by Chris Carter
‘SWALLOW IT BACK DOWN,’ he shouted again.
She coughed, but the air pressure had nowhere to go except up through her nose. Bloody mucus spurted out of it, spraying the man’s gloves and sleeves.
‘You bitch,’ he said, massaging her throat. ‘You’re not gonna die on me like this.’
Amanda hadn’t had any food for several hours. Whatever her stomach had regurgitated into her mouth was little more than a soup spoon full. With her attacker applying pressure to her cheeks and massaging her throat, she finally swallowed her own sick back down.
‘Good girl,’ he said, retrieving a paper tissue from his pocket and attending to her nosebleed. He waited in silence for about five minutes while Amanda sat shivering.
‘I can see you’re cold,’ he finally said, his voice changing. He sounded serene. He stepped closer. ‘I have something to show you.’
From his pocket he pulled an old black and white photograph and held it in front of Amanda’s face.
‘Look at it. Do you remember?’
She was weak, dehydrated and feeling too dizzy to concentrate.
‘C’mon, Mandy.’ He snapped his fingers a couple of times. ‘Pay attention to the photo. Do you remember?’
Still feeling confused, she stared at it with unsteady eyes. Nothing was making sense.
And then she saw it.
‘It can’t be.’
‘Welcome to your fear, Mandy,’ he whispered. ‘I know what scares you to death.’
Thirty
Some say Los Angeles Union Station is America’s last great railway station. Built in 1939 to consolidate passenger terminals from three different railways, the station still serves as a transit hub. Though its exterior is a successful merging of Spanish Mission, Moorish and Streamline Modern architectural styles, Los Angeles Union Station is best enjoyed from inside. It’s been carefully renovated, with original light fixtures, inlaid stone floors and tiled walls.
Beauty aside, the station is a constant hustle of passengers and tourists, but today it seemed busier than normal.
The girl ran as fast as she could, constantly swerving her body to avoid colliding with other commuters. People were coming from all directions, and everyone seemed to be in a hurry. After successfully negotiating her way around a large woman pushing a baby in a pram, she almost ran over a little girl in uniform, who seemed to have detached herself from her parents. By the time she reached the escalator going down to the station’s underground, she was puffing and sweating.
‘Excuse me, please,’ she called in a hurried voice as she squeezed her way through, skipping down the steps.
She saw the doors of the Red Line subway train closing as she stepped onto the platform.
‘Oh no, no!’
The train started to move away.
She dashed towards it, but she knew it was no good.
‘Late again . . . great,’ she whispered. ‘Just what I need.’
Her eyes searched for the noticeboard. At least fifteen minutes before the next Red Line service. Despite the departing train, the platform was still rammed.
Where the hell are all these people going today? she thought, looking around. Her eyes rested on an empty glass poster box and she caught a glimpse of her reflection. Her long dark brown hair was still neatly tied back in a ponytail, but beads of sweat had formed on her forehead, and her nose looked pink from a combination of the cold outside and her running effort. She desperately needed a makeup retouch.
The main floor was heaving with people. Tourists were noisily walking around, marveling at the many twinkling lights and shining baubles. She hadn’t even noticed the colorful Christmas decorations until now. They reminded her of her hometown and of her parents’ house. Places and people she’d do anything to forget. She checked her watch before making her way towards the ladies’ room at the far end of the hall. No hurry this time. A tall, skinny man carrying a red leather briefcase gave her a malicious smile and her whole body shuddered.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ a voice announced through the loudspeakers, ‘due to a signal failure in Pershing Square, there’ll be a five-minute delay to our next Red Line service. We apologize for the inconvenience.’
‘Fantastic,’ she murmured. ‘This just isn’t my day.’
Suddenly, she felt her chest tighten around her heart. A burning heat took over her body with incredible speed as her throat knotted, making it hard for her to breathe. The station started to spin. Her vision was invaded by tiny circles of light, but they quickly got bigger and brighter until all she could see was a blinding white light. And then it happened.
