Текст книги "The Night Stalker"

Автор книги: Chris (2) Carter

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Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Ninety-Four

Garcia stood across the room from the unmade bed, staring at the mess of clothes and objects on the floor.

Mark Stratton, Jessica Black’s boyfriend, had cut short his band’s pre-tour and come back to LA in the early hours of the morning. Garcia accompanied him to the morgue so he could positively identify her body.

No matter how physically or mentally strong anyone is, seeing a loved one lying naked on a cold metal morgue’s body-tray will cut through their defenses. Despite all the stitches having been removed, Jessica’s face seemed to have frozen with an expression of terror and pain. Mark didn’t have to ask if she’d suffered.

His legs gave away within seconds of him being in the room, but Garcia managed to grab him before he hit the floor.

Hunter had told Mark over the phone that there was a possibility that Jessica had been abducted from inside their own apartment. He explained that it was very important that the police and a forensic team had a look at it as soon as possible. It was also very important that he didn’t disturb anything. It didn’t quite work that way.

Since Mark had come off the phone to Hunter late yesterday, he hadn’t stopped shaking. He had incessantly called his home number and Jessica’s cell phone, leaving message after message. He just couldn’t think straight. Emotions took over and he had lost it, destroying his hotel room in anger and frustration.

Without knowing what had happened, the rest of his band had to kick his door in and hold him down. It took the tour manager a couple of hours to get things organized, including a flight back to LA. By then Mark was tramp-drunk, and at the airport he wasn’t allowed to board the plane.

‘Aviation rules,’ explained the young woman at the airline counter. ‘He’s way too inebriated to fly. I’m sorry.’

That had been the last daily flight back to Los Angeles. In the end, they had to hire a private plane to take him back.

After a cab dropped him by his private condo, Mark, still half-drunk, stumbled rather than walked through his front door. At that moment all hope of things not being disturbed inside his apartment was lost. He didn’t stop calling Jessica’s name for hours, walking from room to room, turning lights on and off as if she would suddenly magically appear. He opened her wardrobe and rummaged through her clothes. He emptied drawers and cupboards. He lay down on their bed, hugged her pillow and cried until he had no more tears left.

Mark was now sitting quietly in his kitchen, his eyes bloodshot and sore.

Garcia picked up a photo frame from the bedroom floor – Jessica and Mark holidaying somewhere sunny. They looked happy and in love.

He returned the frame to the dresser, turned to face the unmade bed once again and considered what to do. They couldn’t cordon off Mark and Jessica’s apartment because it wasn’t an official crime scene. The chances of him getting a Forensics team dispatched to the apartment before confirming Jessica had been abducted from there were less than slim. The chances of that Forensics team finding any sort of clue in a scene that had been compromised and completely messed with were virtually none.

Garcia walked out of the room, down the long corridor and into the living room. On the stylish glass table that sat between the sofa and the wall-mounted TV set, he found several music magazines. The top one had Jessica on its cover. Out of pure curiosity he flipped it open and looked for the article. It was a two-page interview through which she talked about being a successful musician and her life in general, but one subheader caught his attention – On Love. Garcia allowed his eyes to skim through the section, but just a few lines in he paused. A chill ran down his spine as if he’d been suddenly hit by an arctic wind. He read the lines again just to be sure.

‘No fucking way.’ He grabbed the magazine and rushed back to his office.

Ninety-Five

Hunter left Chief Cooper’s house by Lake Sonoma just before lunchtime, but he wasn’t ready to fly back to LA just yet. His mind was batting thoughts back and forth and he needed to organize them before moving on. He remembered driving past the city library on the way to the chief’s house. He decided to start there.

The building was a single-story structure that couldn’t even be compared to some of LA’s high-school libraries. Hunter parked in the adjacent lot, pulled the collar of his jacket tight against his neck and dashed to the entrance. The rain that had started earlier was still coming down.

The woman at the information desk lifted her eyes from her computer screen and smiled sympathetically as Hunter came through the door.

‘I guess you forgot your umbrella, huh?’

Hunter brushed the water off his hair and sleeves before smiling back. ‘I wasn’t expecting the heavens to open.’

‘Spring downpour. We’re famous for those over here. It’ll pass soon enough,’ she offered with a renewed smile and a couple of paper tissues.

