK, so you were saying that Michael Williams is a common enough name to “escape him out”, but—’
‘But not common enough to raise suspicion if he applies for false documentation.’ Brian decided to explain it better. ‘Certain names are flagged by our government for being way too common – John or James Smith, Robert Jones, Michael Williams – basically, any name that totals over one million in the country gets flagged. Those are the names that top the “escape out” list because they’re also the ones criminals use the most, for obvious reasons.’
‘OK, so getting back to our Michael Williams,’ Mr. J urged Brian.
‘Yeah, OK, as I’ve said, we’ve got lucky twice here. One – if you hadn’t sent me that photograph of him, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Not now, probably not ever. But with a picture, I was able to run a face-recognition program against some of our databases, and that was where we got lucky for the second time.’
‘He’s got a record,’ Mr. J said.
‘He did four years for sexual assault,’ Brian confirmed. ‘Quite a violent case too.’
Mr. J closed his eyes, trying to keep his calm, but he could feel his blood starting to boil inside his veins. Back at Michael Williams’ house, inside the suitcase he had retrieved from under his bed, Mr. J had found a varied collection of women’s underwear. Panties, to be more precise. The sizes ranged from six to sixteen. Michael Williams wasn’t only a sexual predator. He was a trophy collector too, and that was when it dawned on him. Cassandra had been stripped naked, but her clothes hadn’t been found.
‘So who the fuck is he, really?’ Mr. J asked.
‘His real name’s Cory Russo. I’m just about to send you his whole file. The guy is a scumbag, no doubt about that, but he’s quite a clever scumbag.’
‘And why is that?’
‘While inside, he acquired three diplomas – plumbing engineering, mechanical engineering, and Internet security.’
‘Yeah, well, that won’t save him. Do you have an address on him?’
‘That’s the problem,’ Brian said. ‘Mr. Russo hasn’t used his real name since his release, three years ago. I’ve got nothing showing under that name. The only address under the false name of Michael Williams is the one you gave me, together with his business one, the plumbing company.’
Mr. J knew that Michael Williams, Cory Russo, whoever he was, wouldn’t be going back to either of those two addresses. He now believed that the police were after him, and the first thing that the police would do would be to stake out both of those addresses.
‘Whoever this guy is,’ Mr. J said, ‘he’s hiding somewhere, and I need you to find him, Brian. I need you to find him now.’
Eighty
‘She managed to take a photo of the killer?’ Garcia’s tone of voice matched the stunned expression on his face. ‘How?’
‘No, not a photo,’ Hunter clarified, handing his partner Erica Barnes’ cellphone. Displayed on it
s screen was an image of the killer’s masked face. ‘She captured a screenshot at the end of the call.’
Erica was still sitting inside Hunter’s car, just a few feet from where they were standing. Her eyes were puffy and red, with the skin around them raw from all the tears.
‘Erica is a graphic designer,’ Hunter explained. ‘She works for a company that designs and develops applications for mobile devices. Capturing cellphone screenshots is something she does tens of times a day. It’s part of her job.’
‘So her brain is conditioned to do it,’ Garcia said.
‘Exactly. It was a reflexive movement, not a conscious one. Erica didn’t even realize she had done it until she got off the phone with the emergency operator.’
Garcia’s gaze moved to Erica for a split second before returning to the grotesque mask on her cellphone screen.
From Tanya Kaitlin and Mr. J’s description, Garcia already knew what to expect. He knew what the killer’s mask looked like – the deformed, red-colored eyes, the lacerated mouth, the blood-smeared teeth, the lumpy and leathery skin, the mutilated nose . . . all of it. Their sketch artist had created a very accurate composite image of it, but still, looking at the actual mask on that screenshot sent a nauseating taste down to his stomach.
‘Is this the only image she managed to capture?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Hunter replied. The look in his eyes changed. ‘She got one more, about halfway through the call. Swipe back.’
As Garcia did, his heart seemed to shrink inside of him.
On the captured screenshot, Dr. Gwen Barnes was still alive, but the white of her eyes were already dusted with blood, with most of her face fractured and twisted out of shape. Death had already closed its ugly fingers around her. All that was left was one final squeeze.
Garcia studied the image for a very long moment.
‘You were right,’ he finally said, rubbing the skin between his eyebrows with one of his knuckles, his voice solemn. ‘The vise-like device he used looks handmade. He didn’t get this from any hardware store. He created it himself.’
‘Just like he created the mask,’ Hunter agreed as he watched another news van pull up at the top of the road.
‘So what’s happening with her?’ Garcia nodded at Erica before handing the cellphone back to Hunter.
‘We can’t get hold of her boyfriend for him to come pick her up, so I’m going to drive her home.’
‘Then what?’
‘Then I’m taking these screenshots to Dennis Baxter from the cybercrime unit. If needs be, we’ll break them down pixel by pixel.’
‘What for?’ The intrigue in Garcia’s voice was real. ‘There’s nothing to be found in them, Robert.’
Hunter looked down at the cellphone in his hands, then at Erica sitting inside his car. When he spoke again, his voice lacked confidence. ‘We don’t know that yet.’
‘Yes, we do,’ Garcia countered. ‘This killer is too clever, Robert, we both know that. He kills his victims inside their own homes, which means that there is no detail you can isolate in any of those two images that can lead us to a location, because we’re already here.’
Hunter stayed silent.
