‘Maybe the caller picked Robert because of his reputation,’ Baxter said. ‘Maybe he read his name in the
The captain thought about it for an instant. ‘Great,’ she said. ‘That’s all we need, a new psycho playing
catch me before I kill again.
Back at their desks, both detectives watched the Internet footage and listened to the telephone recording over and over again. Baxter had supplied Hunter and Garcia with a software application that allowed them to advance the recorded footage frame by frame. And that was exactly what they’d been doing for the past four and a half hours, analyzing every inch of every frame, looking for anything that could give them any sort of clue, no matter how small.
The camera work concentrated mainly on the glass enclosure and on the man inside it. Every once in a while it would zoom in onto the victim’s face, or something floating on the bloody water. It had broken that pattern only once, when it panned right to show the wall clock and today’s copy of the
The clock fixed to the wall was a round battery clock of about 13 inches in diameter with a black frame. It had an easy-to-read white dial with Arabic numerals, black minute and hour hands and a red second hand. There was no manufacturer’s name on its face. Hunter sent a snapshot of the clock to his research team, but he knew that the chances of their linking it to a specific shop, and then identifying the buyer, were almost impossible.
The floor was nondescript and made of concrete. Again, it could’ve been just about anywhere.
The screen print Hunter took of his desktop came out perfect. The man sitting inside the glass enclosure was looking directly at the camera. Hunter had already emailed the picture to the Missing Persons Unit. The agent he spoke to on the phone told him that because of the gag wrapped tight around the victim’s mouth, the face recognition software would only be able to analyze a limited number of facial comparison points. If the man had indeed been reported missing, it could still be enough for a match, but they had to wait and see. Hunter told the agent to search for entries dating back only a week. He had a feeling that the caller hadn’t kidnapped and kept the victim for more than a day or two before throwing him into that glass tank. Victims kept in captivity for anywhere over forty-eight hours always showed signs of it – exhausted and drained face and eyes from lack of sleep, or spaced-out eyes from being doped. Personal hygiene also suffered considerably, and there were always the inevitable signs of malnourishment. The victim inside that tank had displayed none of it.
‘There’s nothing here,’ Garcia said, sitting back in his chair and rubbing his exhausted eyes. ‘There was nothing in that room except that water tank, the victim, the clock, the newspaper and the camera that broadcast the whole thing. This guy isn’t stupid, Robert. He knew we would be recording the broadcast and then scrutinizing it to hell.’
Hunter breathed out before also rubbing his tired eyes. ‘I know.’
‘I, for one, can’t watch this anymore.’ Garcia got up and walked over to the small window on the west wall. ‘The desperate, pleading look in the victim’s eyes . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Every time I look at them I can feel his fear crawling up my skin like a fire centipede. And there’s nothing I can do but watch him die again, and again, and again. It’s screwing with my mind.’
Hunter was also sick of the footage. What really turned his stomach inside out was watching how the man’s face had lit up with hope once he realized the water had stopped. And then, just a minute later, how his eyes burned with terrifying dread, as the liquid surrounding his whole body started burning and eating away at his skin and flesh. Hunter could pinpoint the exact moment the man gave up the fight, as he finally understood that he would never be getting out of there alive. The killer was just toying with him.
‘Did you pick up anything from his tone of voice or something?’ Garcia asked.
‘No. He was calm throughout the whole conversation, except for when he yelled at me to make a choice. Other than that there were no angry bursts, no overexcitement, nothing. He was always in control of his emotions and of the conversation.’ Hunter leaned back on his chair. ‘But there’s one thing that bothers me.’
‘What’s that?’
‘When I told him that he didn’t have to do that.’
Garcia nodded. ‘He said that he knew he didn’t, but he wanted to. He said that it would be fun.’
‘That’s right, and that could indicate that the victim was nobody in particular. Probably a complete random choice.’
‘So this guy is just another fucking psycho, killing people for kicks.’
‘We don’t know yet,’ Hunter replied. ‘The problem is – when I told him that I couldn’t make a decision because I didn’t know why the victim was being held captive, the caller told me that that was something I would have to find out for myself.’
‘And?’
‘And that would indicate that the victim
‘So he’s literally fucking with us.’
‘We don’t know yet,’ Hunter said again before pushing himself away from his desk, checking his watch and letting out a deflated breath. ‘But I’m through with this as well.’ He powered down his computer. The same helpless feeling that had overtaken him when he was watching the live broadcast returned, burning an empty hole inside his chest. There was nothing else they could squeeze out of that Internet footage or audio recording. Right now, all they could hope for was some sort of development from the Missing Persons Unit.
Ten
Hunter sat in the dark, staring out the living-room window of his small one-bedroom apartment in Huntington Park. He lived alone – no wife, no kids, no girlfriends. He’d never been married, and the relationships he had were never long term. He had tried in the past, but being a detective with the Homicide Special Section in one of the most violent cities in America had a way of taking its toll on any relationship, no matter how casual.
