That was exactly what both detectives were expecting.
‘So nothing can be retrieved from this camera?’ Garcia asked.
‘Image-wise, no,’ Baxter replied. ‘As I’ve said, the camera has no hard drive that can be explored. Without a memory stick, it’s just like an old photographic camera without the film. It becomes nothing more than a box with a lens.’
‘Let’s do it anyway,’ Hunter said after a short, uncomfortable silence. Right now he wasn’t prepared to put anything past this killer.
‘Give me a sec,’ Baxter replied and disappeared into a back room. Moments later he came back carrying a power supply that was slightly larger than a regular cellphone charger. He plugged it in and switched the camcorder on.
There was nothing there.
The camera worked just as it should, but it recognized that it was missing the memory stick, disabling the
menu.
‘As I’ve said,’ Baxter commented, ‘no memory stick, no images or stills for us to see here.’
No one said anything for a long moment. Hunter had to admit that he
If all the killer wanted to do was to prove that he had really been standing outside when making the call, he could’ve written his little dig at the police on absolutely anything – a piece of paper, a burger box, a sandwich wrapper, a paper cup . . . anything. He no doubt had anticipated that once the call had been traced, the LAPD would be emptying and bagging the contents of every trashcan in the park and around the PAB in a hurry. They would’ve eventually found his message, no matter what it had been written on.
His next consideration was that the camera could’ve belonged to the victim. Maybe he had it on him when he was first abducted. Maybe that was why the memory stick was missing. Maybe the victim had filmed the killer by accident – strolling down the street, buying a hot dog, at a gas station, or worse . . . something incriminating. Something that could’ve given away the killer’s identity. Maybe that was why he had become the latest victim. They would have to wait for forensics to examine the camera, and hope that they could get something out of it.
Hunter couldn’t remember an investigation where he felt more defeated or powerless. All he had was a long list of maybes, ifs and buts, and none of it made any real sense. Three victims tortured and murdered in the most brutal ways while he watched, unable to help. And that helpless feeling was spreading through him like strong poison. Even his thoughts were starting to fail him.
He was right. This game of cat and mouse excited the killer like a brand-new drug, but right now Hunter couldn’t tell who was the cat and who was the mouse.
Hunter sat at a small table toward the back of the bar, staring at the glass tumbler in front of him. Inside it, a single dose of twelve-year-old Cardhu single-malt whisky with just a little water. Single malts were Hunter’s biggest passion. Back in his apartment he had a small but impressive collection that would probably satisfy the palate of most connoisseurs. Hunter would never consider himself an expert, but he knew how to appreciate the flavor and robustness of single malts, instead of simply getting hammered on them. Though, sometimes, getting hammered worked just fine.
He brought the glass to his lips and had a small sip, letting the clean, crisp oak and sweet malt infuse his whole mouth for a moment before allowing the smooth liquid to travel down his throat.
Soothing, no question about it. A few more and he would probably start to relax. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose. Rock music blasted through the tiny speakers strategically positioned on the ceiling throughout the bar area, but the music didn’t bother him. It actually helped him think.
Harry Mills’ words from yesterday still echoed in his ears like a loud scream. And Harry was right. Hunter remembered how, with his first victim, the killer had tricked him to pick water instead of fire, only to add a sadistic, chemical twist to it. With the second victim, the killer had used a small level of psychology to trick his viewers into picking
buried alive.
What the killer had decided to do this time in order to demonstrate his cleverness over the police was to control everything remotely, but not just from anywhere – from literally outside the LAPD headquarters’ front door. He had
The words rang out in his head again.
What else had the killer thrown at them just for fun? The abbreviation – SSV? The two different number sequences – 678 and 0123? The words –
Well, if that was the intention, it sure was working.
Maybe even the IV stand reflected onto the glass coffin lid hadn’t been a mistake. Maybe the killer did it on purpose. One more twist added to the tale.
Hunter brought both hands to his face and massaged his exhausted eyes with his palms. The more he thought about it, the more it made his head hurt. How could he come up with answers when he didn’t even know what questions to ask anymore?
‘Did you see that thing on the Internet today?’ Hunter overheard the barman ask a brunette and a redheaded woman at the bar, while he poured them a couple of cocktails.
Hunter’s gaze subtly moved to them.
‘I did,’ the redhead replied. ‘Absolutely awful. And everyone is saying that was no hoax.’
‘It isn’t,’ the brunette one agreed. ‘It was in the papers. He broadcast the murder of an
‘Did you watch it today?’ the redhead asked.
The brunette woman shook her head. ‘Everyone in the office was glued to their screens, watching it. I just couldn’t. It would make me sick. I can’t believe something like this is now happening on the Internet.’
‘You watched it?’ the barman asked the redhead.
She nodded.
‘Now the big question is – did you vote?’ he asked.
She pushed her hair behind her ear and shook her head. ‘No. Never. Did you?’
The barman’s gaze flicked to the brunette and then back to the redhead. ‘Um . . . no, I didn’t. I watched it, though.’
Even from where Hunter was sitting, it was easy to pick up their tell signs. They were both lying.
