Текст книги "The Night Stalker"

Автор книги: Chris (2) Carter

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Forty-Nine

‘OK,’ Captain Blake said closing the door to Hunter and Garcia’s office just minutes after getting back to Parker Center. ‘What the hell is going on? I can almost get my head around a psycho being obsessed with painters. Both of them brunettes. Both of them somewhere in their thirties. Both of them attractive. In this city, that kind of obsession is normal crazy. But this thing about placing something inside the victims . . . something as absurd as a bomb, or as . . .’ she shook her head as words escaped her ‘ . . . fucked up as a fan-out knife, and then stitching their bodies shut, that’s completely dancing-around-the-room-naked-smothered-in-peanut-butter crazy.’ She looked at Hunter. ‘But this isn’t what we’re dealing with here, is it? This guy isn’t insane. He’s not hearing the devil’s voice in his head or drinking his own piss, is he?’

Hunter shook his head slowly. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘An obsessed stalker going after his idols, then?’

Hunter tilted his head from side to side. ‘First impressions . . . maybe, but if you look closely at the evidence, it goes against the possibility of an obsessed fan being behind these murders.’

‘How so? What evidence are you talking about?’

‘The lack of bruising.’

Captain Blake’s brow furrowed so hard, her eyebrows almost met.

‘Two victims,’ Hunter indicated with his fingers. ‘Both kidnapped and held hostage for around two weeks. You remember what Doctor Hove said, right? That if we take away the savagery of the stitches and the way in which they died, they were both untouched. Not a scratch. The killer didn’t lay a finger on them while they were in captivity.’

‘OK,’ the captain agreed. ‘And how does that relate to the obsessed fan theory?’

‘Obsessed fans spend a lot of time creating fantasies in their heads about their idols, Captain,’ Hunter explained. ‘That’s why they become obsessed in the first place. Most of these fantasies are sexual, some are violent, but none is about kidnapping their idols so they could chat for weeks over hot milk and donuts. If this guy were a fan obsessed enough to kidnap, chances are he wouldn’t be able to resist acting out at least one of his fantasies. Especially if he was prepared to kill them anyway. And if he did that, there would’ve been some sort of bruising somewhere on their bodies.’

Captain Blake looked pensive. They’d never be able to obtain confirmation that either of the victims had been raped. But Hunter was right; the lack of bruising on both of their bodies suggested that wasn’t what this killer was after. An obsessed fan was starting to sound improbable.

‘So who the hell could be capable of something like this?’ she asked. ‘A split personality job?’

‘Again, possible, but with what we have so far it’s hard to say.’

‘Why?’ she challenged. ‘You said so yourself, the killer went from passive to absurdly violent in one quick step. Isn’t that an indication of extreme mood swings? A drastic change in personality?’

Hunter nodded. ‘Yes, but the way he carries out his violence contradicts the theory.’

‘How’s that?’

‘The time and preparation behind both murders was too extensive.’

‘Slow down, big brain, I ain’t following you,’ she countered.

Hunter continued. ‘Mood swings and extreme personality changes have to be triggered, usually by a very strong emotion – like rage, or love, or jealousy. They don’t simply occur out of the blue. The new mood, or personality, takes over and stays for a while, but as soon as that rage, or whatever emotion it was that triggered it is gone, so is the personality. The person goes straight back to his or her normal self.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Like waking up from a trance. How long do you think this trance can last, Captain?’

She started to catch on. ‘Not long enough.’

‘Not long enough,’ Hunter agreed. ‘The killer crafted a bomb and that knife from hell himself, not to mention the unique self-activating trigger mechanism. He also took time preparing the location where the victims were left, and then calmly sewed their body parts shut. All that takes a lot of time. Both preparing and executing it.’

‘And that would mean that the killer would’ve had to have been in an altered state of mind for days, maybe weeks,’ Garcia added. ‘Highly unlikely.’

