Текст книги "The Executioner"

Автор книги: Chris (2) Carter

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Sixty-Seven

The statement was so surprising that it took several seconds for it to register with both detectives.

‘Was it your voice?’ Hunter queried, still a little stunned by how much she knew. ‘When you said those words to the woman. Was it your voice or somebody else’s?’

‘My own,’ she whispered.

Garcia rubbed his face vigorously, lost for words.

‘Somehow I knew the woman in the chair was scared of fires,’ the girl continued. ‘That’s why I said those words to you.’

Hunter leaned back in his chair and thought about it for a moment.

‘These visions last only about thirty seconds, maybe a minute. I don’t know why I see them. I don’t know why they feel so real. I don’t know why I wasn’t a spectator like all the previous ones. I wish I did, but I don’t have all the answers.’ She paused and looked away from Hunter. ‘What I’m trying to tell you is: whoever this killer is, he knows about their fears.’

Click, click, click. The person holding the camera on the other side of East First Street quickly snapped three consecutive pictures without anyone noticing.

‘Is there anything else you remember about these visions, Mollie?’ Garcia asked and saw the girl’s eyes widen in shock. She looked uncertain for a split second before reaching for her bag.

Hunter reached for her hand. ‘Wait.’

Mollie looked at him, then jerked his hand away angrily and stood up.

‘Please listen to me.’ Hunter and Garcia shot to their feet at the same time.

‘This has all been a mistake.’

‘No, it hasn’t.’ Hunter’s tone was firm but unthreatening. ‘Just give me one minute to explain. Then, if you still wanna go, no one will stop you.’

She paused just long enough for Hunter not to allow her uncertainty to settle. ‘I didn’t know if you’d ever call again. You left before an officer had a chance to write down your details. You left us nothing, so I had to go with the only thing we had – your Pennsylvanian accent. We did a quick search. Your name came up as a missing person.’

She went rigid.

‘We didn’t tell your father.’

Earlier on, when she told them about her obsessively religious parents, she kept the story centered around her mother, rarely mentioning her father. When she did, her body tensed, her posture shifted and her movements were nervy. Hunter saw how scared she was of him.

‘And we won’t tell him,’ Hunter said positively.

Her eyes held Hunter’s gaze for a while longer before shifting towards Garcia. He nodded and gave her a confident wink as if saying ‘we won’t tell if you don’t’.

Her body relaxed slightly.

‘I promise you, Mollie, we weren’t intruding.’ Hunter paused. ‘And we could really use your help.’

There was something calming, something trustworthy about the man standing in front of her. The tense moment evaporated and she sat back down. ‘The reason why I called you today . . .’

‘You had another vision?’ Garcia guessed.

‘No. Not a vision, a flash.’

Click, click, click. Three more pictures.

‘What do you mean a flash?’

‘Sometimes I have quick flashes of one of my previous visions. Something that wasn’t there before. They last only a couple of seconds.’

‘They’re called residual flashes,’ Hunter said without going into a detailed explanation.

Mollie looked at him curiously.

‘He reads a lot,’ Garcia explained. ‘So what was this flash about?’

‘Something I said.’

‘Something you said to who?’ Hunter this time.

‘To the priest. Just before I killed him.’

Click, click, click.

‘But you said there was no sound in the priest’s vision,’ Garcia said.

‘There wasn’t. Not in the vision.’

‘But there was in the flash,’ Hunter acknowledged.

Mollie nodded and sighed.

‘So what did you say?’

A deep breath.

‘They will all die.’

Sixty-Eight

Fifteen days before the first murder

Staring at his reflection in the mirror, he ran his tongue over his dry and cracked lips. It’s been almost four years, but he looked to have aged at least ten. His face now showed several deep lines, and his eyes seemed to have sunken further into his skull. But anyone who knew John Woods knew that the lines weren’t an indication of age, but of heavy anguish.

