Текст книги "The Hunter"

Автор книги: Chris (2) Carter

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First published in Great Britain by Simon and Schuster, 2013

A CBS COMPANY

Copyright © Chris Carter, 2013

This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

No reproduction without permission.

® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.

The right of Chris Carter to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

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www.simonandschuster.co.uk

Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney

Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978-1-47112-800-4

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Typeset by M Rules

THE

HUNTER

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

The Crucifix Killer

One

Two

Three

An Evil Mind

One

Two

Three

Four

Chapter 1

‘You have got to be kidding me,’ Detective Scott Wilson of the LAPD Robbery Homicide Division said, as if he’d just heard the world’s unfunniest joke.

Wilson was standing inside Captain William Bolter’s office, staring at the piece of paper the captain had just handed him.

‘You’re dumping a suicide case on me, captain?’ Wilson asked, still looking dumbfounded.

Captain Bolter was in his mid-fifties, but looked at least ten years younger. Tall, strong, and sporting a full head of peppery hair together with a thick mustache, the man was a menacing figure, respected by everyone in the force. He looked at his detective and shrugged matter-of-factly.

‘What are you complaining about?’ he said, returning to his seat behind his large and very messy desk. ‘I thought you all liked easy cases.’ He nodded at the piece of paper in Wilson’s hands. ‘They don’t come much easier than that. The woman sliced her wrists and bled to death in her bed. It’s an open-and-shut case.’

The law in the state of California stipulated that suicides had to be initially treated as homicides; therefore, a homicide detective would have to attend the site and commence investigative procedures to rule out foul play. Once that was done, the investigation, as far as the LAPD Robbery Homicide Division was concerned, could be closed and archived. It would be the work of twenty-four to forty-eight hours.

‘Yeah,’ Wilson said, placing the piece of paper back on the captain’s desk. ‘I love open-and-shut cases, but suicides are a hell of a lot of paperwork, captain, and you know it. Paperwork that needs to be done and filed ASAP.’ He pointed to the main detectives’ floor. ‘I’ve got fourteen open homicide investigations sitting on my desk right now, captain. I’m up to my eyeballs in crap. I barely have time to take a piss, and you want me to throw one, maybe two days away because some rich bitch topped herself?’

‘Well, somebody’s got to do it.’

‘Give it to Perez,’ Wilson suggested. ‘He loves paperwork.’

‘Perez is in hospital. He took a bullet last week, remember?’ Captain Bolter shook his head. ‘Sorry, buddy. You’re it. I’ve got no one else.’

A knock came to the captain’s door.

‘Come in,’ the captain called out.

The door was pushed open by a young man in his mid-twenties, wearing a dark suit that looked rather uncomfortable on him. He was about six-feet tall with broad shoulders and a very powerful-looking physique. His youthful face had a certain serenity to it, the kind that suggested trustworthiness and determination. His eyes possessed a penetrating quality easily associated with self-confidence, but not the cocky kind.

‘And who the hell might you be?’ Captain Bolter asked, narrowing his eyes.

The young man stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and approached the captain’s desk. ‘My name is Robert Hunter, sir, I’m your new detective.’ He handed over several signed forms he had brought with him.

‘Wrong floor, kid,’ Wilson said, pointing at the door again. ‘This is the Robbery Homicide Division – the big boys. You’re probably looking for Commercial Crimes or Support. Both of those are two floors below.’

Hunter nodded. ‘Yes, I know, thank you, but I’m on the right floor, and in the right division.’

Wilson chuckled. ‘You’re joking right? You don’t even look old enough to shave.’

Hunter wasn’t surprised by Wilson’s skepticism. In average it took a LAPD officer at least six years of street-crime-fighting before he was allowed to put in a request for a detective’s position. If successful, it would then take a detective another four to five years, together with an impressive track record and a captain’s recommendation, before he’d even be considered for a position with the Robbery Homicide Division’s elite. And even then, very few were accepted into the RHD. The division was considered to be the top of the ladder when it came to being a LAPD Detective. Wilson had never heard of anyone younger than thirty-something reaching that position.

Hunter was also well aware of that fact. His main goal, once he’d joined the LAPD, was always to make Detective for the Robbery Homicide Division. Deep inside he had to admit that he was very proud of having scorched through the ranks at record speed.