Hunter nodded. ‘And then there’s also the current accepted opinion of modern psychology that Multiple Personality Syndrome doesn’t really exist. It’s a therapist-induced disorder perpetuated by a never-ending barrage of TV talk shows, novels and ill-conceived Hollywood movies.’

‘What?’

‘Basically, modern psychology believes that Multiple Personality Syndrome is complete bullshit.’

Captain Blake leaned against Hunter’s desk and undid both buttons on her suit jacket. ‘So we’re dealing with someone who knows exactly what he’s doing?’

‘I’d say so, yes.’

‘His creativity is proof of that,’ Garcia added.

Hunter nodded. ‘He’s also patient and self-disciplined, a rare virtue nowadays, even in the calmest of individuals. Add that to the level of craftsmanship he’s showed so far, and it wouldn’t surprise me if he were a watchmaker or even an artist himself. Maybe some sort of sculptor or something.’

The captain’s eyes widened. ‘Like a failed sculptor? Someone who was never as successful as his victims? You think this could be payback?’

Hunter shifted his weight to his left foot. ‘No. I don’t think this is born out of revenge.’

‘How can you be sure? Envy is a powerful emotion.’

‘If the killer is a failed artist after revenge because he never made it big, he wouldn’t target other artists. It’d make no sense. They wouldn’t be the reason he never made it.’

Garcia bit his bottom lip and bobbed his head in agreement. ‘The revenge would’ve been against agents, or gallery curators, or art critics and journalists, or all of the above. People who can make or break an artist’s career, not fellow artists.’

Hunter nodded. ‘Also Laura Mitchell and Kelly Jensen’s resemblance to each other isn’t just a coincidence, Captain. His victims mean more to him than just a vehicle for revenge.’

‘The killer also used the same MO, but inserted a different killing device into each of his victims,’ Garcia added. ‘I don’t think that was random. I think there’s a meaning behind it.’

‘What?’ Captain Blake asked. A speck of irritation crept into her tone as she crossed to the window. ‘What kind of relation could a bomb and a knife that didn’t even exist on this earth until a few days ago have with two painters?’

No one replied. The silence that followed held a different meaning for each of them.

‘So this new victim fucks up our lead on the James Smith guy, right?’ the captain blurted. ‘Everything we found in his apartment was about Laura Mitchell, not Kelly Jensen.’

‘Maybe not,’ Garcia argued. He started fidgeting with a paper clip.

‘And how’s that?’

‘Maybe he’s got another room somewhere else. Another apartment maybe,’ Garcia offered.

‘What?’ Captain Blake glared at him.

‘Maybe he’s that smart, Captain. He knows that with two victims, if he gets caught and only one of the rooms is found, he has a good chance of walking.’ He placed the paper clip, now bent out of shape, down on his desk. ‘As we already know, he adopted the name James Smith because he knew if anything happened, his name alone would hide him under a mist of people.’ He showed the captain his right index finger. ‘He pays his rent up front.’ Now the middle finger. ‘He pays his bills up front. If he is our guy, we know for sure he’s got at least one more place somewhere else: the place where he keeps his victims, ’cause we know he didn’t keep them in that apartment. If that’s the case, he could easily have another rented apartment somewhere else. Maybe under a complete different name. That’s why we can’t find him.’

Captain Blake leaned against the windowsill. ‘It’s an unlikely possibility.’

Garcia cracked his knuckles. ‘It’s also unlikely that anyone would create his own bomb, his own crazy knife, his own trigger mechanism and place it inside a victim before stitching her body shut.’ He paused for effect. ‘C’mon, Captain, the evidence says this guy is everything but predictable. He’s smart, very slick and very patient. Would it really surprise you if he did have another collage room somewhere else? It gives him deniability.’

‘Garcia is right, Captain,’ Hunter said, sitting at the edge of his desk. ‘We can’t discard James Smith simply because the room we found didn’t have anything about Kelly Jensen.’