The bright light was replaced by grainy black and white images, like a short segment from an old movie. But what she saw was no classic.
‘Oh God, no.’ Her voice was drowning on tears. ‘Please, not again.’
The images played for only a few seconds, but it was enough to fill her with terrifying fear.
Her nose started bleeding. Something pirouetted inside her stomach, and she gagged on the bile as it surged into her mouth. She desperately needed to get to the ladies’ room.
‘Someone please help me.’ Her lips moved but no sound came out. Her legs buckled beneath her, and she fell to her knees as something erupted from her stomach. Right there, in the middle of the main floor of Los Angeles Union Station, she lost control and vomited.
Thirty-One
Hunter lived alone. He’d never been married, and the relationships he had never really worked out. They’d always start well. The women he dated, at first, seemed very understanding of the pressures of his job and the commitment it demanded. But soon they wanted more. A lot more than he was prepared to give. And although he felt lonely sometimes, long-term relationships simply didn’t fit into his lifestyle. Hunter’s sexual life consisted exclusively of one-night encounters or short-term, no-strings-attached affairs.
He enjoyed spending time by himself. He felt comfortable in his sparsely decorated one-bedroom apartment. A good book and a double dose of one of the many single-malt Scotch whiskeys from a very well-accomplished collection always made him relax. But not tonight. This was only the second night since they’d found Father Fabian’s body, but the pressure was building up fast. He felt the need to go out and see other people talking, laughing and living life. The world of the dead had a habit of getting under his skin.
Los Angeles has one of the liveliest and most exciting nightlifes in the world. From luxurious and trendy clubs where A-list celebrities hang out, to dingy and sleazy underground venues. There are themed bars and lounges scattered all over the city. You can have a drink in a hospital ward where cocktail waitresses run around in skin-tight black nurses’ uniforms, or in the most traditional of Irish pubs, where the barman leaves the Guinness to settle before topping up the glass and drawing a shamrock in the froth.
Hunter wasn’t looking for anything crazy or loud, so live music venues and bars with dance DJs were out. He also decided to stay in Downtown Los Angeles instead of taking a drive to any of the many beach bars. He settled on the Golden Gopher on West Eighth Street. Its low-key and relaxed atmosphere was just what Hunter had in mind.
He got there at about 9:00 p.m. The place was busy but not crowded. He took a seat at the end of the old-West saloon-looking bar and ordered a single dose of single malt. The barman, a tall, short-haired Puerto Rican with a goatee trimmed to perfection, dropped two cubes of ice into the glass and Hunter stared at them as they cracked. His mind methodically going over the case. Two days and they had nothing so far.
He finished his Scotch and his stare fell on a small group huddled around an old Space Invaders game machine.
Without him noticing it, the barman poured another dose and slid the glass towards Hunter.
‘Wow, you’re quick,’ he said with a nod.
‘This one’s paid for, sir.’
Hunter frowned.
‘The lady at the far table to your right,’ the barman said with a slight head tilt.
Hunter turned to face the table the barman had indicated. A tall, attractive brunette was sitting by herself. Streaked hair fell in ringlets over her shoulders. She had olive-tanned skin and seductive brown eyes. The top two buttons of her cream blouse were strategically undone, revealing a jaw-dropping cleavage.
Hunter lifted his glass and accepted the drink with the most subtle of smiles.
She held his gaze, blinked and then smiled back, gesturing for him to join her.
‘You’re in luck,’ the barman said.
‘Does she do this often?’
‘I’ve never seen her in here before,’ he replied, running a hand over his goatee.
‘She looks like a maneater to me,’ Hunter said without breaking eye contact with the brunette.
The barman grabbed a glass and started polishing it. ‘She could eat me any time.’
Hunter gave the barman a friendly wink. ‘OK, here goes nothing.’ He made his way towards the brunette’s table.
Thirty-Two
‘Thanks for the drink. It’s very kind of you,’ Hunter said, taking the seat directly in front of her.