Captain Bolter had forgotten all about the new detective who was supposed to be starting today. Some sort of prodigy kid with a PhD in Criminal Behavior Psychology, who, according to what the captain had been told, had turned down a position with the FBI to join the LAPD.

The captain quickly flipped through the forms. The young detective’s records sure looked impressive, and all the documentation seemed in order.

‘Is this for real, captain?’ Wilson asked, pointing at Hunter. ‘Baby-faced, pretty-boy, bible-salesman-looking kid-in-a-cheap-suit here is joining the division?’

Hunter frowned and looked at his suit. He liked that suit. It was his best suit. His only suit.

‘That’s what the paperwork says,’ the captain agreed, placing the forms down on his desk.

Hunter turned and faced Wilson. ‘Robert Hunter,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, detective . . .?’

Wilson ignored the newbie’s hand. ‘Yeah, I’m sure it is.’ He was still looking at Captain Bolter. ‘Damn, are we recruiting out of kindergarten now, captain? Is the department that despera . . .’ He paused, his eyes settling on the piece of paper he had placed on the captain’s desk just moments ago. ‘Problem solved,’ he said, shrugging at Captain Bolter and reaching for the note.

The captain hesitated for a split second and then shrugged back as if saying ‘why not?’.

Wilson turned towards Hunter. ‘I’m Detective Wilson, but you can call me “Sir”,’ he said, handing the note to Hunter. ‘Welcome to the Robbery Homicide Division, pretty boy. Enjoy your first easy case, because it will only get worse.’ He paused before reaching the door. ‘Oh, and do me a favor – get rid of that cheap suit, will you? You look like an idiot.’

Chapter 2

The apartment was on the twenty-eighth floor of a towering block in Cypress Park, a working-class neighborhood in Northeast Los Angeles.

Hunter exited the claustrophobic elevator and found himself at the end of a long corridor with brick walls, lined with doors on both sides – twenty-four in total. A strip of tube lights that ran down the center of the ceiling kept the hallway bright. The apartment he was looking for was number 2813, located about halfway down the corridor on the right-hand side. A uniformed officer was standing just outside the door. He looked bored. Hunter proudly flashed his new and shiny Detective’s badge at him and pushed the door open.

The first thing he noticed was that the safety chain hung from the door, its wall mounting dangling from the chain’s end. The doorframe had cracked and splintered where the four screws had once secured the metal mounting to the wood.

‘We had to kick it open,’ a senior police officer standing in the living room explained.

Hunter turned and looked at him.

‘I’m Officer Travis,’ the policeman said. ‘My partner and I were patrolling just a block from here when we received a call from Central Bureau’s dispatch to come knock on the victim’s door. Her mother, who is confined to a wheelchair, had been unable to get in touch with her for three days, which I know, isn’t that unusual, except for the fact that the daughter visited her mother every Monday without fail. Had done so for the past two years. According to the mother, if the daughter were going to be even a little late, she would always let her mother know in advance. If her car had broken down or something, she would’ve called. This afternoon the mother called the station worried sick. The daughter is bipolar, which can sometimes complicate things.’

Hunter’s eyebrows arched.

‘Anyway,’ Travis moved on. ‘We came by, knocked, but got no response. We called the building’s superintendent, who unlocked the door for us, but the safety chain was on, and there was this faint smell of putrid meat coming from somewhere inside. Obviously something was wrong. That was when we rammed the door and broke in. We found the daughter in the bedroom.’ He threw his thumb over his shoulder, pulling an ‘I’m sorry’ face.

‘Had she attempted suicide before?’ Hunter asked.

‘If she had, it wasn’t mentioned.’

Hunter nodded and allowed his eyes to circle the living room for an instant. It was spacious enough, decorated on a budget but with plenty of style. A black leatherette sofa, positioned at the edge of a fluffy black and red rug, faced a shiny black and white TV module. There was also a glass and chrome four-seater dinner table, a chest of drawers that matched the TV module, a stylish black console by the window, and a very elegant bookcase with no books, just decorative artifacts like vases, glass bowls and candle holders.