‘And has he been sighted anywhere yet? Have the phone lines produced any useful tips?’

‘Not yet.’

‘That’s just great, isn’t it?’ She pointed to the street outside. ‘Over four million people in this city and no one seems to know who this James Smith really is. The guy has simply vanished.’ She crossed to the door and opened it. ‘We’re chasing a fucking ghost.’

Fifty

When Hunter got back to his office, he found an email from Mike Brindle in Forensics – the lab results from the fibers found on the wall behind the large canvas in Laura Mitchell’s apartment were in. They had been right in their assumption. The fibers had come from a common wool skullcap. That meant that whoever had hid behind that canvas was somewhere between six foot and six four.

The results for the faint footprints were also in, but because they were set on house dust, and therefore smudged, they weren’t 100 per cent accurate. The conclusion was that they’d probably come from size eleven or twelve shoes, which was consistent with the height theory. The interesting fact was that they had found no sole marks. No trademark imprints, or grooves, or anything. A completely flat sole. Mike Brindle’s take on it was that whoever had waited in Laura’s apartment had used some sort of shoe cover. Probably handmade. Probably soft rubber or even synthetic foam. That would have no doubt also muffled the perpetrator’s footsteps.

After analyzing the entire studio floor for any more size eleven or twelve foot imprints, Brindle arrived at the same conclusion as Hunter and Garcia had. After hiding behind the large canvas resting against the back wall, Laura Mitchell’s attacker had somehow diverted her attention and very quickly gotten to her with a strong sedative, probably an intravenous one.

‘I’ve got the personal info on Kelly Jensen from research,’ Garcia said as he walked through the door, carrying a green plastic folder.

‘What do we have?’ Hunter asked looking up from his computer.

Garcia took a seat behind his desk and flipped open the folder. ‘OK, Kelly Jensen, born in Great Falls, Montana, thirty years ago. Her parents haven’t been notified yet.’

Hunter nodded.

Garcia continued. ‘She started painting in high school . . . At the age of twenty, against her parents’ wishes, she relocated here to Los Angeles . . . She spent several years struggling and being rejected by every agent and art gallery in the business . . . blah, blah, blah, your typical LA story, except she was a painter, not an actress.’

‘How did she get noticed?’ Hunter asked.

‘She used to sell her work on the oceanfront – a street stall. Got noticed by none other than Julie Glenn, New York’s top art critic. A week later, Kelly got an art agent, a guy called Lucas Laurent. He was the one who reported her as missing.’ He paused and stretched his arms high above his head. ‘Kelly’s career took off quickly after that. Julie Glenn wrote a piece about her in the New York Times, and within a month, the canvases Kelly couldn’t give away at the beach were selling for thousands.’

Hunter checked his watch before grabbing his jacket. ‘OK, let’s go.’

‘Where?’

‘To see the person who reported her missing.’

Fifty-One

The traffic was like a religious procession and it took Garcia almost two hours to cover the twenty-three miles between Parker Center and Long Beach.

Lucas Laurent, Kelly Jensen’s agent, had his office on the fifth floor of number 246 East Broadway Street.

Laurent was in his thirties, with olive skin, dark brown eyes and neatly cut hair that was starting to gray. The wrinkles that already surrounded his lips came from heavy smoking, Hunter guessed. His navy blue suit was well fitting, but his tie was a masterpiece of bad taste. A Picasso-style monstrosity of chunky color pieces that only someone with enormous amounts of confidence could wear. And confidence Laurent certainly had – the quiet kind that came with wealth and success.

He stood up from behind his twin pedestal desk and greeted Hunter and Garcia by the door. His handshake was as firm as a businessman’s ready to close a large deal.

‘Joan told me you’re detectives with the LAPD?’ he said as he eyed Hunter. ‘I hope you’re not actually artists and this was just a trick to get you into my office without an appointment.’ He smiled and deep crinkles appeared at the edges of his eyes. ‘But if it was, it certainly shows you’ve both got creativity and ambition.’

