by Chris Carter
‘No one will recognize her from the crime-scene photos. She’s been dead for over twelve hours. The killer could’ve dumped her there yesterday, or even the day before. We were lucky that a homeless drifter wanted to use the place for shelter tonight, or else she could’ve been decomposing by the time we got to her.’ Hunter paused by his bookcase, absentmindedly browsing through the titles. His eyes stopped as he reached the fifth book on the top shelf. ‘Shit!’
‘What? What happened?’
Hunter ran his hand over the spine of the book.
‘I know where I’ve seen her before.’
Seventy-Nine
Hunter had to wait until 7:30 a.m. to find out for certain who the latest victim was. The central branch of the Los Angeles Public Library on West 5th Street could easily be called Hunter’s home away from home, he spent so much time in there. Its opening time was 10:00 a.m., but he knew most of the staff, and he knew that one of them in particular, Maria Torres from Archives, was always there very early.
Hunter was right. He’d seen the victim’s face before. He’d passed her picture many times as he walked through the Arts, Music and Recreation department on the library’s second floor. One of her CDs, Fingerwalking, was featured on the middle shelf of the ‘we recommend’ display in the jazz guitar section. The display faced the main walkway. Its cover was a black-and-white close-up of her face.
From the library, Hunter made it to the LA morgue twenty minutes after Doctor Hove had called him saying she was done with the autopsy. Garcia was already there.
The doctor looked more than exhausted. No amount of make-up could disguise the black circles under her eyes, and they looked as if they’d sunken deeper into her skull. Her skin looked tired, with the pallor of someone who hadn’t seen the sun in months. Her shoulders were hunched forward, as if she was having trouble carrying the invisible weight on them.
‘I guess none of us had much sleep,’ Garcia said, noticing Hunter’s heavy-looking eyelids as he joined them by the entrance to the autopsy room. ‘I tried you at home . . .’
Hunter nodded. ‘I was in the library.’
Garcia pulled a face and checked his watch. ‘Ran out of books at home?’
‘I knew I’d seen the victim before,’ Hunter said. ‘Her name is Jessica Black.’ He pulled a CD case from his pocket.
Garcia and Doctor Hove took turns looking at the cover.
‘There’s another picture inside,’ Hunter said.
The doctor pulled the cover booklet out and flipped it open. Inside there was a full body picture of Jessica. She was standing with her back against a brick wall. Her guitar resting against it by her side. She had on a sleeveless black shirt, blue jeans and black cowboy boots. The tattoo on her right shoulder was clearly visible. Doctor Hove didn’t need to check it again. She knew it was exactly the same tattoo the victim on her autopsy table had on her shoulder. She’d looked at it for long enough.
‘I just found out about her fifteen minutes ago,’ Hunter explained. ‘I called Operations from the car and asked them to get me an address and whatever else they can on her. We’ll check it after we leave here.’ He nodded at Garcia who nodded back. ‘Missing Persons don’t have her,’ he continued; ‘she was never reported missing.’
Silence took over as they entered the autopsy room and paused by the examination table. All eyes settled on Jessica’s face. The stitches had been removed from her lips, but the scars where they’d dug so deep into her skin remained. There were scratch marks all around her mouth. Hunter could tell that Jessica herself had made them in blind panic, as she desperately clawed at the stitches with whatever was left of her nails. How much she’d suffered, no one could even begin to imagine.
‘We were right,’ the doctor broke the silence. Her voice was throaty. ‘The killer burned her from the inside.’
Garcia shook off a shiver. ‘How?’
‘Using exactly what we thought he’d used. He inserted a signal flare inside her.’
Garcia closed his eyes and took a step back. Last night, it had been the faint smell of burned human flesh inside the old depot that had made him sick to his stomach. It was one of those smells you never forget. And Garcia had never forgotten it.
‘Well, not exactly a signal flare,’ the doctor corrected herself, ‘but a variation of one.’ She indicated the long counter behind her where a metal tube had been placed inside a metal tray. The tube was five inches long by half an inch in diameter. ‘This is the aluminum tube that was placed inside her.’