Crossing to the other side of the room, Hunter slipped on a couple of blue, plastic shoe-covers, a pair of latex gloves, a mouth and nose mask, and pushed the bedroom door open. Officer Travis followed him in.

The air inside the bedroom was hot, stuffy, and heavy with the sickening smell of dead flesh as it entered rotting stage.

Hunter’s attention was immediately drawn to the queen-size bed with its headboard pushed up against the north wall. Lying on the blood-soaked bed sheets was the naked body of a five-feet-six brunette woman. From the note Detective Wilson had handed him, Hunter knew that she was only thirty-three years old. Her name was Helen Webster, and she was a self-employed interior designer.

A Medical Examiner was standing by a dresser unit near the window, quietly speaking on his cellphone. He quickly terminated the call as he saw Hunter and the officer enter the room.

‘Are you from Homicide?’ he asked, looking a little dubious.

Hunter nodded and quickly introduced himself.

The doctor looked surprised but he refrained from asking the detective how old he was.

Hunter approached the bed, being careful to avoid the large pools of dried blood that had formed on the floor. The curtains on the window to the left of the bed were speckled with blood, and so were both bedside tables. Hunter noted the pattern, before his attention reverted back to the woman.

Blisters, caused by the release of gases from body tissues, had already started to form all over the woman’s body. Her skin had taken on a greenish-blue color, but body bloating was still in its very early stages. That, together with a few blowflies buzzing around the bed, told Hunter that she’d been dead for at least thirty-six hours. She was lying on her back. Her legs were close together and stretched out. Her arms were wide open, as if she was ready to hug a long-lost relative, but her wrists had both been cut horizontally. Two large and deep incisions that had clearly severed the main blood vessels in the forearms.

‘Rigor mortis has come and gone,’ the ME said. ‘From the state of the body I can tell you that she’s been dead for no less than thirty-six hours, and no longer than seventy-two. We’ll be able to get a better time frame after the autopsy.’

Hunter nodded, still studying the body. ‘What did she use on her wrists?’

‘This.’ The doctor showed Hunter a clear plastic evidence bag. Inside it was a blood-covered utility knife. ‘It was on the floor by the right side of the bed,’ the doctor clarified.

Hunter bent down to get a better look at the woman’s hands, wrists, and arms. ‘She’s been photographed, right?’ he asked. ‘Is it OK if I disturb the body a little, Doc?’

The doctor nodded before shrugging. ‘Suit yourself. My work here is pretty much done.’

Hunter used his index finger to clear some of the dried blood from the woman’s wrists, and took his time examining the cuts.

‘The incisions were deep and precise,’ the doctor offered. ‘Even before the autopsy I can tell you that they have severed both the radial and the ulnar arteries. Blood loss was intense and fast. Over fifty percent, I’d say.’ He indicated the pools of blood on the floor. ‘Which would have caused her to go into hypovolemic shock, leading to heart failure.’

‘Was there a suicide note?’ Hunter asked.

‘None that we have found,’ Officer Travis replied.

Hunter found that peculiar but carried on studying the woman’s hands and fingers.

‘Now,’ the doctor said, approaching the body. ‘Let me show you something interesting.’ From his coat pocket he produced a pen-sized Maglite and a small magnifying glass before using his thumb and index finger to pull open her eyelids. ‘Have a look,’ he said.

Hunter moved closer.

Travis followed.

Her corneas were cloudy and opaque, which was expected, but the eyes and their lids were dotted with tiny red specks.

Hunter frowned. ‘Petechiae?’

The doctor looked back at him, impressed. He wasn’t expecting a detective to recognize the condition he was looking at, especially such a young detective.

‘Pâté . . . what?’ Travis asked, trying to look over Hunter’s shoulders.

‘Petechiae,’ the doctor repeated. ‘They are tiny hemorrhages in blood vessels. They can occur anywhere in the body, and for a number of reasons, but when they occur on the eyes and eyelids like we have here, it is usually due to blockage of the respiratory system. In other words – suffocation.’

Hunter stood up again and started looking around the room.

‘What?’ The officer’s gaze moved from the doctor to Hunter, and then back to the ME. ‘But you just said that she died from severe loss of blood and heart failure. Are now you telling me she was strangled?’