‘Unfortunately, we’re the real thing,’ Hunter said, showing Laurent his credentials. The agent’s smile faded fast. Only then did he remember he’d reported Kelly as missing a couple of weeks ago.

Hunter told him only what he needed to know and watched as the color vanished from his face. Laurent slumped back in his chair, his eyes catatonically looking through Hunter.

‘But that’s just ludicrous . . . murdered? By whom? And why? Kelly was an artist, not a drug dealer.’

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’

‘But she had an exhibition scheduled in Paris in less than two months’ time . . . it could have made us close to a million.’

Hunter and Garcia exchanged a quick, concerned glance. Strange time to be thinking about money.

Laurent ruffled inside his desk’s top drawer for a pack of cigarettes. ‘I don’t usually smoke in my office,’ he explained, ‘but I really need this. Do you mind?’

Both detectives shrugged.

Laurent brought a cigarette to his lips, lit it up with a shaking hand and took a drag as if his life depended on it.

Hunter and Garcia sat in the two salmon-colored armchairs in front of Laurent’s desk and began asking him about his relationship with Kelly and his knowledge of her personal life. From Laurent’s answers, just like from his comment about making millions a moment ago, they quickly gathered that Laurent’s relationship with Kelly had been 99 per cent business.

‘Did you have a set of keys to her apartment?’ Garcia asked.

‘God, no.’ Laurent had one last drag of his cigarette, walked over to the window and stubbed it out on the ledge before flicking the butt onto the street below. ‘Kelly didn’t like having people in her apartment or her studio. She wouldn’t even allow me to see any of her pieces until they were completely finished, and even then I almost had to beg her to show them to me. Artists are very self-centered and eccentric people.’

‘Her apartment is in Santa Monica and her art studio in Culver City, is that right?’ Garcia asked.

Laurent nodded nervously.

‘Am I right in thinking you and Miss Jensen attended some social engagements together? Dinners . . . receptions . . . exhibitions . . . awards, things like that?’

‘Yes, quite a few over the three years I’ve been representing her.’

‘Have you ever met anyone she was seeing? Has she ever taken a date to any of these engagements?’

‘Kelly?’ He laughed tensely. ‘I couldn’t think of anything that’d be farther from her thoughts than a relationship. She was stunning. She had men throwing themselves at her, but she just didn’t wanna know.’

‘Really?’ Hunter said. ‘Is there a reason why?’

Laurent shrugged. ‘I never asked, but I know she was really hurt by someone she was in love with a few years ago. The kind of hurt that never goes away. The kind of hurt that makes you wary of every relationship you have from that day on. You know what I mean?’

‘Do you know if she had casual relationships?’ Garcia asked.

Another shrug. ‘Probably, as I said, she was stunning; but I never met anyone she was dating. She never mentioned anyone either.’

‘Did she ever mention anything about emails? Something that’d scared or upset her lately?’ Hunter took over.

Laurent frowned, taking a few seconds to remember. ‘Nothing in particular. I’m not sure about any of them being scary or upsetting, but I’m sure she got a few strange ones from infatuated fans. It happens more than you think. I just tell all my artists to disregard them.’

‘Disregard them?’

‘Fans come with fame, Detective; it’s a package deal that you can’t opt out of. And unfortunately some of them are just plain weird, but they usually mean no harm. All the artists I represent get them every now and then.’ His eyes moved back to the pack of cigarettes on his desk and he quickly debated if he should have another one. He started fidgeting with a black-and-gold Mont Blanc pen instead. ‘I’ve been Kelly’s agent for three years, and in that time I’ve never seen her unhappy, or worried. She always had a smile on her face, as if it were tattooed to her lips. I really can’t remember ever seeing Kelly unhappy.’

‘When did you last speak to Miss Jensen?’ Garcia asked.