‘Thanks.’ He took them and dried his forehead and hands.

‘I’m Rhonda, by the way.’

They shook hands.

‘I’m Robert.’

Rhonda was in her mid-twenties with short, spiky, black-dyed hair. Her face was ghostly pale and her make-up was one step short from being full goth.

‘So . . .’ she said, fixing Hunter with her dark eyes. ‘What brings you to Healdsburg’s library? Actually, what brings you to Healdsburg at all?’

‘Research.’

‘Research? About Healdsburg’s wineries?’

‘No.’ Hunter thought for a second. ‘I guess I’m looking for an old school yearbook.’

‘A yearbook? An old friend, huh? From which school?’

Hunter paused. ‘How many schools are there in Healdsburg?’

Rhonda laughed. ‘It doesn’t look like you know much about this research of yours.’

Hunter agreed with a smile. ‘The truth is: I’m just trying to find a picture of a kid who lived here many years ago.’

‘A kid?’ Her expression changed to concern and she took a step back from the counter.

‘No, look, I’m a cop from Los Angeles,’ Hunter said, producing his badge. ‘Something that happened here twenty years ago has suddenly become of interest to us. I’m just trying to gather some information, that’s all. A picture would help.’

Rhonda studied the badge and then Hunter’s face. ‘Twenty years ago?’

‘That’s right.’

She hesitated for a beat. ‘So you must be talking about what happened to the Harpers. And if you’re looking for a picture of a kid, you must be talking about Andrew Harper.’

‘You knew him?’

She looked uncertain. ‘Sort of. I was only five when it happened. But he used to come to our house sometimes.’

‘Really? How come?’

‘We lived in the same street. He was friends with my brother.’

‘Does your brother still live here?’

‘Yep. He’s an accountant and runs his own practice in town. You probably drove past his office on your way here.’

‘Do you think I could have a chat with him?’

Another hesitant moment.

‘Whatever information he can give me might help a lot,’ Hunter pushed.

Rhonda regarded Hunter for a second longer.

‘I don’t see why not.’ She checked her watch. ‘I’ll tell you what. It’s coming up to my lunch break. Why don’t I take you there and introduce you to him?’

Ninety-Six

Rhonda said hello to Mrs. Collins at the reception desk in the anteroom of her brother’s small accountancy practice and pointed to his office door.

‘He’s not with anyone, is he?’

Mrs. Collins smiled kindly as she shook her head.

‘I think he was just getting ready to go out for lunch, dear. You can go right in, Rhonda.’

Rhonda knocked twice and pushed the door open before a reply.

Ricky was pretty much the opposite of his sister. Tall with neatly trimmed hair and a sportsman’s physique, he was dressed conservatively in a light gray suit, baby blue shirt and a blue on red tie. The introductions were quick and to the point, and Ricky’s smile dissipated once Rhonda told him why she’d brought Hunter to see him.

‘I’m sorry, but I don’t see how I can help,’ he said to Hunter, looking a little rattled. ‘I was ten when it happened and we weren’t even here, remember?’ He directed the question to Rhonda, who nodded. ‘It happened during Christmas vacation and we had gone over to Grandma’s house in Napa. We only heard about it when we got back.’

‘I understand, and I don’t want you to tell me about the incident. I know you know nothing about that. But if you could tell me a little about Andrew himself, that could help. Rhonda told me that you were friends?’

Ricky looked at his sister in a reprimanding way. ‘I guess.’ He shrugged. ‘He . . . didn’t have many friends.’

‘Why was that?’

Another shrug. ‘He was very quiet and shy. He much preferred spending time with his comic books than with people.’

‘But you guys did spend some time together, right? Played games, that kinda stuff?’

‘Yeah, sometimes, but not always. He was . . . different.’

Hunter’s eyes narrowed a fraction. ‘In what way?’

Ricky paused and checked his watch before crossing to the door to his office and sticking his head outside. ‘Mrs. Collins, if anyone calls, I’m out for lunch.’ He closed the door behind him. ‘Why don’t you have a seat?’

Hunter took one of the two chairs in front of Ricky’s desk. Rhonda preferred to lean against the window frame.

‘Andrew was . . . sad most of the time,’ Ricky said, returning to his desk.

‘Did he ever tell you why?’

