Текст книги "The Executioner"

Автор книги: Chris (2) Carter

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Fifty-Eight

‘Excuse me, honey,’ the tallest of the four men sitting at the corner table in the old-fashioned diner said to the brunette waitress as she walked past.

‘Yes?’ Mollie turned to face him, trying her best not to look annoyed. The four of them had been pestering her for the past fifteen minutes.

‘Are you tired?’ he asked. The other three were already giggling.

‘Why?’ she replied, a little puzzled.

‘Because, babe, I want you to know that as long as I gotta face, you gotta place to sit.’ They all burst into laughter.

‘Order up,’ came the call from the busy kitchen. Mollie walked back to the counter to collect the order and felt their eyes burn a hole in the back of her red and white dress.

Every table in the small diner was taken. Most of them by sleazy scumbags like the four in the corner who thought every waitress in south LA was dying to go to bed with them. She didn’t like her job and all the abuse that came with it, but she didn’t have a choice. She desperately needed the money.

She took the order to a middle-aged man sitting by himself, and as she placed the plate on the table he grabbed hold of her hand. ‘Excuse me, Miss Candy Pants, but this ain’t what I fucking ordered.’

‘Didn’t you order a double cheeseburger and fries?’

‘Yes, but I specifically said no goddamn pickles. I hate pickles. What the fuck do you call these?’ He lifted the top bun and pointed to three long pickle slices.

‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ she said, embarrassed, reaching for the plate. ‘I’ll get the cook to take them off.’

‘No, not take them off,’ he said angrily between clenched teeth. ‘I want him to cook me a new one. This one is ruined.’

‘No problem, sir. I’ll get you a new one right away.’

‘Stupid bitch,’ he murmured as she took the plate.

On her way back to the kitchen, Mollie noticed a Mexican-looking man in his early thirties wearing old, dirty and ripped clothes standing by the entrance door. He caught her eye and as she walked past he asked in a timid voice: ‘Excuse me, miss. Is it OK if I come in for some food? I have some money.’ He tapped his trouser pocket and she heard the rattle of coins.

‘Yes, of course.’ She frowned at the strange question. Turning around, she scanned the busy diner. A table had just vacated by the door where they were. ‘Why don’t you take this table right here and I’ll get you a menu.’

He smiled a sincere smile. ‘Thank you very much, miss. That’s very kind of you. I won’t be long. I’ll eat quick.’

Mollie smiled back, not understanding why he sounded so thankful. She got to the kitchen and was about to explain to Billy, the large Texan cook, about the whole pickle incident when she heard loud yelling coming from the diner floor.

‘Who the hell told you you could sit in here?’ Donna Higgins, the restaurant owner was standing by the entrance table, yelling at its occupant.

‘I’m sorry,’ the Mexican man said shyly. ‘The waitress said it was OK.’

‘Which waitress would that be?’

He looked down shyly without answering. ‘I won’t be long. I’ll eat quick, I promise.’

‘I don’t care how you eat, as long as it’s not in my restaurant.’

‘I’m not asking for charity, miss. I have money. I can pay for my food.’

‘Of course you have money,’ Donna shot back, gesticulating frantically. ‘You probably stole it.’

‘No, I didn’t. I helped someone push his car out of the road and he was kind enough to give me a few bucks.’ He showed her a handful of coins and one-dollar bills. ‘I can eat outside or out the back, miss. I don’t mind. I just want a hot meal, maybe some eggs and bacon and a glass of milk. I haven’t eaten in a few days.’

‘Well, you ain’t getting it here. I bet you’re a fucking illegal immigrant, aren’t you?’

The man tensed.

‘That’s what I thought. Get your stinking self outta my restaurant—’ she pointed to the door ‘—before I call immigration on you.’

His sad eyes wandered the diner. Everyone was looking at him. Without a word, he returned the little money he had back to his trouser pocket and left.

‘Hey!’ He heard someone call as he turned the corner. ‘Hey, wait!’ The female voice called again. He stopped and looked back. The brunette waitress had come out of the diner’s back door carrying a brown paper bag.