Hunter moved closer to take a better look. The tube was sealed at one of its ends. No one said anything, so Doctor Hove moved on.
‘Signal – or warning – flares are the most common type of flares out there. They’re also quite easy to obtain. You’ll find them in any boat at the marina or even in road safety kits, which can be easily purchased from pretty much anywhere. But they aren’t the only type of flares you can get . . .’ she paused and allowed her eyes to return to the aluminum tube inside the tray, ‘. . . or create yourself.’
‘Heat flares,’ Hunter said.
The doctor nodded. ‘Precisely. Unlike signal flares, their main purpose isn’t to burn bright and produce a warning signal. Their purpose is just to burn hot.’ She picked up the tube. ‘Essentially, a flare is just a container, a tube packed with chemicals that can produce a brilliant light or intense heat without an explosion. And that’s exactly what the killer created and inserted into his victim.’
‘How long did that burn for?’ Hunter asked.
The doctor shrugged. ‘Depends on what chemicals were used and how much of each. This is going up to the lab straight after here. But the killer wouldn’t have needed much at all. Heat flares burn at ridiculously intense heat. Just a few seconds of direct contact would be enough to completely carbonize human flesh.’ She paused and slowly rubbed her face. ‘The damage that that fan-out knife caused to the second victim . . .’ she shook her head, ‘that’s cotton candy compared to what we have here.’
Garcia drew a deep breath and shifted his weight from foot to foot.
Doctor Hove turned the tube over and showed them a small click button at its sealed-off base. ‘Same sensitive impact-activated trigger mechanism. When her feet touched the ground, this thing clicked and produced a tiny spark. Enough to ignite the chemicals inside the tube. Similar to an oven lighter, really.’
‘How can a fire ignite and keep on burning inside a human body?’ Garcia asked. ‘Doesn’t it need oxygen?’
‘The same way a flare ignites and burns underwater,’ Hunter said. ‘It uses an oxidizing agent, which directly feeds the fire with oxygen atoms. Underwater flares carry a higher oxidizer mixture, so even in an environment with no oxygen, the fire never dies.’
Garcia looked at Hunter as if he were from outer space.
Doctor Hove nodded again. ‘The higher the oxidizer mixture, the stronger the initial deflagration.’
Hunter hadn’t thought of that.
‘And in English that is . . . ?’ Garcia asked.
‘When the initializing spark hits the chemicals, it produces an . . . impact, so to speak. That impact causes the whole thing to ignite at once, but not to explode. That uniform ignition is a deflagration – a combustion a few steps short of an explosion. Deflagration creates a bubble of super-heated gas. In this case, that bubble would’ve shot out the top of the flare canister like a bullet a millisecond before the fire. That bubble had to expand until it lost strength.’ Doctor Hove closed the fingers of her right hand into a fist and then reopened them slowly, creating a bubble-growing illusion. ‘It wouldn’t have propagated much, probably only millimeters, but while it was expanding, whatever it touched, it completely vaporized it.’
Garcia felt his stomach start to churn again.
‘The pain she must’ve suffered is . . . indescribable,’ the doctor confirmed. ‘Most fire victims die from smoke inhalation, not from the injuries sustained. Basically, their lungs collapse because they can’t
process the smoke and they suffocate – sometimes even before they feel any pain at all from their scorched flesh. But that’s not the case here. There was no smoke. She felt every last pinprick of pain that came to her.’ She placed the metal tube down and let go of a deep breath. ‘As you know, the second victim was severely mutilated from inside. She suffered a lot, but that mutilation caused intense loss of blood. We all know that when a human being loses a certain amount of blood, the body simply shuts down, like going into hibernation or being anesthetized. The person starts to feel cold and tired, the pain disappears and they fall asleep before dying.’ She ran her hand over her mouth. ‘But not if you’re burned. The blood loss is minimal. There’s no hibernation or anesthetized effect. There’s only grotesque pain.’
Eighty
Doctor Hove pointed to a clear plastic bag on the metal counter behind her. Its contents seemed to be a small gooey mass of soft tar.