Hunter had another sip of his strong black coffee and checked his watch – 4:51 a.m. He’d managed only four hours of sleep, but for him that was as close to sleeping bliss as he could ever get.
Hunter’s battle with insomnia had started very early in his life, triggered by the death of his mother when he was only seven. The nightmares were so devastating that as a self-defense mechanism his brain did all it could to keep him awake at night. Instead of falling asleep, Hunter read ferociously. Books became his refuge, his castle. A safe place where the ghastly nightmares couldn’t breach the gates.
Hunter had always been different. Even as a child he could solve puzzles and work out problems faster than most adults. It was like his brain was able to fast-track just about anything. In school, his teachers had no doubt he wasn’t like most students. At the age of twelve, after being put through a series of exams and tests suggested by Doctor Tilby, Hunter’s school psychologist, he was accepted into the Mirman School for the Gifted as an eighth-grader, two years ahead of the usual age of fourteen.
Mirman’s special curriculum didn’t slow Hunter down. Before the age of fifteen, he had glided through their entire program, condensing four years of high school into two. With recommendations from all his teachers, and a special mention from Mirman’s principal, he was accepted as a ‘special circumstances’ student at Stanford University. Hunter decided to study psychology. By then his insomnia and nightmares were relatively under control.
In college, his grades were just as impressive, and Hunter received his PhD in Criminal Behavior Analysis and Biopsychology just before his twenty-third birthday. The head of the psychology department at Stanford University, Doctor Timothy Healy, made it clear that if Hunter ever showed interest in a teaching position, there would always be a place on his staff for him. Hunter respectfully declined, but said that he would keep it in mind. Doctor Healy was also the one who forwarded Hunter’s PhD thesis paper entitled
psychopaths.
The second fact that was digging around in Hunter’s mind like a bulldozer was the
It wasn’t uncommon for a murderer, even a psychopath, to doubt his decision to kill someone right at the last minute, but that didn’t seem to have been an issue with this killer. He had no doubt the victim would die; he just couldn’t make up his mind on which was worse – burned to death or drowned. Two opposites of sorts. Two of the most feared ways a person could die. But the more Hunter thought about it, the more stupid he felt. He was sure he had been tricked.
He knew that there was no way the caller had that amount of sodium hydroxide sitting around for no reason at all. It had all been part of the game. He had said so himself. He was expecting Hunter to pick water instead of fire, for all the exact reasons he had mentioned over the phone – it was a kinder, less sadistic and faster way of ending the victim’s suffering. But water would’ve also preserved the state of the body, and in case they came across it anytime soon, a forensics team would have a much better chance of finding a clue, if one was to be found. Fire, on the other hand, would’ve simply destroyed everything.
Hunter ground his teeth in anger and tried in vain to fight the guilt that was nibbling away at his brain. There was no doubt in his mind that the caller had played him. And Hunter hated himself for not foreseeing it.
The ringtone from Hunter’s cellphone dragged him away from his thoughts. He blinked a couple of times as if waking up from a bad dream and looked around the dark room. The cellphone was on the old and scratched wooden dining table that doubled up as a desk. It rattled against the table-top one more time before Hunter got to it. The call display window told him it was Garcia. Reflexively Hunter checked his watch before answering it – 5:04 a.m. Whatever it was, Hunter knew it wouldn’t be good news.
‘Carlos, what’s up?’
‘We’ve got the body.’
Hunter parked his old Buick LeSabre by the single lamppost at the entrance to the alleyway. He stepped out of the car and stretched his six-foot frame against the morning wind. Garcia’s metallic-blue Honda Civic was parked across the road. Hunter took a moment to look around before entering the back alley. The lamppost’s old bulb was yellow and weak. At night, if you weren’t looking for it, it would’ve been very easy to miss the alleyway. It was located behind a quiet road of small shops, away from the main streets.
Hunter zipped up his leather jacket and slowly started down the alleyway. He flashed his badge at the young officer standing by the yellow crime-scene tape before ducking under it. He saw light fixtures above some of the shops’ back doors, but none was on. There were a few plastic and paper bags scattered around, a few empty beer and soda cans, but other than that the back street was tidier than most he’d seen in downtown LA. The second half of the alleyway was lined with big metal dumpsters, four in total. Garcia, two forensics agents and three uniformed officers were gathered just past the third dumpster. At the end of the alleyway a bedraggled, dirt-strewn black man of indistinct age, whose wiry hair seemed to explode from his head in all directions, was sitting on a concrete step. He seemed to be mumbling something to himself. Another police officer was standing a few feet to his right, one hand cupped over his nose, as if protecting himself from a violating smell. There were no CCTV cameras anywhere.