‘Do you like pickles?’ Mollie asked.

He frowned.

‘You know, pickles. Like cucumbers.’

He nodded. ‘Yes, they’re nice.’

‘Here.’ She offered him the paper bag. ‘It’s a double cheeseburger with fries and a bottle of milk. There’re pickles in the cheeseburger.’ She smiled.

He stared at her with thankful eyes before reaching into his pocket.

‘No, no,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘You don’t have to pay me. It’s OK.’

‘I don’t want no charity, miss. I have money to pay for my food.’

‘I know. I saw your money.’ A new comforting smile. ‘But this ain’t charity. They made me too much food for my dinner break. I’m on a diet,’ she lied and offered him the bag once again. ‘Here, take it. I can’t eat all this food. It’d only be thrown away.’

He hesitated for a moment before taking the bag and smiling. ‘Thank you very much. You’re a very kind person.’

Mollie watched him walk away before returning to the diner.

‘You can find yourself another job, you little bitch,’ Donna Higgins told her as soon as she walked through the back door into the kitchen.

‘What? Why?’

‘Who told you you could take a break when I have a packed floor in there?’

‘It was only a three-minute break.’

‘I don’t give a shit. You took a break when you weren’t supposed to and you stole food.’

The waitress’s jaw dropped. ‘I didn’t steal any food.’

‘Oh no? How about the cheeseburger and fries and the bottle of milk you took from the fridge?’

Her face tightened. ‘I was gonna pay for that.’

‘Of course you gonna pay for that. That’s why you’re getting no wages for today.’

‘What?’ She could feel panic starting to take over. ‘Please, Mrs. Higgins, I’m very sorry. I shouldn’t have taken the food and I’ll pay for it. I’ll work extra hours if you like. I really need the money for my rent.’

‘Oh poor you.’ Donna Higgins made a silly face. ‘You should’ve thought of that before stealing from me. Now get your stuff and get the hell outta my restaurant.’

He’d been sitting at the same table by the front window of the small diner for over eight hours. His deep-set eyes checking the faces of every passenger who boarded or stepped off any bus that stopped directly opposite the diner entrance.

He ordered another coffee and checked his watch. Three minutes until the next bus was due to arrive, enough time for a bathroom break. He’d been following the same routine for the past few days – arriving at around noon and leaving only when the diner closed at eleven o’clock but so far he’d had no luck.

He splashed some cold water on his face and ran the tip of his right index finger over the ugly scar on his forehead. ‘It won’t be long now,’ he whispered to his reflection.

The bus was just driving away when he stepped out of the bathroom. It had come at least a full minute ahead of its scheduled time. He cursed himself and ran to the front of the diner, his eyes frantically searching, but most passengers had already scattered away.

The brunette in a red and white waitress uniform had to run, but she made it to the bus stop just as the bus was ready to leave. Taking a seat by one of the front windows, she buried her face in her hands and wondered what excuse she could give her landlord.

The man in the diner never saw her.

Fifty-Nine

The smell of burned flesh was still just as strong as the night before, and it made both detectives gag as they re-entered the house in Malibu. Garcia chewed on two anti-acid tablets before cupping his hands over his nose and mouth. His stomach retched as they approached the living room, and he stopped by the door. Bending over, he held onto his knees, concentrating hard not to be sick again.

‘Why don’t you wait here?’ Hunter suggested, pulling a pair of latex gloves over his hands. ‘I’ll check the fireplace.’

‘That sounds like a plan,’ Garcia replied, exhaling a long breath.

Pulling the collar of his shirt up like a mask to cover his nose and mouth, Hunter approached the room’s south wall and the fireplace. Fingerprint powder was everywhere. The armchair Amanda Reilly had been tied to had been taken away for further forensic examination. The once-beautiful living room now felt like a torture chamber, and it made the hairs on the back of Hunter’s neck prickle. He took a deep breath and moved the focus of his flashlight onto the large fireplace. It was decorated with several figurines, four color-coordinated vases and two candleholders, but Hunter’s attention was on the two silver-plated picture frames. One at each end of the mantelpiece. The frames themselves looked pretty common, probably standard issue in any department store. Hunter first checked the one at the far right. There was a gap between the frame and the wall of about eight inches, enough for him to check the back without having to pick it up – nothing out of the ordinary. He checked the second frame, and again found nothing. Finally, he picked them both up.