Garcia pointed at the phone in Hunter’s hand. ‘That living room . . . that dining table . . .’ he then pointed at Dr. Barnes’ house, ‘. . . is the living room in there. The dining table in there. We already know where those images originated from. This killer also creates his own mask. He creates his own murderous devices, which again means that nothing in those images can lead us to a place where he has purchased anything. And to finish it all off he uses his victims’ cellphones to make his video-calls, which means that there’s nothing to trace, Robert. Nothing to listen to.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Hunter admitted, his tone half defeated. ‘But what else am I supposed to do, Carlos?’
‘Go home, Robert. Get some rest. You’ve barely slept in four days. We’ll pick everything up again tomorrow. Even if only a few hours, you need the break. Your brain needs the break, and we all need you be sharp and on your toes. Exhausting yourself, chasing something that isn’t there, won’t help.’
Hunter looked like he was considering his options. ‘What are you going to do?’ he asked.
Garcia jerked his chin in the direction of the house. ‘I’ll stay with the scene until everything here is done. Then I’ll go home and I’ll get some rest as well.’
Hunter noticed that Erica was starting to get fidgety again.
‘Go on, Robert,’ Garcia said, ‘take her home then go home and get some rest. I’ll wrap up here.’
Hunter watched his partner zip up his coverall and make his way back to the crime scene.
Eighty-One
His wristwatch read 11:23 p.m., when Mr. J’s cellphone rang again.
‘Brian, tell me you’ve got something.’
‘I’m not really sure.’ The fatigue in Brian’s voice was evident. ‘It could be something, or absolutely nothing.’
‘Give me whatever you have.’
Mr. J heard fast keyboard clicks coming from the other end of the line.
‘OK,’ Brian began, ‘what you told me got me thinking. Cory Russo, Michael Williams, whatever name this guy is using, he’s now probably on the run, right? And in America, you can’t run without money.’
‘You flagged his credit cards.’
‘I flagged everything under both names,’ Brian confirmed. ‘Credit cards, bank transactions, money withdrawals, the lot, so unless he has some hard cash stashed away somewhere, this guy won’t be able to buy a pack of gum without my computer screen turning into a Christmas tree here.’
‘And did you get a hit?’ Mr. J asked.
Brian breathed out heavily. ‘I did, but not on any of his cards.’
Mr. J made a face at his phone. ‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘Well, I didn’t put a flag only on his credit cards and bank transactions . . .’
‘You extended it to family and known friends too,’ Mr. J said, catching up with Brian’s line of thought.
‘Well, that was the idea,’ Brian admitted. ‘But unfortunately all we’ve got on Cory Russo are two distant relatives, both living in Oregon, and no known friends, but then I thought of something else.’
‘And what was that?’
‘Three years ago, when Cory Russo was released from prison, he didn’t take the prison bus. He was picked up.’
A smile threatened to appear on Mr. J’s lips. ‘And you have the name of the person who picked him up.’
‘That I do.’ Brian’s voice sounded triumphant.
‘And who is he?’
‘His name is Toby Bishop. He lives in Monrovia in San Gabriel Valley, and here is where it gets good. About twenty minutes ago, he withdrew twenty-five hundred dollars from his account. I’ve checked his withdrawal history going back two years. He has never withdrawn anywhere close to that amount, so unless he decided to buy a car this late at night . . .’
‘Do you have an address?’
‘You should be getting an email right about now.’
Mr. J heard a bell coming from his laptop. He killed the call.
Eighty-Two
Hunter had every intention of following Garcia’s advice. After dropping Erica Barnes back at her place, the idea really was to drive home and try to get some sleep, but the two screenshots Erica had captured on her cellphone were playing havoc with his mind, so Hunter decided to do a quick detour and stop by his office.
He had emailed himself the two screenshots from Erica’s cellphone as he dropped her off, being sure to also delete them from her phone’s ‘Image Gallery’. The media had now definitely caught the scent of blood, and if they ever got word that those two screenshots existed, they would do just about anything to get their hands on them.
Once Hunter’s computer finished booting up, he quickly found Erica’s email and double-clicked on the first of the two attached images – the killer’s horror mask.
Despite
how terrifying, how sickening the mask looked, it was practically a work of art, crafted out of silicone rubber. The facial laceration that ran from the right corner of his lips, across his cheek and all the way to his right ear looked fresh, as if it’d been made into real flesh just moments earlier. Hunter almost expected blood to come pouring out of it. The mask’s sharp, blood-smeared teeth looked half-human, half-animal, but very real. The exposed lower jawbone and nose were incredibly detailed, with the eyes, covered by two blood-red sclera contact lenses, indeed looking like they belonged to a dem—
Hunter’s heart picked up speed, as adrenaline flooded his veins with such intensity it made his whole body shiver, because that was when he saw it.
Eighty-Three
The address Mr. J was given by Brian Caldron took him to the edge of Monrovia, on the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains. The road, a hilly street on a residential area where California oaks shaded the sidewalks, was desert quiet, which suited Mr. J just fine. He paused under a tree at the entrance to the road and spent five minutes taking everything in. At that time of night, most of the houses had all their lights switched off, with the exception of two. One of them was the house he was looking for.
Mr. J pulled the hood of his black jacket over his head, cracked his knuckles and began making his way to number 915. He walked at a normal pace. Not too fast. Not too slow. His shoes, black and with anti-squeak soles, made absolutely no noise. His gloved hands were firmly tucked into his pockets, where he carried the same weapon he had with him earlier, a Sig Sauer P226 Legion, and a small hunting knife for good measure.
As he approached the house, Mr. J quickly turned around, making sure that the road was still deserted. Satisfied, he finally crossed the front lawn in the direction of the side wooden door that led to its backyard. The lock on the door was old, the wood not too sturdy. One firm kick and the door would fly open, but Mr. J wanted to avoid the noise. It took him less than five seconds to climb over it to the other side.