‘That’s all that was left of her entire reproductive system. It’s been scorched beyond any recognition by heat and fire. Even I couldn’t tell what was what.’
Not a word from Hunter or Garcia. The doctor carried on.
‘Her uterus, ovaries, and bladder exploded inside her abdominal cavity. Death came from a series of major organ failures, but that would’ve taken some time. During that time, she felt every ounce of pain her body could’ve taken. Until it could take no more.’
Garcia’s eyes kept going back to the plastic bag with the blackened contents.
‘Was she drugged?’ Hunter asked.
‘Without a doubt, but toxicology results will take a couple of days. My guess is that the killer used Estazolam again.’
‘Any signs of malnutrition or dehydration?’
Doctor Hove shook her head. ‘None. And just like the previous victim, I won’t be able to tell if she was sexually assaulted or not.’
By the time Hunter and Garcia made it back to Parker Center, their research team had compiled a three-page report on Jessica Black.
Born in South Los Angeles, she had turned thirty less than a month ago. The report went on to explain about her poor childhood, how she lost her mother when she was only nine, and about her fascination with acoustic guitars because of an old blues guitar man she saw in the park when she was a child. It also explained about her rise to fame once her videos were posted onto YouTube. Her concerts were sold out weeks in advance. She and her boyfriend, Mark Stratton, who was also a guitarist, but with a metal band called Dust, shared an apartment in Melrose.
Hunter tried the apartment phone number – no answer. He tried Mark’s cell phone – straight to his voicemail. He didn’t leave a message.
Hunter and Garcia made it to Melrose in forty-five minutes. Jessica and Mark’s apartment was on the top floor of a private condo surrounded by a forest of California Bay trees in North Kings Road. The building’s concierge, Scott, was a tall and reedy man in his late-twenties with a shaved head and a trendy goatee. He said that he hadn’t seen Jessica for a few days. Five to be exact.
‘How about Miss Black’s partner?’ Garcia asked.
‘Mark? He’s been away for . . . four days now,’ Scott replied. ‘His band, Dust, is just about to release their new album, so they hit the road for a bunch of pre-tour gigs before the real tour begins.’
‘Do you know when he’s supposed to be back?’
Scott shook his head. ‘Not exactly, but it’ll be a few weeks.’
Hunter’s eyes roamed the building’s entry lobby and settled on the security camera in the far-left corner.
‘How many CCTV cameras are there in the building?’ he asked.
‘Four,’ Scott said. ‘One just outside the main entrance, that one here in the lobby.’ He pointed to the camera Hunter had spotted. ‘One on the entrance to the underground garage, and one inside the elevator.’
‘And how long do you keep your CCTV footage?’
‘For a month. Everything is stored into a hard drive.’
‘We’re gonna need copies of everything, going back to the day you last saw Miss Black.’
‘Sure, that’s not a prob . . .’ Scott hesitated for an instant.
‘Something wrong?’
‘Well, four days ago we had a fuse box overload and all the cameras went down for a few hours in the middle of the night. And if I remember correctly, it happened on the day Mark left on tour.’
Hunter remembered what Myers had told him about the CCTV cameras in Katia Kudrov’s apartment building in West Hollywood. They had all conveniently gone down the night she disappeared. A fuse box overload.
‘We’ll need copies of whatever you have.’
‘Sure.’
‘How about any visitors?’ Garcia asked. ‘Do you remember anyone calling in on or around the day you last saw Miss Black? Maybe delivering something, a workman checking something . . . Any reason to go up to their apartment?’
‘Mark and Jessica didn’t really have people over. They preferred to go out, which they did a lot. Anyway, every visitor, service or delivery has to go through the front desk and details are always taken down.’ He checked the computer log. There was nothing.
‘Did you notice anyone suspicious hanging around the building on the days prior to Mark leaving on tour?’ Garcia asked.
Scott laughed. ‘Other than Mark and Jessica we have two up-and-coming Hollywood actresses, one rock singer, one rapper, one TV presenter and two radio DJs living here. There are always strange and eager people around just waiting to get a glimpse of their idols, or an autograph or photo.’