After his wife’s death, he’d relocated from Huntingdon County to York, in South Central Pennsylvania. He couldn’t stay in Huntingdon anymore. Everything about the place reminded him of his daughter. Her demonic dreams had cursed his life.

He splashed a handful of cold water on his face and combed what was left of his thin black hair back over his ears. Tonight, the York Catholic High School and Church was hosting a Christmas charity event. Over three hundred students and parents were expected.

John worked as a janitor at the school, and he always helped Father Laurence with anything needed, from plumbing to gardening and party decorations. There was still an hour before the party was due to start, but various parents were already arriving, bringing with them a variety of baked goods ready to be sold at the massive bake-sale that’d take place inside the school gymnasium. John’s task was to keep the bathroom floors and toilets clean during the party.

With his eyes still fixed on his reflection, he crossed himself and said a quick prayer before leaving the small apartment he rented just a block away from York Catholic High School.

Father Laurence had asked John to concern himself only with the bathroom inside the gymnasium. That’s where everyone would be. The main classroom building had been deemed out of limits, but John knew students liked to break rules.

It was past eight o’clock when John walked into the dark hallway of the main building. After checking the two bathrooms on the ground floor, he moved upstairs to have a look at the one right at the end of the hall. He’d walked those corridors so many times he didn’t need a flashlight.

As he approached the door to the bathroom, John could hear giggling coming from inside. He slowed his step and listened for a moment. There seemed to be at least three voices – one of them female. The lights were off, allowing John to sneak in quietly without being noticed. Slowly, he tiptoed his way towards the last cubicle, where the sounds were coming from.

The door was wide open, and in the faint light that came from a cell phone he could see someone standing behind a girl who was bent over the toilet. They were both naked and the boy standing behind her slapped her bare butt with his right hand while thrusting himself into her. They were both moaning with pleasure.

John was wearing dark trousers and shirt, which helped hide him in the shadows. With his back tight against the wall opposite the cubicles, he took a step closer. Sitting on the toilet, in front of the girl, another naked boy held a cell phone with his left hand, while pushing her head down onto him with his right. She took him into her mouth eagerly. The boy was filming everything.

John felt himself getting hard.

‘Nick, I want you inside me now,’ the girl said, lifting her mouth from the boy in front of her. ‘And Shawn—’ she faced the boy behind her ‘—I want all that in my mouth.’ She pointed to his erect penis.

John moved two steps back as quietly as he could. He didn’t want to disturb them.

The two boys swapped positions and everything started again. Nick, the boy now standing behind the demanding girl, still had his cell phone firmly in his left hand. Her moans quickly got more urgent, and John knew she was about to climax. And so was he.

John eased himself into one of the cubicles. Two from where the boys were. He didn’t need to see them; her moans were enough to drive him crazy. He closed his eyes and allowed his imagination and his hand to do all the work, but his mind didn’t bring back the images he’d seen just a few seconds ago. All he could think of was Mollie and the nights he’d walked into her room and delivered her from the temptations of this world.

With his thoughts of those nights, it took John only a few seconds to climax.

He sat there for a few minutes trying to control his body. It wrenched every couple of seconds from his ecstasy. When he was steady enough to stand, he cleaned himself up and left the bathroom as quietly as he’d come in. The students were still going at it.

‘John.’ He heard someone call as he walked back into the gymnasium.

Keeping his head low and his eyes on the floor, he carried on walking, pretending he didn’t hear it.

‘John Woods.’ A hand touched him on his right shoulder. ‘Didn’t you hear me call?’

John turned around nervously and his eyes widened in surprise. The old man standing in front of him had thin white eyebrows that matched the little hair he’d combed over from left to right. His round nose and rosy cheeks, together with his kind-looking eyes, gave him the friendliest of looks.

‘Father Lewis?’ John said, looking shocked before kissing the old priest’s right hand.

‘God bless you, my son.’

‘I didn’t know you were coming.’

‘It was a last-minute decision, John.’

