Written in Blood

by Carter Chris

  Captain Blake held Hunter’s eyes for longer than a heartbeat. In them, she saw an odd sparkle, one that she wasn’t exactly a stranger to. Somewhere inside that big brain of his, she knew that Hunter had started putting together some sort of profile of this guy. She pushed.

  ‘And why do you think that is?’

  Hunter was finally overwhelmed by the mouthwatering smell of coffee, so he approached the machine and poured himself a large cup.

  ‘It’s impossible to tell, Captain. Not without interviewing him.’

  ‘OK, but you can speculate.’ She lifted a hand, as she conceded, ‘I know that you hate doing that, but please, indulge me here, Robert. I’m just trying to get a little grip on what we’re up against. Why do you think this particular nutjob is so confident . . . so fearless?’

  Hunter had a sip of his coffee. ‘All right, but this is nothing more than pure speculation.’

  ‘I’m OK with that,’ Captain Blake agreed.

  ‘OK,’ Hunter began. ‘One thing that we do know is that he hears voices in his head, which indicates that he’s a schizophrenic psychopath. If the voices are commanding him to retrieve his diary, he will do whatever it takes to please them, even if it means disregarding his own safety. Fear, pain, exhaustion, danger, strength, even his psychopathic, narcissistic self-love . . . all of that becomes secondary because the voices and their wishes take precedence over everything. To him, the most important thing would be to not upset the voices.’

  Though Hunter’s explanation made sense to everyone, Captain Blake got the feeling that he was holding something back.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘But that’s not your whole theory, is it? You’ve got something else? Something that’s bothering you.’

  Hunter stayed quiet.

  ‘What is it, Robert?’ she insisted.

  ‘It’s less of a theory and more of a hunch, Captain,’ Hunter said, going back to his chair. ‘And the only way I can strengthen that hunch is by going through everything Dr. Slater has sent us with a fine-tooth comb. So if you give me some time, I can let you know in a while.’

  ‘Nope,’ the captain said with a firm shake of the head. ‘I know much better than to disregard these goddamn hunches of yours, Robert. Every time you have one of those, all kinds of hell breaks loose. Tell us now.’

  ‘The captain’s got a point,’ Garcia said, as he walked back to his computer and loaded up the first few images from the zip file Dr. Slater had sent them. ‘What is this hunch of yours?’

  Right then, Hunter felt like a kid about to tell his parents that he had seen a unicorn out in their back garden.

  ‘Maybe the strength behind everything he does,’ Hunter said, ‘comes from the fact that he’s used to facing much more frightening opponents than the LAPD. I think that the reason why he understands criminal investigative procedure so well, is because he’s been part of it.’

  ‘Hold on a moment here,’ Captain Blake paused Hunter. ‘You think he’s a cop?’

  ‘No,’ Hunter replied with a subtle shake of the head. ‘Not a regular cop. Not one of us. Someone with a hell of a lot more training.’

  Forty-Two

  Located near the center of Los Angeles, nestled between the San Fernando Valley and Beverly Hills, was Franklin Canyon Park – 605 acres of chaparral, grasslands, oak woodlands, a three-acre lake, a duck pond, expansive picnic grounds, and over five miles of hiking trails. The lake and pond served as a sanctuary for birds in the Pacific flyway – the major north–south flight path for migratory birds in America, extending from Alaska to Patagonia. It was there, by an isolated cluster of trees at the northwest end of the lake, that the man liked to sit. And sit he did, away from everyone, staring at the water and the birds, lost in his own thoughts, for hours on end.

  Despite the park’s central location in a city of twelve million souls, its grounds had an almost magical effect. Once you were through the gates, Los Angeles with all its hustle and bustle was completely left behind. It was like being transported to a different world . . . a different planet even, and that was why out of so many Los Angeles parks, Franklin Canyon was the man’s favorite. On average, he tended to visit it two or three times a week. The tranquility of the surroundings, coupled with the sheer beauty of the lake, its vegetation and diverse birdlife, made him feel as close to being at peace with himself as he would ever be able to.

