The Night Stalker

by Chris Carter

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘So this is the best we can do? We still don’t know what he’s saying.’

  Gus smiled cynically. ‘You don’t pay me the big bucks just to give you back a tape with undecipherable whispering, do you? What I mean is that because he forced his own voice into a slow, dragging whisper, we won’t be able to clean it or alter it back to its original pitch. So even if you have a suspect, it will be very hard to get a voice match from this. And I’m pretty sure he knew that.’

  ‘But you’ll be able to alter it enough so we can understand what he’s saying, right?’

  A confident smile came back from Gus. ‘Watch my magic.’ He went back to the digital equalizer, twisted a few more buttons and slid some more faders before loading a pitch shifter onto a separate screen. He placed a small section of the audio recording into a constant loop and worked on it for a few minutes. ‘Oh, hello,’ he said, frowning.

  ‘What? What?’

  Gus automatically reached for the Skittles. ‘We’ve got something else. Some sort of faint hissing noise right in the background.’

  ‘Hissing?’

  ‘Yeah, something like a frying pan or maybe rain against a distant window.’ He listened to it again. His eyes went back to one of his monitors and he pulled a face. ‘Its frequency is very similar to the static noise. And that messes things up a little.’

  ‘Can’t you do something with all this?’ Cohen nodded at all the equipment in the studio.

  ‘Is today stupid-question day? Of course I can, but to properly identify it I’ll have to run it against my library of sounds.’ Gus started clicking away on his computer. ‘All that can take a while.’

  Cohen checked his watch and let out a deflated breath.

  ‘Relax, that won’t affect me cleaning up the whispering voice. That’ll take me no time at all.’ Gus went back to his buttons and faders. A minute later he seemed satisfied. ‘I think I got it.’ He pressed play and rolled his chair away from the mixing desk.

  The same whispering voice Cohen and Myers had tried so hard to decipher poured out of the loudspeakers, as clear as daylight.

  Cohen’s jaw dropped as he looked at Gus.

  ‘Motherfucker.’

  Thirty

  The first thing Hunter did when he and Garcia got back to Parker Center was get a copy of all the photographs taken at Laura Mitchell’s exhibition to Brian Doyle, the IT Unit supervisor at ITD. Hunter knew that potentially every single person in those pictures was a suspect, but his immediate interest was in identifying the stranger who’d swapped phone numbers with Laura. The photograph Hunter had flagged showed a clear enough image of the stranger’s face to allow Doyle to blow it up and run it against the unified police database.

  ‘That laptop you called about earlier,’ Doyle said as he transferred all of the pictures to his hard drive, ‘the one that was sent to us by Missing Persons about two weeks ago, belonging to . . .’ He started searching his messy desk.

  ‘Laura Mitchell,’ Hunter confirmed. ‘That’s her in those pictures.’

  ‘Oh, OK. Anyway, we bypassed her password.’

  ‘What? Already?’

  ‘We’re fantastic, what can I say?’ Doyle smiled and Hunter pulled a face. ‘We ran a simple algorithm application against it. Her password was just a combination of the first few letters of her family name and her date of birth. Now, you said you needed to have a look at her emails?’

  ‘That’s right. Her mother said she’d received a few fan emails that’d scared her.’

  ‘Well, that won’t be easy, I’m afraid. The email application on her computer was never used,’ Doyle explained, ‘which means she didn’t download emails, she simply read them online. We checked the computer registry, and at least there she was smart. She never said “yes” when the operating system asked her if she wanted the computer to remember her password every time she logged onto her email online. Her Internet history was also automatically deleted every ten days.’

  ‘Her email password ain’t the same as her computer’s?’

  A quick headshake.

  ‘How about this algorithm application you ran on her PC?’