‘Not to death,’ the doctor clarified. ‘She did die from blood loss from her wrist wounds, which led to heart failure, but this indicates that she suffered some sort of severe blockage of the respiratory system prior to death.’

Travis chewed on his bottom lip and looked at Hunter once again, who was now having a look inside a shoebox on the floor by the dresser unit.

‘So what are you saying?’ Travis asked with a slight headshake. ‘That she first tried strangling herself or something, gave up halfway through, and then went for “plan B” – slicing her wrists?’

‘No,’ Hunter replied, checking some drawers. ‘Someone else knocked her unconscious by suffocating or strangling her, before slicing her wrists and staging the suicide scene. This . . .’ He indicated the body on the bed. ‘Was a homicide.’

The officer’s eyes widened in disbelief. ‘A homicide? But the only way in or out of this apartment is through the front door.’ He threw his thumb over his shoulder again. ‘It was locked from the inside, remember? The safety chain was securely in place. We had to kick the door in. The windows in here don’t open due to safety regulations. This is the twenty-eighth floor, way too windy. If somebody killed her, how did he or she get out?’

‘That’s the part I still need to figure out,’ Hunter said.

Travis rolled his eyes. ‘Of course you do.’

Hunter could easily tell what Officer Travis was thinking: why did they have to send a rookie?

But Travis wasn’t finished yet. ‘And you are basing this homicide theory of yours simply on that pâté-whatever thing? Little blood dots on her eyes and eyelids due to oxygen restriction? Maybe it’s a sexual thing– erotic asphyxiation. Have you heard of it? Some people are into that. It’s supposed to heighten the ecstasy. Look, I’m sure that you would love to impress your captain, but I don’t think this is the case . . . sir.’ Travis put a lot of emphasis on that last word.

Hunter knew he didn’t have to explain himself to anyone in that room. He was the lead detective in the investigation, and that gave him the right to call the shots as he saw fit, but since this was his first ever investigation as a RHD Detective he decided, just for the sake of clarity, to better explain his reasons.

‘You said that there was no suicide note, right?’ he said.

‘That’s right,’ Travis confirmed.

‘Well, that’s problem number one – in ninety-nine percent of suicide cases, there’s a note. It follows an overwhelming feeling of guilt that comes with every suicide act. Victims will, inevitably, feel the need to explain their decision to go down such a drastic road. That note is their last ever statement in this world and, believe me, they all want to make it, even if it’s only an ‘I love you mom, and I’m sorry’ line. You said that the victim visited her wheelchair-bound mother every Monday. Had done so for the past two years. Trust me, she would’ve at least wanted her mother to know the reason why she decided to end her life.’

Travis stayed silent, considering Hunter’s words.

‘Problem number two is her fingernails and toenails,’ Hunter said.

Both the officer and the Medical Examiner’s gaze moved to the victim’s hands and feet.

‘What about them?’ Travis asked after a couple of seconds.

‘They’ve been recently manicured . . . professionally,’ Hunter said, still looking around the room. ‘Probably no more than three or four days ago. If she was depressed enough to consider suicide, I don’t think she would bother grooming herself for it . . . or buying a new pair of shoes, do you?’ He pointed to the shoebox by the dresser.

The officer and the doctor’s gaze shifted again.

‘There’s a receipt in the box. She bought them three days ago.’

Silence.

‘Now,’ Hunter turned and faced Officer Travis. ‘I need you and your partner to do a door-to-door on this floor. Get statements from everyone. Check if any of the neighbors were friendly with the victim, if anybody saw or heard anything . . . you know how it goes. Also, get the building’s superintendent up here again.’

Travis scratched his chin, nodded, and left the apartment.

‘You will still have to explain how the perp managed to escape through a locked and safety-chained door,’ the Medical Examiner said, looking intrigued now.

‘I know,’ Hunter replied, reaching for his cellphone and requesting a forensics team to come to the scene. Maybe they could help.

Because of the skin discoloration, the blisters, and the initial rotting state of the body, Hunter knew that there was no way the Medical Examiner could tell if the victim had been sexually assaulted without the proper examination and a lab swab test. For now, that would have to wait.