‘His parents argued a lot, and that really upset him. He was very close to his mother.’

‘Not so close to his father?’ Hunter asked.

‘Yes, he was as well, but he talked about his mother more.’

Hunter’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket and he subtly checked the display window – Whitney Myers. Hunter returned the phone to his pocket without answering it. He’d call her later.

‘Kids always talk about their mothers,’ Rhonda offered.

‘No.’ Ricky shook his head firmly. ‘Not the way he did. He talked about her as if she was a goddess. Like she couldn’t do anything wrong.’

‘Idolizing her?’ Hunter asked.

‘Yes. He put her on the pedestal. And when she was sad, he was really sad.’ Ricky started fidgeting with a paper clip. ‘I know that sometimes he used to watch his mom cry and that just ate away at him.’ A nervous chuckle escaped Ricky’s lips. ‘He used to watch her a lot . . . in a weird way.’

Rhonda cocked her head. ‘What does that mean?’

Ricky’s eyes moved from her to Hunter, who kept his face steady.

‘Andrew told me about this secret hiding place he had. And I know he used to spend a lot of time there.’

Hunter knew that a secret or special place wasn’t uncommon amongst kids. Especially ones like Andrew – sad, quiet, with few friends – the bullied ones. It’s usually just an isolated location where they can get away from everything and everyone that upsets them. A place where they feel safe. But if a child starts reverting to it more and more, it’s usually because they feel the need to increase their isolation – from everyone and everything. And the consequences can be severe.

‘That’s not so bad,’ Rhonda said. ‘Me and my friends used to have a secret place when we were kids.’

‘Not like Andrew’s,’ Ricky countered. ‘At least I hope not. He took me there one day.’ A muscle flexed on his jaw. ‘He made me promise to never tell anyone.’

‘And . . . ?’ Rhonda asked.

Hunter waited.

Ricky’s eyes moved away from both of them. ‘I’d pretty much forgotten about that place.’ His stare returned to Hunter. ‘His secret place was this secluded bit in the attic in his house. Their attic was packed with boxes and boxes of junk and old furniture. There was so much stuff piled up that it created a wall, a partition of sorts, dividing the attic into two separate spaces. If you went up there via the stairs in the house, you could only see one of them. The other one was completely hidden behind this barricade of stuff. You couldn’t even get to it, unless you started moving things. And you’d have to move a lot of things.’

‘And this hidden space in the attic was Andrew’s secret place?’ Rhonda asked.

‘That’s right.’

‘But you just said no one could get to it,’ she challenged.

‘Not through the house,’ Ricky clarified. ‘Andrew used to climb up the trellis on the outside wall and get in through this tiny round window on the roof.’

‘The roof?’

‘Yes. He was good at it too. He could climb that wall like a real-life Spiderman.’

‘So what was so strange about his secret attic place?’ Rhonda asked.

‘It was directly above his parents’ bedroom. He said that when they were in the room, he could hear everything.’

‘Oh my God.’ Rhonda pulled a face. ‘You think he used to listen to them while they were doing it?’

‘More than that. You remember his house, right?’

She nodded.

He turned towards Hunter. ‘It was an old-style wooden house, with high ceilings. Andrew had scraped away at the gaps between some of the wooden planks in the attic’s floor, at different locations. I know because he showed them to me. Through them he could see the entire bedroom. He used to spy on his parents.’

‘No way,’ Rhonda said with wide eyes. ‘That’s just nasty. What a pervert.’ She cringed.

‘But what freaked me out about the place,’ Ricky continued, ‘was that in this little corner I saw a few cotton balls and rags stained with blood.’

‘Blood?’ Hunter asked.

‘Blood?’ Rhonda repeated.

Ricky nodded. ‘I asked him about it. He told me it was from a nosebleed.’

Hunter frowned.

‘When Andrew was younger he’d got really ill with flu, and that somehow messed up the inside of his nose. I know that’s true because it happened in school a few times. If he started sneezing or if he just blew his nose a little too hard, blood would go everywhere.’

Hunter sensed Ricky’s uneasiness. ‘But you didn’t believe the bloody cotton balls and rags came from his nosebleed, did you?’