  ‘It won’t work online. Internet security against email account attacks has gotten a lot tougher over the years. All the major email service providers lock you out for several hours, sometimes indefinitely if you try a certain number of incorrect passwords.’ Doyle shook his head again. ‘Also, if she didn’t keep these emails in her account, I mean, if she deleted them after she read them, which is probable since you said they scared her, then the chances of retrieving the full message is basically zero. Unless you find the email provider where the message originated from, the best you gonna get are fragments. And you’ll have to go straight to her provider – Autonet. We can’t do shit from here. You know what that means, right? Warrants and court orders and what have you. Plus, you can be searching for days, weeks . . . who knows . . . and still get zip.’

  Hunter ran a hand over his face.

  ‘I have people going over the rest of the files on her hard drive now. I’ll let you know if we come across anything.’

  Thirty-One

  Whitney Myers stood still, staring at the computer screen and the audio lines as they vibrated like electrified worms. Cohen had just loaded the digital recording Gus had given him onto his computer. The once jumbled whisper she’d retrieved from Katia Kudrov’s answering machine was now as clear as daylight.

  ‘YOU TAKE MY BREATH AWAY . . .’ Pause. ‘WELCOME HOME, KATIA. I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU. I GUESS IT’S FINALLY TIME WE MET.’

  The recording was on an endless loop, playing through Cohen’s loudspeakers. After the fifth time, Myers finally tore her eyes away from the screen and hit the Esc key.

  ‘Gus said this is actually his voice, there’s no electronic device disguising it?’

  Cohen nodded. ‘But he was clever. He used his own whisper to alter it. If he’s ever caught, we’ll never get a voice match. At least not with this recording.’

  Myers stepped back from Cohen’s desk, lightly running two fingertips against her top lip. She always did that when she was thinking. She knew she had to play the recording to Leonid Kudrov when she met him at his house in two hours’ time. She had no doubt it would drive terror into an already petrified heart.

  ‘Do you still have my Dictaphone with all the sixty messages?’ she asked, returning to her desk and flipping through her notebook.

  ‘Yep, right here.’

  ‘OK, play the last message again.’ She paused. ‘Actually, just after the last message. What I’m interested in is the electronic answering machine voice announcing the time the message was left.’

  ‘Eight forty-two in the evening,’ Cohen replied automatically.

  Myers’ eyebrows rose.

  ‘I listened to it so many times it’s etched on my brain,’ he explained.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Positive.’

  Myers’ eyes returned to her notebook. ‘According to Katia’s father, he called his daughter from his cell phone at eight fifty-three that night. The call lasted four minutes and twelve seconds.’

  ‘She answered that call, didn’t she?’

  Myers nodded.

  ‘But eleven minutes earlier the answering machine picked it up. Was she out?’

  Myers flipped a page. ‘Nope, the building’s concierge said that she arrived at around eight o’clock. He took her suitcases up to the penthouse for her.’ Myers’ fingers returned to her upper lip for an instant. ‘Of course. The towel on the kitchen floor. Katia must’ve been in the shower.’ She quickly checked her notes again. ‘Shit! Remember I told you we have no CCTV footage from the cameras in her building because there was a power surge that blew the fuse box.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Well, the cameras went down just before eight.’

  Cohen cleared his throat as he leaned forward. ‘And we already know there’s no fucking way that was a coinc
idence.’

  ‘That means the kidnapper knew exactly the time she’d be arriving home.’ Myers paused and fought back an uneasy feeling. ‘He was already waiting for her inside her apartment when she got there. That’s why he says welcome home. He knew she was home.’

  Cohen’s whole expression changed. ‘So he made that last call from inside her apartment?’

  ‘It looks that way.’

  ‘Why? Why make the call if he was already there?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Fear factor? Sadism? It doesn’t matter.’

  Cohen felt every hair on his body stand on end. ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The background hissing noise that Gus picked up in the recording. At the studio he told me that it sounded like rain hitting a window far away, or maybe even a strong shower somewhere.’ Cohen’s eyes moved to Myers’. ‘The kidnapper was inside her bedroom when he made that call. He was watching her shower.’

  Thirty-Two

  The next morning Captain Blake was already waiting for Hunter in his office by the time he walked in at 7:51 a.m.

  ‘Carlos told me you identified the victim.’