Hunter returned to the living room to re-examine the door and the safety-chain lock. There was no gimmick. The chain and the wall mounting were made of strong metal, and the chain was still securely locked in place. The door’s regular key lock hadn’t been tampered with, neither had the door hinges, which were tarnished with age. Somebody had really locked that door from the inside.

Time to look around.

Chapter 3

Hunter started searching through drawers and cupboards in the living room. The first thing he found were bank statements. They revealed that Helen Webster made a decent living from her Interior Designer business, and paid all her bills on time. She had been renting the apartment she lived in for two and a half years. Nothing indicated that she had ever fallen behind with any payments, but Hunter would check it with her landlord later. The finance on her five-year-old VW Golf had been paid off just a few months ago. Hunter later confirmed that the car was parked downstairs, and that it hadn’t been broken into. Helen only had one credit card. The latest statement showed a balance of $15.48 for a Chinese take-out five days ago. In short, Helen Webster didn’t seem to be burden by financial problems.

In a different drawer Hunter found a Valentine’s card with a simple message – To my beautiful girlfriend. With lots of love. Can’t wait to be in bed with you tonight.

Charming, Hunter thought.

The card was signed by someone called Jake. Valentine’s Day had been three and a half weeks ago.

The answering machine on the TV module had fifteen messages. Nine were from her mother. Her messages escalated from a little concerned to panicking. Three were from possible clients requesting a callback, and perhaps a meeting. One was from a friend named Mary, asking Helen if she was in the mood for a drink that night. One was from a different and clearly unhappy client wondering what had happened, as it sounded like Helen Webster had missed their meeting two days ago and hadn’t bothered calling to cancel or reschedule. The last message came from a holiday telesales team.

Hm . . . Hunter thought. Nothing from the boyfriend.

Hunter found Helen’s handbag on the corner, by her leatherette sofa. Inside it he found her car keys, her wallet, her driving license, a makeup bag, and her cellphone. The battery was on its last legs, but it still had some juice. There were several missed calls, mostly her mother’s, but again, not a single call from the boyfriend. Hunter checked the phone’s address book, where he found an entry for Jake Goubeaux. There was no address.

Next, Hunter opened the phone’s call log. Jake Goubeaux had called forty-nine times in the past two weeks, but funnily enough, he hadn’t called her once in the past three days. This was getting interesting. Hunter called the Operations office back at the RHD, requesting a file on Mr. Goubeaux.

Hunter moved on to the text messages – again, several from her mother, one from her friend, Mary, and one from a different friend, this one named Claudia.

No text messages from Jake Goubeaux.

On the black console by the window, Hunter found several photoframes neatly arranged. Many of the photographs showed Helen Webster with her mother, prior and post wheelchair. Helen had been a very attractive woman, with almost perfect skin, a petite nose and mouth, high cheekbones, a slim figure, and shiny raven-black hair that fell just past her shapely shoulders. The hazel eyes and the charming smile she had clearly inherited from her mother.

The other photographs showed Helen smiling, dancing, and having a good time with friends, all of them women.

Once again, no boyfriend.

Hunter paused and rubbed his eyes. Though a theory was starting to form in his head, he was also a little worried. Was he reading too much into this? Was it because, deep inside, he wanted his first ever case as a LAPD Robbery Homicide Division detective to be more than just an open-and-shut suicide case? Was Officer Travis right? Did he just want to impress his new captain?

Hunter thought about for a moment.

No, that wasn’t what his gut feeling was telling him – there was more than just an open-and-shut suicide case here – he could sense it. And Hunter had always been able to trust his gut.

But he could be reading this all back to front, and he knew it. What if Helen had been the one madly in love with Jake Goubeaux, and for some reason he had decided to break it off? What if he had told her that he was in love with someone else? That could’ve easily triggered a severe bipolar episode and in a rash moment she could have decided to kill herself. That possibility was still alive.

‘Study the scene,’ Hunter told himself. ‘Go with what it tells you.’

Hunter wasn’t ready to bring Mr. Goubeaux in for questioning just yet. The apartment could still reveal more, and so could the forensics team, once they finally got there. Also, Hunter wanted to check if the door-to-door, or the file he’d requested on Jake Goubeaux would return any valuable information. For now, the best he could do was to continue searching the apartment.