Ricky looked at his sister and then at the paper clip he’d been fidgeting with. It was all bent and out of shape. He lifted it up and showed it to Hunter. ‘I saw some of these on the floor next to the cotton balls. They also had blood on them. Maybe he was picking at his nose with paper clips, who knows? As I said, he was stranger than most. I didn’t know what was going on, but the whole place felt creepy. I told Andrew that I had to go home and got out of there as quick as I could.’

Hunter knew why the bloody cotton balls, rags and paper clips – Andrew was self-harming. He was substituting pain for pain, trying to take hold of his suffering. He couldn’t control the emotional pain he went through every time his parents argued, so, to disconnect from that hurt, he created his own, by inflicting his own wounds. That way he could calmly watch himself bleed, detached from his own suffering and his underlying rage. It was a pain he could completely control, down to how deep the cut was, and how much he’d bleed.

Ricky paused and rubbed his face with both hands.

‘Look, I know Andrew was a little weird, but most 10-year-old kids are in one way or another.’ His eyes moved to Rhonda. ‘Some of us still are.’

She flipped him her middle finger.

‘But he was a nice kid,’ Ricky continued. ‘And if you ask me, I think that what his father did was a very cowardly act. Andrew never had a chance. He didn’t deserve to die.’

Everyone went silent.

To Hunter, all the pieces were starting to fall into place.

Ninety-Seven

The room he was in was illuminated only by candles – twelve in total. Their flames flickered in an unsynchronized dance, bouncing shadows against the walls. He raised his eyes towards his naked body reflected in the large wall mirror. Bare feet on a cold cement floor, strong legs, broad shoulders, athletic body and icy cold eyes. He stared at his face for a long while, analyzing it carefully before twisting his body left, then right, checking his back.

He walked over to the table on the corner and picked up one of the many pre-paid cell phones on it, dialing a number he knew by heart.

It rang twice before it was answered by a calm but firm voice.

‘Do you have the information I asked you for?’ he asked, his eyes moving to the workstation in front of him.

‘Yes, it wasn’t a problem.’

He listened carefully.

The information was more surprising than upsetting, but his face displayed no signs of anxiety. He disconnected and ran his right hand over the large blood-coated needle and thread he’d left on the workstation.

He’d have to change his course of action, adapt, and he didn’t like change. Deviating from well-laid plans meant increasing his risk, but right now, he wasn’t sure it mattered any more.

He checked his watch. He knew exactly where she’d be in a few hours’ time. The information had been so easy to come by it made him laugh.

He faced the mirror once again and stared deep into his own eyes.

It was time to do it again.

Ninety-Eight

‘Shit!’

She checked her car’s clock and cursed under her breath as she turned into her street in Toluca Lake, southeastern San Fernando Valley. She had no doubt she’d be late, and she hated being late.

The gala charity fundraising event was scheduled to start in seventy-five minutes’ time. The drive from her house alone would take her at least half an hour. That gave her around forty-five minutes to have a shower, do her hair and make-up and get dressed. For a woman who took as much pride in her appearance as she did, that was almost impossible.

Her secretary had reminded her in plenty of time, as she’d asked her to, but an accident on Hollywood Freeway cost her an extra thirty-five minutes, and in an event where the Mayor of Los Angeles, the Governor of California and quite a few A-list celebrities were supposed to be attending, being late wasn’t the best plan of action.

To save time, she decided that she’d have her hair up and tied back. She also had a pretty good idea of which dress and shoes she’d be wearing.

Her home was a large, two-story, cul-de-sac house by Toluca Lake itself. She knew the house was way too big for her alone, but she had fallen in love with it when she was first property searching.

She parked her Dodge Challenger on her paved driveway and her eyes involuntarily checked the dashboard clock again.

‘Shit, shit.’

She’d been so concerned with the time and being late that she didn’t even notice the white van parked on the street, almost directly in front of her house.

She stepped out of her car and fumbled inside her handbag for the key while walking to her front door. As she got to the porch, she heard a ruffling noise coming from the trimmed shrubs of her small front yard. She paused and frowned. A few seconds later the noise returned. It sounded like some sort of scratching.

‘Oh, please don’t tell me I’ve got rats,’ she whispered to herself.

Suddenly she heard a sniffing cry and a tiny white puppy stuck its head through the bushes. It looked frightened and hungry.