The photographs weren’t of Dan Tyler or his wife. The first one he examined showed a woman with a pretty smile sitting comfortably on a black leather sofa. A glass of red wine in her right hand. She was attractive in a high-maintenance way; short blond hair, way too much makeup and enigmatic baby-blue eyes. There was something arrogant about her. The second photograph was of a man leaning casually against a white wall. Slender, with neatly trimmed fair hair and unexpressive hazel eyes, he was dressed in a light green T-shirt and faded blue jeans. At first look, there was nothing extraordinary about any of those two characters. But who were they?

‘Everything OK in there?’ Garcia called from the door, startling Hunter.

‘Yeah, yeah. Gimme a minute.’

Turning one of the frames over, Hunter slowly lifted the four security clips that held its back in place. All of a sudden he felt cold. As if someone had opened a window in the room, allowing a chilling draft in. He looked up, his eyes and flashlight searching the room – nothing but the putrid smell of death.

‘Carlos, are you still out there,’ he called firmly.

‘Yeah, what’s up?’ He coughed a couple of times before poking his head through the door.

‘Nothing. Just keep an eye out.’

Something in Hunter’s voice worried Garcia and his hand instinctively moved towards his gun. He pointed his flashlight down the eerie corridor and listened attentively for a long moment – nothing.

Hunter returned his attention to the picture frame. Carefully, he pulled the back cover of the first one apart. As it came unattached, his eyes rested on the underside of the photograph.

‘Oh fuck!’

Hunter closed his eyes for a moment as adrenalin rushed through him.

He put the first frame down and quickly reached for the second one and repeated the process of lifting the security clips. Even though he was certain of what he’d find, Hunter held his breath as he slowly pulled the back cover apart.

‘Sonofabitch.’

‘Everything alright in there, Robert?’ Garcia called, concerned. ‘Have you found the pictures?’

Hunter slowly searched the dark room again. A luxurious room, now forever tainted with evil. The sickening smell was starting to burn at his nostrils and cause havoc in his stomach. He needed to get out of there.

‘Did you find anything?’ Garcia asked as Hunter stepped out of the room.

‘Yeah, I’ll show you outside,’ Hunter replied, pulling his shirt from over his nose and mouth. ‘I need to get some fresh air.’

‘Amen to that.’

Outside, Hunter faced Garcia. ‘I found these.’ He handed his partner both photographs. ‘Those are the photos that were in the picture frames Dan Tyler said shouldn’t be here.’

Garcia studied them carefully for a moment. ‘Who are they?’ He shook his head.

Hunter took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘Take a look at the back.’

Garcia turned them over and his pulse surged under the skin of his neck. ‘You’re shitting me.’

‘Apparently not.’

Garcia stared at the photos again. Their faces now taking on a whole new meaning.

Sixty

It was late by the time they left Malibu. Hunter checked in with Hopkins and told him to meet them at Footsie’s in North Figueroa Street.

Take all the snobbish fakery out of most Los Angeles bars and you might be left with Footsie’s. Just a small, cozy drinking joint with a few pool tables, a comfortable lounge with half-circle red leather booths, a jukebox playing classic rock and a friendly and relaxed atmosphere. Footsie’s was one of Hunter’s favorite drinking spots.

Hopkins was already there, nursing a single shot of Jack Daniel’s when Hunter and Garcia arrived. ‘What can I get you guys?’ he offered.

‘It’s OK.’ Hunter gave him a subtle nod. ‘I’ll get these, Ian.’

‘I’ll have whatever you’re having, as long as it’s single malt,’ Garcia said. ‘I’ll be right back.’ He pointed to the men’s restroom door.