  Officially, the park only opened its doors to the public at 7:00 a.m., but for someone with the man’s expertise, breaching the perimeter fence was as easy as breathing. In fact, when possible, he liked getting there before sunrise.

  As the sun’s first rays illuminated the trees and met the water, it created a hypnotizing sparkling undulation, as if the sun had come to reveal hidden diamonds at the bottom of the lake.

  The man finished his pastrami sandwich and had another sip of his coffee. The sun, albeit weak, warmed his skin. In the distance, he could hear a woodpecker beginning his workday. Several different bird species, hidden somewhere in the woodland, were also making themselves heard, greeting the brand-new morning.

  Sitting with his back against a tree, the man pulled his knees toward his chest and hugged them. His eyes moved up to the sky just in time for him to see a belted kingfisher circle high above his head and lock its sights on some poor small fish in the shallow waters by the banks of the lake. With its target acquired, the kingfisher dove at it fast and with the utmost precision. Like a guided missile, it splashed into the water, disturbing its sparkling surface, only to re-emerge a second later with the fish securely clasped between its beak. The fish, fighting for dear life, wiggled in desperation, trying its best to break free from the kingfisher’s tight grip, but the fish’s fight was all in vain. After all, the bird was called ‘kingfisher’ for a reason. Once it had its victim in its beak, there was nothing else that the prey could do.

  As the man watched the kingfisher fly back to a tree branch not that far away from where he was sitting, he chuckled humorlessly, thinking about the similarities between him and the master fishing bird.

  Just like the kingfisher, once the man had taken a subject, the chances of that subject escaping were none, but the similarities didn’t end there. Despite how beautiful kingfishers were to look at, with their long, pointy beaks, big heads, large eyes, colorful bodies, small legs and short tails, in the world of ornithology, the kingfisher was considered to be a vicious predator.

  It was the brutal and torturous manner in which kingfishers killed their prey that had earned them the reputation of being such cruel killers. Once back at a tree branch, instead of waiting for the fish to die naturally, the kingfisher would savagely slam the fish in its beak against the tree with all its might . . . again . . . and again . . . and again . . . until death. In human terms, that was the equivalent to the man slamming a subject’s head against a concrete wall nonstop, until the cranium had fractured multiple times and the gray matter inside it had turned to mush.

  Life is indeed poetic, the man thought.

  The man poured himself another cup of coffee from the thermos he had with him and checked his watch – less than ten hours until he had to call Detective Hunter again.

  Though the man would give him a chance to, he wasn’t really expecting the LAPD detective to comply. At least not at first. That was why he had already thought of a plan.

  He would get his diary back, of that the man had absolutely no doubt. And if he had to kill the detective in the process, so be it – and this time, he wouldn’t need the voices to direct him.

  Forty-Three

  ‘Someone with a hell of a lot more training than an LAPD cop?’ Captain Blake asked Hunter. ‘Like who?’ The tiny wrinkles around her eyes became more visible as she looked back at her detective. ‘Don’t tell me that you think this killer could be linked to the FBI.’

  Hunter shook his head. ‘No, not the FBI either . . . the military.’

  Garcia, who was standing to the left of Captain Blake, looked just as surprised as she did
.

  ‘Why the military?’

  Hunter lifted both of his hands. ‘Like I’ve said – it’s just a hunch, but I think that there’s a big chance that this killer either is or was with the military.’

  ‘A hunch based on what, Robert?’ the captain asked. ‘On the fact that he used military time to refer to his five o’clock deadline?’

  ‘That’s one factor, yes,’ Hunter admitted.

  ‘Many of our schedules use military time notation,’ Captain Blake countered. ‘You’ll also find it in some staff rotas, time-tables, agendas, programs . . . the list is long.’