  Hunter nodded. ‘Her name is Laura Mitchell.’ He handed the captain a two-sheet report.

  She scanned it and paused. ‘The killer stalked her from inside her own apartment?’ Her stare quickly bounced between both detectives.

  ‘That’s what it looks like, Captain,’ Hunter confirmed.

  ‘How did he get in? Any signs of forced entry?’

  He quickly shook his head.

  ‘She could’ve let the killer inside herself,’ Garcia offered.

  The captain nodded. ‘Which means that the killer could’ve used a false identity to sneak into the building and ring her doorbell, or maybe he was known to her, or he posed as a collector or buyer and made an appointment or something. But still, why hide behind a painting? It makes no sense.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Hunter agreed. ‘And that’s why I don’t think Laura opened the door to the killer and invited him in, but the possibility that he was known to her is real.’

  Captain Blake thought for a moment. ‘The perpetrator could’ve had his own set of keys.’

  Hunter nodded. ‘Either that or he’s a master locksmith.’

  ‘Did she have a boyfriend, a lover?’

  ‘We’re talking to her ex-fiancé later today. His flight from Dallas lands at 2:45 p.m.’

  ‘How long has he been away?’

  Hunter rubbed his forehead. ‘Since Tuesday evening.’

  ‘Well, that takes him off the suspects list, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that just now, Captain.’

  Captain Blake faced Hunter. ‘Well, let’s see, he’s been out of LA since Tuesday evening. Our victim’s body was found two days ago – Wednesday afternoon, remember? No exact time of death, but the crime-scene forensic report said that it wouldn’t have been more than three to six hours prior to the discovery of the body. That means that he wasn’t in Los Angeles when she died, Robert.’

  ‘Yes,’ Hunter agreed, ‘but we also have no proof that our killer actually killed her, remember, Captain? He could’ve dumped her in that butcher’s shop – alive – hours before she died. Even the night before, giving the ex-fiancé an almost perfect alibi. We need more information before we start discarding suspects at this point.’

  ‘OK, I can go with that,’ the captain agreed. ‘How about this other guy Carlos told me about? The one who tried to pick Laura up on the last night of her exhibition?’

  Hunter searched his desk for a copy of the picture of the stranger she was referring to and handed it to her. The captain stared at it for a few seconds.

  ‘We’ve been running this picture against the unified police database since yesterday. No matches yet. We’ve also got a team of uniformed officers going around every art gallery, exhibition hall, museum, art school, cafe, anywhere and everywhere where exhibitions take place. The chaperone at the Daniel Rossdale Art Gallery said she was certain she’d seen him before at a previous exhibition. Which means this guy is probably genuinely into art. Hopefully someone, somewhere will recognize him.’

  ‘The door to door of Laura’s apartment building gave us nothing,’ Garcia said. ‘Two to three weeks is a hell of a long time for any of the neighbors to remember hearing anything out of the ordinary, or seeing anyone suspicious.’

  ‘Have Forensics found anything else in her apartment?’

  Hunter poured himself a glass of water. ‘They recovered several black fibers from a brick wall. No results yet, but a possible clue.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘A few of the fibers came from a point about six foot from the floor.’

  ‘Any hairs?’ Captain Blake asked.

  ‘None.’

  ‘So whoever was there was wearing a hat or a ski mask or something,’ she concluded.

  ‘The assumption is that while hiding, the attacker flattened his back against the brick wall,’ Hunter said. ‘If we’re right and the fibers came from some sort of head garment, he should be between six foot and six four.’

  ‘And if they haven’t?’

  ‘Then the fibers could’ve come from a sweater and we’re looking for a seven-foot giant.’

  ‘At least he’ll be easy to spot,’ Garcia joked.

  ‘No sign of a struggle?’ the captain asked without a hint of a smile.

  ‘None.’

  She turned and stared at the crime-scene photographs pinned to the pictures board. No matter how often she looked at them, they made her wince every time. Violence in this city seemed to get worse with each passing year.