‘Oh my God.’ She crouched down, put her handbag on the floor and extended a hand. ‘Come here, little one. Don’t be scared.’ The puppy stepped further out of the bushes, sniffing at her hand.

‘Oh, you poor thing. I bet you’re hungry.’ She patted its head, running a hand up and down its white fur. It was shivering. ‘Would you like some milk?’

She did not hear him walk up behind her. In her crouched position it was easy for him to dominate her. His strong hands pushed her forward into the bushes where the white puppy had come from, while at the same time pressing a wet cloth over her mouth. She tried to react, dropping the puppy and desperately trying to reach behind her to grab hold of her assailant. But it was too late; he knew it, and so did she.

Within seconds, her world faded to black.

Ninety-Nine

Garcia went straight back to his desk in Parker Center and fired up his computer. He needed to search the Internet for online editions of art magazines and journals.

Two hours later he was starting to get a headache from squinting at the screen, and he still hadn’t found what he was looking for. His gaze returned to the copy of the music magazine he’d taken from Jessica Black’s apartment and a thought crept into his mind. He considered it for only a few seconds before grabbing his jacket and flying out the door once again.

Garcia wasn’t as familiar with the central branch of the Los Angeles Public Library as Hunter was, but he knew they kept a microfilm and database archive on all their magazines and journals. He just hoped their Arts department was as accomplished as Hunter said it was.

Garcia found a free workstation, sat himself down and started searching through articles. He searched for any piece about either Laura Mitchell or Kelly Jensen, especially one-to-one interviews.

It took him just under two and a half hours to find the first one – an interview with Kelly Jensen for Art Today magazine. As he read the lines he’d been looking for, he felt a rush of blood inundate his veins.

‘This is fucking crazy,’ he said, pressing the print button. He collected his printout and returned to his seat. Laura Mitchell was now his next target.

An hour later he got to the end of the list of all the Laura Mitchell interviews he’d found in the system – nothing.

‘Fuck!’ he cursed under his breath. His eyes were getting tired and watery. He needed a break, a cup of coffee and an Advil.

Suddenly a crazy thought came into his head and he paused for a moment, considering the alternatives.

‘Oh, what the hell,’ he whispered as he decided that it was worth a shot.

Garcia wouldn’t find a better collection of art magazines and articles on Laura Mitchell than the ones they’d uncovered inside the dark room in James Smith’s apartment. Smith seemed to have collected everything that was ever published on her. He was still under custody, and his apartment was still seized by police as part of an ongoing investigation.

Garcia stood by the door to the dimly lit collage room, staring at the magazines and newspapers piled just about everywhere.

‘Damn!’ he whispered to himself. ‘This is gonna take me forever.’

In fact, it took him two hours and three piles of magazines and journals. Laura Mitchell’s last interview had been with Contemporary Painters magazine, eleven months ago. It was a small article – less than fifteen hundred words.

He almost choked when he read the lines.

‘Sonofabitch.’

Every hair on his body stood on end. He knew that this kind of coincidence just didn’t exist.

As he rushed out of the building, his cell phone rang in his pocket. He checked the display window before answering it.

‘Robert, I was just about to call you. You’re not gonna believe what I just found out—’

‘Carlos, listen,’ Hunter interrupted urgently, ‘I think I know who we’re after.’

‘What? Really? Who?’

‘I have no doubt he doesn’t go by his real name any more, but his original name was Andrew Harper. I need you to get in touch with Operations and the research team immediately. We need everything and anything we can get on him.’

Garcia stopped walking and frowned at nothing. His memory searching for the name. ‘Wait a second,’ he remembered, ‘isn’t that the name of the kid Stephen told us about on the phone? The one who was murdered by his father?’

‘Yep, that’s him, and I don’t know how he got away, but I don’t think he was murdered that day.’

‘Come again?’

‘I think that somehow he survived. And I think he was in the house when it happened, Carlos.’

‘What?’

‘I’ll tell you everything when I get back to LA. I’m at the airport now. I’ll land at LAX in about two hours. But I think the kid was hiding in the house.’

‘No way.’

‘He watched his father violate his mother’s body, stitch her shut, write a blood message on the wall and then kill her before blowing his own head off . . .’

Garcia stayed silent.

‘I think the kid saw everything. And now he’s repeating history.’