  ‘Yes,’ Hunter agreed. ‘In written form, military time is used everywhere, but on average, only people in the military, or with links to the military, use military time when speaking.’

  Captain Blake hesitated for a moment.

  ‘We might see it written down just about everywhere,’ Hunter pushed. ‘But most of us won’t ever read it as military time notation.’

  ‘Unless he did it on purpose.’ Garcia joined the debate. ‘With the specific intention of taking you down that path – to make you think that he’s got a military background. He certainly seems clever enough for that.’

  ‘But military time isn’t the only military associated term he’s used. He’s also done it in writing.’

  He minimized the image on his screen before calling up a new one.

  Garcia and Captain Blake repositioned themselves behind his desk.

  Hunter addressed Garcia. ‘This, you will remember, relates to the second entry in the diary – Cory Snyder.’ He indicated on his screen.

  Despite my initial inaccuracy, every single lash I administered violently ruptured the subject’s flesh, creating the sort of deep lacerations that would bring terror into the heart of any medic.

  ‘Other than in war films and video games,’ Hunter asked, ‘have you ever heard anyone refer to a doctor as a medic, either in conversation or in written form?’

  Garcia and Captain Blake stayed silent.

  ‘The word medic is mainly used by military personnel,’ Hunter insisted. ‘Throughout the diary, there might be other terms that hint at this killer having been, or still being with the military, I’m not sure. We’ve only had a chance to read two out of the sixteen entries.’

  Garcia confirmed it with a nod.

  ‘That’s why I want to start at the beginning again,’ Hunter continued. ‘And go through everything – every page, every word – with an analytical eye. Hopefully, something, somewhere in his diary will give him away.’

  Captain Blake, who hadn’t read any of the diary entries yet, had kept her attention on Hunter’s computer screen.

  ‘All right,’ she said in agreement, finally dragging her gaze away from the gruesome text in front of her. ‘You two get on with it. Meanwhile, I’ll request an SIS and a SWAT team to be on standby for his five o’clock deadline.’

  Hunter checked his watch. ‘I’ll call Dr. Slater to tell her that we need the diary back.’

  With another double-take, Captain Blake pinned Hunter down with a stare. ‘Whatever sort of instructions you get from this freakshow today . . . you’re not really considering the idea of having the real diary with you, are you?’

  ‘I might need to, yes,’ Hunter replied, already loading new images onto his screen. ‘But regardless of what happens today at five o’clock, I do need that diary here with me.’

  Captain Blake gave Hunter a couple more seconds, but he gave her nothing more.

  ‘And why is that, Robert?’

  Hunter breathed out before resting his right elbow on his desk and locking eyes with his captain.

  ‘For two main reasons. He’s going to want some sort of proof that I have it in my hands.’

  The corners of Captain Blake’s mouth angled downwards as she nodded. ‘All right, and what is the second reason?’

  Hunter swiveled his chair a few degrees to face Garcia and Captain Blake. ‘His almost desperate desire to get his diary back.’

  Going on facial expressions alone, Hunter’s reply missed the target completely.

  ‘Doesn’t that sound a little odd to either of you?’ Hunter asked, searching their faces.

  Blank.

  He clarified.

  ‘This killer obviously knows that by now we would’ve copied, scanned, photographed every page, every sketch, every Polaroid in that diary. Getting his diary back will not keep us from the information in those pages. It will not prevent us from digging up every single one of his victims. And if his identity is mentioned anywhere in that book, getting it back won’t stop us from hunting him down.’

  ‘So it’s not the information in those pages that he wants back, it’s the diary itself.’

  Hunter nodded. ‘It has to be. The question is why? The only conclusion I could come to, is that there’s got to be something else in that book. Something beyond the words. Something hidden from view. Something that a scan or a photograph would not pick up. Something that maybe even forensics would miss. Why else would he so desperately want that book back?’

  Captain Blake felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, but this time, for an entirely different reason.