She gave him a dentist’s magazine smile. ‘It’s no problem. It’s good to find a man who appreciates a real drink.’
Hunter noticed she was drinking the same as he was.
‘You’re a Scotch drinker?’
‘I like my drink strong.’
She had a sip of her single malt under Hunter’s watchful eye.
‘I’m Robert,’ he said, extending his hand.
‘I’m Claire, Claire Anderson.’
They shook hands, and Hunter noticed how smooth her skin felt.
‘Do you come here often?’ she asked.
‘Not really. I needed a drink tonight, and I didn’t feel like going to a hip or noisy place. They serve good single malt in here, and the atmosphere is . . . sedated. How about you?’
‘I come in here every once in a while. My apartment’s just a block from here.’
‘Great location, but this isn’t really a reporter’s drinking joint, is it?’ he said casually.
Her smile didn’t disappear. It simply morphed into a more believable one. ‘I guess you’ve recognized me, then?’
‘Your hair is different. Curlier. But I remember you from the Seven Saints church. You asked me if I was attributing the murder to a serial killer even before I had a look at the crime scene.’
Claire arched her eyebrows, accepting it. ‘So, now that you’ve seen the crime scene, do you think it could be the work of a serial killer?’
‘You started so well,’ Hunter said, shaking his head disappointedly. ‘Buying me a drink and all. Wasn’t there supposed to be a little bit of sweet-talking, maybe even flirting, before the questions start?’
‘We can do that if you like.’
‘I think that would be better.’
‘So what would you like to sweet-talk about, Detective Hunter?’
‘You can call me Robert. It’s OK.’
‘So what would you like to sweet-talk about, Robert?’
‘Let’s start with this.’ He leaned forward, reached for her glass and poured its contents into his own. ‘What do you really drink?’
She regarded him for a second. ‘How do you know Scotch isn’t my drink?’ A tone of defiance in her voice.
Hunter cocked his eyebrows.
She held his gaze for a second before her lips broke into a new smile. ‘OK, you got me. Gin and tonic.’
A moment later Hunter came back to the table with a tall, icy glass of G&T.
‘Thanks,’ she said before sipping her drink. ‘Let’s try this again, shall we?’ She offered her hand. ‘I’m Claire.’
‘Oh, so you did give me your real name?’
She nodded.
Hunter made no effort to shake her hand this time. ‘So which paper are you with?’
Claire put her hand down without looking offended. ‘The LA Times.’ She thought about it for a second. ‘Actually, I’m on a trial period.’
‘Oh, I see. And you’re thinking that maybe a serial killer story would provide the key you need to cruise through your trial period with flying colors.’
‘It wouldn’t hinder my chances, let’s put it that way.’
Hunter had another sip of his drink. ‘Unfortunately, I don’t think I can help you.’
‘C’mon, Robert. I just need a little lead. Something that the other reporters don’t have. And that won’t be difficult since no one has anything.’
‘That’s because there’s nothing to have.’
‘Are you joking? Someone decapitated a priest and shoved a dog’s head down his neck. The killer practically painted the church with blood. That’s the behavior of a deranged psychopath, not a one-off killer, and you know it. The whole thing was well planned. I think he’s gonna do it again or he’s done it before. What do you think?’
Hunter smiled. ‘That’s clever. Trying to induce me into a comment by disguising the question as your own opinion. Did you learn that in journalism class?’
Claire ran her left hand through her hair. ‘Two semesters of psychology at Idaho State University.’
‘You’re from the potato state?’
‘There’s more to Idaho than just potatoes,’ she replied, unamused.
‘I’m sure there is.’
‘I’ve also read your book.’
Hunter looked up, allowing the silence to stretch. ‘I’ve never written a book,’ he shot back, shaking his head.