‘We were supposed to meet up for lunch on the . . .’ he flipped open a leather-bound diary on his desk and quickly leafed through it, ‘ . . . the 25th February, to discuss Kelly’s upcoming exhibition in Paris. Kelly had been very excited about that particular trip for months, but she never turned up for the meeting, and she never called to cancel either. When I tried getting hold of her, all I got was her answering service. Two days later I gave up trying and contacted the police.’

‘Was she involved with drugs, gambling, anything of the bad sort you know of?’ Garcia asked this time.

Laurent’s eyes widened for an instant. ‘God, no. At least not that I know of. She barely drank. Kelly was your typical good girl.’

‘Financial difficulties?’

‘Not with the kinda money she was making. Every one of her paintings sells for thousands. Probably more now.’

Hunter wondered if he threw a hundred bucks out the window, would Laurent jump after it?

Before leaving, Hunter paused by the door to the office and turned to face Laurent again. ‘Do you know if Miss Jensen was friends with another LA painter – Laura Mitchell?’

Laurent looked at him curiously before shaking his head. ‘Laura Mitchell? I’m not sure. Their styles are very different.’

Hunter turned to look back at him curiously.

‘Believe it or not,’ Laurent clarified, ‘many painters are funny in that way. Some won’t mix with different style artists.’ He pouted reflexively. ‘Some won’t mix with other artists at all. Why do you ask?’

‘Just wondering.’ Hunter handed Laurent a card. ‘If you think of anything else, please don’t—’

‘Wait!’ Laurent cut him short. ‘Laura Mitchell and Kelly did meet. It was a few years ago. I’d forgotten all about that. Right at the start of Kelly’s career. I had just started representing her. She was interviewed for a cable TV documentary. Something about the new wave of American artists from the West Coast, or something along those lines. Several artists took part in it. I think it was all filmed at the . . .’ his eyes moved to a blank spot on the wall ‘ . . . Getty Museum or maybe at the Moca, I can’t be sure. But I’m in no doubt Laura Mitchell was one of the artists who was there that day.’

Fifty-Two

Night had already darkened the sky by the time Hunter and Garcia got back to Parker Center. They both felt exhausted.

‘Go home, Carlos,’ Hunter said rubbing his eyes. ‘Spend the night with Anna. Take her out for dinner or a movie or something. There ain’t much we can do now but review information, and our brains are both too fried to process anything at this time.’

Garcia knew Hunter was right. And Anna would really appreciate having her husband for an entire night. He reached for his jacket.

‘Aren’t you coming?’ he asked as Hunter turned his computer on.

‘Five minutes,’ Hunter replied with a nod. ‘Just gonna check something on the net.’

It took Hunter a lot longer than he expected to find any references to the documentary Kelly Jensen’s agent had mentioned. It was a low budget production by the Arts and Entertainment cable TV Channel called Canvas Beauty, The Upcoming Talents from the West Coast. It had only aired once, three years ago. He called the A & E TV network office in LA, but at that time of night, there was no one there who could assist him. He’d have to contact them again in the morning.

Hunter didn’t go straight home after he left his office. His mind was too full of thoughts for him to try to brave the solitude of his apartment.

If the killer was really forcing his victims to kill themselves by impact-activating a trigger mechanism, then they were right about Laura Mitchell, the first victim. She wasn’t supposed to have died on that butcher’s counter. She was supposed to have jumped down from it. The bomb was supposed to have gone off inside her. But the trigger was never activated. She died from suffocation. Her mother had told Hunter about the choking seizures Laura used to suffer when young. Possibly some psychological condition that had ceased to manifest itself after she started painting. Hunter knew that such conditions could easily be shocked back to life by a traumatic experience, like severe panic. The kind of panic she would have experienced in that dark back room, alone, with her mouth and body stitched shut.

Hunter drove around aimlessly for a while before ending up at the oceanfront on Santa Monica Beach.