  ‘Get on the phone to Susan,’ she commanded Hunter, as she made for the door. ‘Get that diary here ASAP and keep me posted. I’ll get on to SIS and SWAT. Let’s go get this sonofabitch.’

  Forty-Four

  Hunter put down the phone, gave the officer standing in front of his desk, Officer Makalsky, his final instructions and immediately returned to the image on his computer screen. He and Garcia, once again, started back at the beginning – page 1 – Elizabeth Gibbs’s entry.

  Hunter was an extremely fast reader, being able to speed-read with ease, but he purposely slowed his rhythm down considerably. Other than looking for anything else that could lend more credibility to his military theory, Hunter was also searching for something that could be hidden somewhere in that book. The problem he had was that he really had no clue what he was looking for. Should he try reading between the lines for some concealed meaning, or was he looking for something more tangible? Had the killer used some sort of code to hide information? If he had, how would Hunter ever find it?

  The answer, he knew, wouldn’t come easy, if at all.

  Hunter read every full line of text twice – the first time around looking for a possible hidden meaning to the sentence – a play on words or something similar. The second time around his attention moved from word to word and from letter to letter. This time, he was looking for something out of the ordinary. Maybe a word, or even an individual letter that had been somehow stressed – tiny markings under or above it . . . heavier ink . . . anything that could hint at something odd.

  By the time Hunter finished reading through Elizabeth Gibbs’s entry, he had found nothing that had grabbed his attention – no other hints that could suggest that the killer had a military background and nothing that seemed any more revealing than what they already had. No signs of any code either. The same became true for the second entry – Cory Snyder.

  Before moving on to the third entry and a brand-new victim, Hunter got up and poured himself a fresh cup of coffee.

  Even though these murders had already been committed and there was nothing that Hunter could’ve done to stop them, he found himself feeling a little anxious with the thought of moving forward. Every single one of them, he knew, would reveal a new evil . . . a new horror. Every new entry would give him the name and the face of a new victim – poor souls who had been robbed of their life by a sadistic maniac who heard voices in his head. That helpless feeling knotted Hunter’s stomach, making him feel sick, but though he couldn’t help any of the sixteen victims mentioned in those pages, he would give their families closure, and he would do all he could to prevent this killer from claiming any more lives.

  Fresh coffee in hand, Hunter went back to his desk.

  The new entry read:

  The voices had gone dormant for a while
– seventy-eight days to be precise – but they have awakened from their hibernation, coming back at me loud and clear and as hungry as ever. Once again, they had another very specific request – Gender: female. Age: in between twenty-five and twenty-seven. No younger . . . no older. Height: five-foot four to five-foot six. Hair: black, straight, long – at least past the shoulders. Eyes: black (very dark brown). Body type: petite – slim. Weight: not an ounce over 130 pounds. Ethnicity: Japanese-American. Personality: shy, introvert. This was the first time that the voices have ever mentioned a preference for a specific personality. Not actually a problem, but that preference will, undoubtedly, delay the subject selection. With all previous subjects, where the requirements were always just physical, selection could be easily done via reconnaissance alone . . .

  Hunter stopped reading, the veins around his temples tightening with excitement. The word ‘reconnaissance’, he knew, was often used by military personnel, though not exclusively.

  He took note of the word and had a sip of his coffee before going back to the text.

  . . . but with the addition of a specific personality type, reconnaissance alone will not suffice. To be able to discern her personality with any level of confidence, I will have to approach the subject and engage in conversation, probably more than once, something that I would rather not do. ‘She needs to be dressed in a traditional Japanese kimono,’ was the voices’ next request. ‘She should also be wearing white socks and traditional wooden geta. No makeup necessary. The color of the kimono is irrelevant.’ Despite the unusual level of detail concerning the subject’s attire, finding a target wouldn’t pose any real problems, except, of course, for the personality issue, which, in all honesty, could be circumvented, as there’s no real way in which the voices could discern her personality.