Still in the living room, he paused in front of the TV module again. Something didn’t seem right. The symmetry was wrong.

Frown.

Chin scratch.

Frown again.

The mini stereo system.

That was it.

One of its speakers was missing.

Hunter checked the cables at the back of the stereo. The speaker cable was still connected to the receiver.

‘Strange,’ Hunter said to himself, but left it at that, returning to the bedroom.

Helen had been a very organized woman. All her drawers and cupboards were impeccably stacked. Every item of clothing had been folded and placed in its designated location. Nothing looked to have been disturbed. The same could be said for the en-suite bathroom.

Her wardrobe held an ample variety of blouses, trousers, jeans, jackets, shoes, belts and handbags. Again, all neatly arranged in their specific places, except for a black silk blouse that had slipped off its hanger and fallen on top of some shoes.

Hunter closed the wardrobe door and turned to face the bed again.

Everything about that scene was wrong. Helen Webster was positioned with her legs fully extended and her arms wide open, in a human-crucifix shape. That would mean that she had sliced her wrists, lay perfectly still on the bed, and simply waited for death. One would need tremendous willpower to do something like that.

Also, suicide by slitting the wrists and bleeding out didn’t bring instant death. Many who attempted it, if they hadn’t numbed themselves with sleeping pills and alcohol first, ended up changing, or trying to change their minds once they saw and felt the blood fleeing their veins. There would usually be a lot of twitching and arm movement, which would create a very messy scene. Hunter had studied the photographs and attended enough wrist-slitting suicide scenes to know that. The scene in that room was messy, no question about it, but in the wrong way. Helen’s body was clear of blood. All the blood had pooled on the floor, or soaked into the bed sheets. That indicated that she hadn’t moved her arms at all once she had cut her wrists open.

The second problem with her body being so clean of blood was – as the doctor had said – the cut to both wrists had been deep enough to slice through both the radial and the ulnar arteries. That meant that, at first, blood would have squirted out of her wrists like a water gun. Since the mess of blood concentrated solely on and around the bed, Hunter knew that if he was really looking at a suicide scene, there were only two possible scenarios. One: Helen had cut her wrists while lying down on the bed. If that had been the case, her arms wouldn’t have been extended out in a human-crucifix shape at first. It was way too awkward a position for her to be able to achieve such precise cuts. She would have them close to her body, probably over her chest, with the wrists turned towards her. She should’ve been covered in blood. Two: Helen had cut her wrists in a standing or sitting position before sprawling herself on the bed. In that case, blood would’ve squirted up, hitting her face, hair, and torso. A blood-free body made no sense.

No, there was no doubt in Hunter’s mind. That suicide scene was all wrong.

‘Where the hell is my forensics team?’ he said to himself.

In the kitchen, Hunter checked the fridge. Nothing had gone bad. The sell-by-date on the milk carton was still valid. The apples and pears in the fruit bowl on the small kitchen table still looked fresh. There were a few dishes on the dish rack, and an open pack of cookies on the kitchen counter.

In a cupboard he also found several bottles of spirits, including an unopened bottle of Dalwhinnie 1973 29 Year Old single malt Scotch whisky. That made Hunter pause. Not because there was anything peculiar about it, but because he’d given his father an identical bottle for Christmas just a few years back – their last ever Christmas together. Hunter’s father had a passion for single malt Scotch whisky. A passion that, frankly, Hunter had never understood. He found whisky, any type of whisky, way too overwhelming for his palate.

Pushing the memories away, he pressed the pedal on the large chromed garbage can by the fridge, looked inside, and frowned.

At least the mystery of the missing stereo speaker was solved.

Hunter reached for it, or what was left of it. The small wood-encased box had been completely pulled apart. The tiny tweeter speaker was intact, but the subwoofer had been smashed to pieces, as if somebody had had a big beef with it.

‘What the hell?’ Hunter murmured, looking at it from all sides.

His cellphone rang in his pocket.

Hunter dropped the speaker pieces back into the garbage can before answering it.

‘Robbery Homicide Detective Robert Hunter,’ he said proudly.

‘What the hell are you doing, rookie?’