He liked watching the sea at night. The sound of waves breaking against the sand together with the quietness calmed him. It reminded him of his parents and of when he was a little kid.

His father used to work seventy-hour weeks, jumping between two awfully paid jobs. His mother would take any work that came her way – cleaning, ironing, washing, anything. Hunter couldn’t remember a weekend when his father wasn’t working, and even then they struggled to pay all their bills. But Hunter’s parents never complained. They simply played the cards they were dealt. And no matter how bad a hand they got, they always did it with a smile on their faces.

Every Sunday, after Hunter’s father got home from work, they used to go down to the beach. Most times they got there as everyone else was packing up and getting ready to leave. Sometimes the sun had already set. But Hunter didn’t mind. In fact, he preferred it. It was like the whole beach belonged to him and his parents. After Hunter’s mother passed away, his father never stopped taking him to the beach on Sundays. Sometimes, Hunter would catch his father wiping away tears as he watched the waves break.

There were tourists everywhere, especially down Third Street Promenade and in the many beach bars that lined the oceanfront. A boy sped past him in rollerblades, quickly followed by a younger girl, clearly struggling with her technique.

‘Slow down, Tim,’ she called after the boy pleadingly. He didn’t even look back.

Hunter sat on the sand for a while, watching the waves and breathing in the sea breeze. He spotted a group of night surfers in the distance. Five in total, two of them female. They seemed to be having a great time. A boy was practicing his soccer juggling skills close to the water. He was good, Hunter had to admit. A couple holding hands walked past in silence and both nodded a cordial hello at Hunter, who returned the gesture. He watched them walk away, and for a moment he lost himself in a memory. Something few people ever knew about him – he’d been in love once, long ago.

Unconsciously his lips spread into a melancholic smile. As the memory developed, the smile faded and an empty pit took hold of his stomach. A lonely tear threatened to form at the corner of his eye. But the memory was interrupted by his cell phone ringing in his pocket. The display window read – unknown number.

‘Detective Hunter.’

‘Wassup, dawg?’ D-King said in his chilled-out lilt. Loud hip-hop music was playing in the background.

‘Not much,’ Hunter replied.

D-King wasn’t one for beating around the bush. ‘Sorry, dawg, there’s no word on the street, you know what I’m saying. The Chicanos, the Jamaicans, the Russians, the Chinese, the Italians, whoever . . . no one knows anything about no girl getting a stitch job. She wasn’t a gang hit, at least not a known gang.’

‘Yeah, I figured that out since we last talked.’

‘Did you find out who she was?’

‘Yeah.’

D-King waited, but Hunter didn’t follow up.

‘Let me guess, she wasn’t a working girl.’

‘That’s right.’

‘I told you, dawg. I would’ve known if she was.’ There was a hesitant pause. ‘Listen, I gotta go, but I’ll keep asking around. If I hear anything, I’ll give you a holler.’

He disconnected, brushed his hands against each other, clearing off the sand before grabbing his jacket and walking back to his car. The throng of people around the bars was starting to die down, and for a moment Hunter considered going inside. He could do with a shot of single malt . . . or five. Maybe that would completely clear his mind.

A woman sitting at one of the many outside tables laughed loudly, catching Hunter’s attention. She was attractive with short brunette hair and a magnificent smile. Their eyes met for a brief instant and he remembered that Kelly Jensen’s apartment was in Santa Monica. Her art studio wasn’t far either. Culver City was practically the next neighborhood.

The file Hunter had got from Missing Persons said that the investigating officer had visited both locations without any major breakthroughs. The suspicion was that Kelly had been abducted from her home address as she parked her car and made her way into her apartment building. There were no witnesses and no CCTV camera footage.

Hunter checked his watch. He and Garcia had planned on checking out both places tomorrow, but what the hell. He was already there, and there was no way he’d be getting any sleep anytime soon.