A booth emptied at the back of the bar and Hunter told Hopkins to grab it before someone else did.

He ordered two single shots of Laphroaig with a cube of ice each. The person standing next to him at the bar was reading through a copy of the LA Daily News, and as he flipped a page something caught Hunter’s attention. The headline on the small article read SLASHER CLAIMS SECOND VICTIM. Hunter craned his neck awkwardly and skimmed through the article before the man flipped the page again. A second prostitute had been found dead inside a squalid room in South Gate. Her hands had been tied together in front of her, her fingers interlaced in a prayer position. Just as the first victim a few days ago, she was found naked, on her knees with her throat cut open. The press had already nicknamed the killer the Slasher. ‘This city’s out of control,’ Hunter thought as he took his drinks and joined Garcia and Hopkins at their booth.

‘Are you guys OK?’ Hopkins asked with concern, noticing a heavy air about both detectives.

Hunter had a sip of his Laphroaig and swirled it around in his mouth until its strong alcohol started to burn the edges of his tongue. He placed four evidence bags on the table. The first two containing the disassembled picture frames, the other two the photographs. Hopkins’s brow lifted and Hunter explained about their meeting with Dan Tyler and why they went back to check the misplaced pictures.

‘So who are these two?’ he asked skeptically.

Garcia reached for the evidence bags with the photographs and turned them over. Hopkins’s eyes widened and he let out an excited gasp. On the back of the man’s photograph, written in blood and about six inches long, was the number one. On the back of the smiling woman’s, the number two.

Hopkins kept his eyes on the photographs for a while, his jaw half open. ‘I don’t get it.’ He locked eyes with Hunter. ‘Why would the killer do this? I mean, why would he leave the pictures of the first two victims on the fireplace? Obviously, he knew that sooner or later we’d find them.’

Hunter sat back and ran his fingertips over his whiskey tumbler rim. ‘He wants to make sure we know these two victims are his. He doesn’t want their murders attributed to someone else. He’s a proud killer.’

Hopkins twisted uncomfortably in his seat. The world of the evilly sick was going way over his head.

‘So where are these two victims?’ he asked after a moment’s silence. ‘And if they’d been numbered like Father Fabian and Amanda Reilly, why don’t we know about them?’

Hunter had another long, slow sip of his Scotch. ‘Why do you think?’

Hopkins’s eyes reverted back to the photos on the table. Hunter could almost hear him thinking. ‘Maybe the numbering thing is something the killer only started doing after victim number two,’ Hopkins offered tentatively.

‘Go on,’ Hunter urged him.

‘Of course he couldn’t go back and number the first two bodies. This is the best he could do, given the circumstances.’

‘Why would the killer only start numbering from victim number three on?’ Garcia asked.

‘I’m not sure.’ Hopkins gave him a slight shrug. ‘Maybe he never thought of it at first. Maybe he expected the police to realize the first two victims were killed by the same person, and that never happened.’

‘It’s a good theory,’ Hunter said, giving Hopkins an approving nod.

‘Yeah, but I don’t buy it,’ Garcia said, shaking his head. ‘We know this killer is extremely organized and methodical. He plans his kills to the very last detail, leaving nothing to chance. He’s proven that with Father Fabian and Amanda Reilly.’

‘That’s right.’ Hunter nodded.

‘Such an organized killer wouldn’t change his plan halfway down the line. I’d say he’s been numbering them from the word go.’

‘OK,’ Hunter agreed. ‘So going back to the question, where are these two victims? And why don’t we know about them?’

‘Maybe we just haven’t found them yet,’ Garcia ventured, leaning forward. ‘The order in which they were killed isn’t necessarily the order in which they’ll be found. Maybe they’re still missing, locked inside a car trunk somewhere or in a ditch up in the mountains.’

‘That’s possible,’ Hunter agreed, stretching his neck. ‘There’s just one thing that bothers me about that theory. The killer made no effort to hide the bodies of victims three and four. They were found the day after they were killed. So why would he hide the bodies of victims one and two in a car trunk or up in the mountains somewhere? It doesn’t go with his MO. He wants us to know about them.’