Hunter took down the name of the concierge on duty the night the cameras went down – Francisco Gonzales. He’d be on duty again later that evening.
As they got back to the car, Hunter tried Mark’s cell phone again. Still voicemail. He needed to get in touch with Mark as soon as possible. He needed access to their apartment. He called Operations and asked them to get back to him with Dust’s manager’s name, office and cell phone number. While they were at it, he asked them to get Jessica’s manager’s details as well.
Hunter disconnected and ten seconds later his cell phone rang.
‘Talk about fast response,’ Garcia joked.
‘Detective Hunter,’ he said, bringing the phone to his ear. He listened for a moment. ‘You’re kidding me. When? . . . Where is he? . . . OK, we’re on our way.’
‘What’s going on?’ Garcia asked as soon as Hunter closed his phone.
‘James Smith has been arrested.’
Eighty-One
James Smith was sitting alone inside interrogation room number two on the second floor of Parker Center. His hands were cuffed together, and he had them resting on the metal table in front of him. His fingers were picking at each other, anxiously. His eyes were fixed on the far wall, as if watching some invisible movie being played on a screen only he could see.
Hunter, Garcia and Captain Blake were regarding Smith from the other side of the two-way mirror in the adjacent observation room. Hunter paid particular attention to his eyes and facial movements.
‘He’s not our guy,’ Hunter said in a steady voice. He kept his arms folded over his chest.
‘What?’ Captain Blake blurted out with annoyance. ‘This is the first concrete lead we’ve managed to follow through since we found the first victim. Since Jonathan died in that autopsy room seven days ago for no reason. You haven’t even spoken to him yet.’
‘I don’t have to. He’s not our killer.’
‘And you know that how?’ Her hands moved to her hips. ‘Or you gonna tell me that together with your lip-reading ability you’re also psychic?’
‘Do you know where he was arrested, Captain?’
She glanced at Garcia, who gave a tiny shrug.
‘I haven’t looked at the arrest report yet. Why?’
‘Lakewood,’ Hunter said. ‘He was arrested in Lakewood.’
‘OK, and . . . ?’
‘Around the corner from Laura Mitchell’s apartment.’
; ‘Your point is . . . ?’
‘He was arrested because I told Operations to send two teams of plain clothes officers to stake out her place.’
The captain frowned. ‘When did you do that?’
‘After I talked to him on the phone.’
‘You knew he’d go back to her place?’
‘I suspected he’d observe it.’
‘Observe it? Why?’
‘Because his mind refuses to believe something has happened to Laura Mitchell. He needed to check it out for himself.’
The captain’s stare returned to Garcia for a moment before moving back to Hunter. ‘You better start making sense, Robert. And right now is a good time.’
Hunter finally turned and faced Captain Blake. ‘When we spoke on the phone, he thought I was a detective with the fraud squad.’
‘Fraud squad? Why?’
‘Because that’s his crime, Captain – impersonating. We all know James Smith isn’t his real name. Nevertheless, he’s managed to obtain a driver’s license, an ID card, a library card, maybe even a passport, all under a false identity. That can get him one to five years inside. But as he said on the phone to me, that’s not enough to trigger a major investigation. That’s why he couldn’t understand why his photo had hit the papers. Why we were after him. When he found out I was with the Homicide Division, he hesitated for a moment, then there was a distinct change in his voice.’
‘Like what?’
‘Trepidation . . . fear, but not for himself, or of being caught.’
The captain looked lost.
‘The reason why he hesitated was because at first he couldn’t figure out why Homicide would be after him. But as we all know, he’s far from stupid. He quickly realized that it must’ve been something linked to his obsession.’
‘Laura Mitchell,’ Garcia said, comprehending.
Hunter nodded. ‘We know that they exchanged phone numbers at the exhibition. We checked Laura’s cell phone records. Just a couple of days before the presumed timeframe of her disappearance, she received a call from a payphone in Bellflower.’