  ‘Talk to me, Robert, ’cause I’m really starting to dislike this whole thing. It’s been two days since we found Laura’s body. Two days since this scumbag blew a bomb inside a morgue and killed two other people, one of them being one of my best friends, and we’ve got shit so far. Why was she kept hostage for so long before being murdered? Has the Mitchell family received any sort of ransom requests or demands?’

  Hunter shook his head. ‘No. And if we’re right, whoever this killer is, he’s not after a ransom. Murder/kidnappings are rarely about money.’

  Captain Blake felt a chill start at the base of her neck. ‘You think he kept her for sexual pleasure?’

  ‘It’s possible. But with no autopsy report we’ll never know if Laura Mitchell was raped or not.’

  Captain Blake let out a heartfelt sigh.

  ‘There’s always a reason why a kidnapper would keep a hostage without demanding money for the victim’s return,’ Hunter offered. ‘The two most common are revenge or an obsession with the victim, where the aggressor just can’t let go. Nine times out of ten it starts out as some sort of platonic love . . . to the power of a thousand.’ Hunter paused and allowed his eyes to rest on the portrait photograph of Laura Mitchell. ‘And almost undoubtedly that obsession is, or becomes, sexual.’

  The captain shifted her weight from one foot to another.

  ‘But something here isn’t matching,’ Hunter continued.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘One thing we do know for sure from the crime-scene pictures is that the killer didn’t torture Laura.’

  The captain’s brow furrowed.

  ‘Torture, degradation and sadistic sexual abuse are a big part of most murder/kidnappings,’ Hunter explained. ‘When the reason behind the kidnapping isn’t money, if and when the victim is found, there are usually clear indications of physical torture and abuse.’ He walked up to the pictures board. ‘Before identifying her, Garcia and I went through these pictures with a fine-toothed comb and a magnifying glass trying to identify any physical marks that could point us in the right direction.’ He shook his head. ‘Not a scratch. Laura had no bruises other than the ones caused by the stitches and her own nails.’

  ‘If whoever kidnapped her was after revenge,’ Garcia said, ‘he would’ve tortured her, Captain. If he were obsessed with her, there’s a good chanc
e he would’ve raped her. In both cases, her body should’ve shown bruises.’

  ‘Once the aggressor starts using violence to get what he wants . . .’ Hunter continued, ‘. . . then we’re into a very fast downward spiral. His dominance over her, the false sense of power it gives him, will hook him like a drug. The violence will escalate, the rapes will become more aggressive until . . .’ He let the sentence hang in the air.

  ‘But that’s not what we have here.’ Garcia took over. ‘We’ve got the kidnapping, the keeping of the victim and the murder, but not the violence.’

  Captain Blake almost choked on Garcia’s words. ‘Not the violence?’ She glanced at the pictures board and then back at both detectives. ‘He placed a bomb inside her and stitched her shut – while she was still alive. What the hell do you consider violent?’

  ‘That’s precisely the problem, Captain,’ Hunter cut in. ‘The violence only came at the end, with the murder. And we all agree it was gruesomely sadistic. But the lack of any bruising on Laura’s body indicates that the killer wasn’t violent towards her while she was held captive. There was no escalation. It went from zero violence to monstrous in one quick step.’

  ‘And that tells us what?’

  Hunter held her stare. ‘That we’re dealing with an extremely unstable, explosive individual. When he loses his temper, someone loses their life.’

  Thirty-Three

  Patrick Barlett was one of the top financial advisors in the whole of California. He ran his own company from the fortieth floor of the famous 777 Tower.

  Barlett’s company reception office was decorated to impress. Hunter thought he no doubt subscribed to the theory that money attracts money.

  There were two receptionists standing behind a semicircular steel and green-glass reception counter. Their synchronized smiles greeted Hunter and Garcia as they approached the counter. Hunter flashed his credentials, but was careful to keep his thumb over the word homicide. The receptionists’ smiles lost some of their sparkle. Two minutes later, Hunter and Garcia were shown into Patrick Barlett’s office.