‘That’s why he left the pictures on the fireplace.’ Hopkins half stated it, half questioned.

‘Exactly,’ Hunter confirmed. ‘He wants to be credited with their murder.’

They all went silent for a few seconds.

‘What do you think, Robert?’ Hopkins asked eagerly. ‘Why don’t we have victims one and two yet?’

Hunter watched a long-legged brunette approach the jukebox on the corner, slide a few quarters into it and make a selection. An old Skid Row song started playing.

‘I think you hit on a very good point in your theory,’ Hunter said to Hopkins.

‘Which point was that?’ he asked, intrigued.

‘The fact that the killer couldn’t go back to the bodies. That’s why he used the photos. The bodies have already been found.’

Sixty-One

Garcia and Hopkins exchanged a quick, uneasy look. Skid Row was still blasting through the speakers at Footsie’s.

‘If the bodies have been found, what happened to the numbers?’ Garcia tapped the evidence bags with his index finger.

Hunter pointed to the picture of the first victim and the number one on its back. ‘Have a look at the way the killer wrote this number. Anything peculiar?’

Garcia and Hopkins studied it for a moment.

‘It’s very simplistic,’ Garcia admitted. ‘There’s no horizontal base line or anything. This is really nothing more than a single vertical line.’

‘Holy shit!’ Hopkins exclaimed. ‘He’s right. On a body this would’ve looked like a simple splash of blood. Anyone could’ve missed it.’

‘OK, that might explain number one,’ Garcia said, dragging the next picture to the center of the table. ‘How about number two?’

Hunter shook his head as if anything was possible. ‘Maybe the number washed off.’

‘What?’ Garcia and Hopkins asked in unison.

The brunette returned to the jukebox and this time her stare lingered on Hunter for several seconds before she followed it with a sparkling smile. Bon Jovi started playing.

‘The killer doesn’t carve the numbers onto the victims; he uses blood to draw them.’ Hunter explained, leaning forward. ‘What if victim two was left in a humid or unsheltered place, like the woods? What if something happened after he left the body that smudged the number?’

Garcia and Hopkins looked thoughtful.

‘Rain would’ve easily washed the number off, or at least enough for it to be unrecognizable,’ Hopkins admitted.

‘And it’s been raining a hell of a lot lately,’ Garcia noted.

Hunter checked his watch. ‘I’ll get this to forensics and get you digital copies of the photos,’ he said to Hopkins. ‘I want you to run a search against the Missing Persons and the Homicide databases.’

‘Damn!’ Hopkins slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. ‘That reminds me. You were right on the money when you suggested starting the missing person’s search for the Monica girl with Pennsylvania.’ He handed Hunter a black and white photograph printout. ‘This is what I got from the Pennsylvania Missing Persons archive.’

Hunter and Garcia analyzed the photo for just a few seconds.

‘Wow,’ Garcia said. ‘With the exception of her hair and that scar on her lips, she hasn’t changed much at all. Unless she’s got an identical twin.’

‘Not the case here,’ Hopkins confirmed, handing them a new sheet of paper.

The girl on the photo was Mollie Woods, born on Christmas Day, seventeen years ago in Huntingdon County, Pennsylvania. She’s been missing for almost four years. Her father, John Woods, reported her missing two days after her mother was run over by a drunk driver. She died instantly. John Woods moved from Huntingdon County to York, still in Pennsylvania, shortly after his wife’s death.

‘I haven’t tried to contact her father yet,’ Hopkins said as Hunter finished reading the report.

‘Don’t. At least not yet,’ he agreed.

Garcia looked concerned. ‘Don’t you think we should? He’s probably worried sick about his daughter. It’s been almost four years.’

‘There’s a reason why she ran away from home.’ Hunter gave Garcia a quick head shake. ‘She’s seventeen. If she wanted to get in touch with her father, she would’ve done it herself. In the interrogation room, I got a feeling she was really scared of something. And it wasn’t just her visions.’