‘OK, your PhD thesis on criminal behavior and conduct. It was made into a book and it’s still mandatory reading at the FBI’s NCAVC.’ Claire noticed Hunter’s questioning look. ‘I dated an FBI trainee,’ she explained indifferently. ‘Your thesis makes for very intense reading, but it’s extremely good. No wonder every FBI profiler has to study it. I’m surprised they don’t have you as a lecturer.’
She’s switching tactics, Hunter thought. She’s gone for the flattering approach now.
‘I did a quick check-up on you as well,’ she continued. ‘A prodigy, a whiz kid. You attended Mirman School for the Gifted, sped through university and got your PhD when you were twenty-three – impressive. How does someone like you end up as a detective instead of a millionaire?’
Guns and Roses started playing on the jukebox.
‘My life story won’t make a bestseller.’
‘I’m not looking to write one,’ she replied casually. ‘But about your book, I’m intrigued. I was particularly fascinated by the part about ritualistic murderers. I really do believe your theories are right on the money, but there’s something that bothers me.’
‘And what would that be?’
‘Unless you’ve drastically changed your mind, or you’re willing to contradict your own thesis, I know you don’t believe the church murder was a one-off. Am I right?’
‘See, there you go again,’ Hunter replied. ‘Pushing your thoughts onto me and expecting me to agree or disagree with them.’
‘C’mon, Robert. Let me work this story with you. I’ll do a great job. I can make you famous.’
Hunter chuckled, crossed his legs and let his arms slump down onto his knees. ‘Famous?’
‘You’re a great detective. I know it because I researched you. Your track record when it comes to catching criminals, especially tough ones, is outstanding, but no one except a handful of people knows that. You deserve recognition. Los Angeles is in desperate need of a hero.’
Hunter had a slow sip of his Scotch. Claire Anderson was certainly very good at the flattering game; he had to give her that. ‘I’m happy the way I am,’ he replied. ‘I don’t wanna be a hero. And I don’t need to be famous.’
‘You’re happy? I don’t buy that.’
Hunter crossed his arms. ‘I like my life the way it is. I like being—’
‘A loner?’
Hunter kept silent.
‘OK.’ Claire leaned forward and placed both elbows on the table. ‘Off the record, answer me this, not as a co
p but as a criminal psychologist just to quench my curiosity.’
Hunter arched his left eyebrow with interest. ‘Off the record?’
‘Yes. I promise.’
‘Shoot.’
‘Let’s suppose you weren’t investigating this case, but simply studying it. If you had to create a profile of the killer judged solely on what you saw inside the Seven Saints church. Wouldn’t that profile indicate an UNSUB that’ll probably offend again, or has already offended in the past, or both?’
Hunter let out a constricted laugh. ‘You don’t give up, do you?’
‘I wouldn’t be a good reporter if I did.’ The answer came with a wink.
Hunter finished his drink and placed the empty glass on the table with an emphatic smack. Claire did the same.
‘One more round?’ she asked.
Hunter glanced at his watch with a doubtful look.
‘C’mon, you don’t have a wife to go back home to, do you?’
‘Somehow I think you already know the answer to that question.’
She giggled. ‘As I said, I did check you out a little bit.’ She realized how crazy that sounded and was quick to reiterate. ‘Not in a psycho, stalker way. Research is part of being a journalist.’
Silence.
‘C’mon, it’s my round. Look, I promise I won’t ask any more questions about the case.’
Hunter pulled a face. ‘I sincerely doubt that.’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ Claire said, standing up. ‘I’ve gotta tab going at the bar. Order whatever you like and get me another gin and tonic while I go to the ladies. We’ll have one more drink here, and then maybe we can go someplace else. My flatmate is out of town for the weekend.’ Her lips stretched into a seductive smile.
Wow, she’s prepared to go all the way. Claire would be amazing in bed, Hunter decided, but her performance would be in direct proportion to the information her lover could provide. It was the information she was making love to, not the man.
‘Look, Claire. You’re a very attractive woman. I’m sure you know you could take your pick out of all the guys in this joint to take home.’