His cellphone lit up and rattled against the tabletop before him. He frowned at the name displayed on the caller screen before answering it. ‘Michelle?’
‘Robert, I’m sorry to be calling you this late and out of office hours.’
Hunter checked his watch. ‘It’s not that late, and I haven’t worked office hours since . . . ever.’
Michelle started saying something else, but stopped midword. ‘Um . . . is that Black Stone Cherry playing in the background?’
Hunter paused and listened to the music for a moment. The song was called ‘Blame it on the Boom Boom’. ‘That’s correct,’ he said. ‘Do you know the band?’
Michelle almost choked on the question. ‘Do
The place had gotten relatively busier by the time Michelle got there, twenty-five minutes after she came off the phone with Hunter. She was wearing skintight, stone-washed blue jeans with a natural wear-and-tear over her right knee, black boots and an old MotOrhead vest under a thin black-leather jacket with silver details. Her hair was loose and tousled in a ‘rock chick’ style. Her smoky-eyed makeup added to the look perfectly, and as she crossed the bar floor to where Hunter was sitting it was hard not to notice a few heads turning.
Hunter stood up to greet her, and her lips cracked into something that he wasn’t sure if it was a smile or not.
‘I would’ve never guessed you drank here,’ she said, taking off her jacket. Strangely, under the dim bar lights, the bright colors of the tattoos on her arms appeared more vivid.
‘Sometimes,’ Hunter replied, indicating the seat across the small table from him. ‘I ordered you a Jack Daniel’s and Diet Coke. I hope you don’t mind.’ The drink was already on the table.
Michelle half looked, half squinted at him. ‘How did you know I drank JD and Diet Coke?’
Hunter shrugged. ‘I guessed.’
More of a squint this time as she studied his face. ‘No, you didn’t. You knew. How did you know?’
Hunter took a seat and sipped his drink.
‘How did you know I drink Jack Daniel’s and Diet Coke?’ Michelle’s voice was more demanding this time, but not aggressively so.
Hunter put his drink down. ‘Just simple observation.’
His answer didn’t suffice.
Her stare didn’t soften.
‘You have a picture frame on your desk,’ Hunter finally explained.
Michelle thought about it for a moment.
Almost hidden behind one of the computer monitors on her desk was a photograph of Michelle with the vocalist and the guitarist of an American rock band called Hinder. They were all smiling and raising their glasses toward the camera in a
Michelle’s smile was sincere. ‘That’s not bad,’ she said. ‘But how did you know I drank Diet Coke and not regular Coke, or Pepsi, or Tab, or something similar?’
‘The wastebasket by your desk,’ Hunter replied.
A new smile. Michelle knew that at any given time there would be at least one can of Diet Coke in her wastebasket or on her desk. She much preferred it to coffee, and drank several cans of it a day. ‘That’s not bad at all.’ She reached for her drink and touched glasses with Hunter. ‘Here’s to observation and simple deduction. No wonder you’re a detective. And yes, JD and Diet Coke
‘Everything OK?’ Hunter asked without turning around.
‘There was a guy sitting behind you at the bar, right at the very end by the entrance. He just left, but I think I know him from somewhere.’
‘Short blond hair, nose ring, a two-day-old stubble, about one hundred and forty pounds . . . Was wearing a jeans jacket over a black T-shirt and drinking beer with tequila chasers?’ Hunter asked. Still he didn’t turn around.
‘That’s him,’ Michelle replied. ‘Do you know him?’
Hunter shook his head. ‘I saw him sitting there when I came in. Looked like he’d been there for a while.’
Michelle chuckled. ‘You saw him when you came in, probably for a couple of seconds, and you remember all that about him?’
Hunter half nodded, half shrugged.
‘You do that observation thing without even knowing that you’re doing it anymore, don’t you? A good detective is never off duty, always watchful, always prepared.’
Hunter said nothing.
Her eyes circled the bar area for a quick instant before she leaned forward and placed both elbows on the table. ‘OK. Test. Group of four over your left shoulder by the bar counter, about halfway up. Hair color?’
Hunter sat back, having another sip of his Scotch, his eyes studying Michelle.
‘C’mon, humor me, Robert. Hair color?’
‘Both women are blonde,’ Hunter finally said, without looking over his shoulder. ‘Though neither of them is natural. One has shoulder-length hair; the other one’s is slightly longer, pulled back into a ponytail. One of the men has light brown curly hair; the other guy has dyed black wavy hair with pronounced sideburns.’
‘Age group?’
‘All four in their early thirties.’
‘Drinks?’
‘The women are drinking white wine, the men are both having beer – curly hair is drinking Mexican with a lemon slice down the bottle’s neck. Wavy hair is drinking Bud.’
‘Anything else you can tell me?’ Michelle asked.
‘It’s probably their first double date, because all four of them seem a little tense. Body language indicated that wavy hair and ponytail blonde will hit it on, probably tonight, but the other two, I’m not so sure. She doesn’t look very impressed. She’s probably there more to help her friend.’
Michelle looked at Hunter with a faint smile on her lips but said nothing for a moment or two, obviously weighing up something in her mind. ‘You certainly are a very interesting and intriguing man, Robert.’
Hunter wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not.