Father Lewis had been the priest at the Most Holy Trinity Catholic Church in Huntingdon for as long as anyone could remember. John Woods had worshiped there his whole life.

‘How’s the church, father?’

‘Fine, John. We had a new coat of paint about a year ago. You should come back to visit us sometime.’

John’s eyes saddened.

‘I know, I know,’ Father Lewis said before John was able to form a reply. ‘The memories are still too vivid, right?’

A shy nod.

‘I’ve known you since you were a little kid, John. You’ve always been a very devout Catholic, and I have you in my heart as family. It pains me to know that you needed to leave us to be able to cope with your loss.’

John couldn’t bring himself to lock eyes with the priest.

Father Lewis smiled a comforting smile. ‘But the reason I’m here is to bring you good news.’

John finally looked up.

‘Can we step outside for a moment? It’s a bit too noisy in here.’

They found a quiet corner outside the school gym.

‘Do you remember Sarah Matthews?’ Father Lewis asked.

John squinted.

‘Short lady, curly blond hair, nice eyes, laughs real loud every time I tell one of my not very funny jokes,’ the priest reminded him.

He shook his head.

‘She always brought apple pies to all our bake-sales. Has a very pretty daughter named Emily.’

John smiled. He remembered Emily Matthews very well. A slender and tall girl, who at fourteen had all the boys drooling over her already voluptuous figure. John remembered the way she used to look at him during Sunday Mass. Like she knew she was a bad girl and she wanted him to deliver her from carnal temptation, just the way he did with Mollie.

‘Oh, I remember her now,’ John said, hiding his excitement. ‘The woman with the apple pies and the very loud laugh.’

‘That’s her.’ The priest nodded. ‘Well, Emily, her daughter, moved to Los Angeles about two years ago. She wants to go to drama school and become an actress.’ Father Lewis shook his head disapprovingly. ‘Kids these days, they all want fame and stardom, no matter what we try to teach them.’

John didn’t comment.

‘She came back this past weekend. She’ll be spending Christmas with her family in Huntingdon. I was talking to her after Sunday’s Mass, and she told me something that I just needed to come and tell you. It might bring some comfort back into your heavy heart.’

John frowned, not really knowing where the priest was going.

‘To pay her rent,’ Father Lewis continued, ‘Emily has taken a job as a waitress in a diner in a busy area of Los Angeles.’ He paused, as if what he was about to say filled him with joy. ‘And she swears she saw Mollie just a week ago.’

John’s heart skipped a beat. He stared blankly at Father Lewis.

‘I know.’ The priest nodded enthusiastically. ‘It’s hard to believe, but Emily said she was very sure. There’s a bus stop just in front of the diner where she used to work, and that’s where she saw Mollie. Apparently, Mollie hasn’t changed much, apart from her hair and a small scar on her lip.’

John remembered the night Mollie ran away. He’d given her that scar.

‘Emily didn’t manage to speak to her. She was serving customers, and by the time she was done with their order Mollie had already boarded a bus. They used to be friends in school, remember?’

John felt his body starting to shiver as words evaded him.

‘Isn’t that just great news, John?’ The priest smiled. ‘Mollie is alive and well. I was so overjoyed when Emily told me that I had to come over and see you. I know how worried you’ve been.’

John wasn’t listening anymore. The voices in his head now doing all the talking.

Sixty-Nine

It was early evening when Hunter received an email with an attachment containing the latest lab results sent from the LACDC. The combination used on Amanda Reilly’s face to produce the melted wax effect was similar to what Doctor Winston had suggested, but not quite. The killer had created a mixture of rubber and petrolatum that was of a soft jelly consistency. The jelly, when mixed with a small amount of lead oleate, creates a gelatinous plaster that is readily adhesive to the human skin and it doesn’t run or soften. When exposed to intense heat, the entire mixture melts away. Depending on the strength of the adhesive property of the plaster, it can rip the skin clean off a person’s body as it melts. The wax-like clumps on Amanda Reilly’s face were actually a mixture of her torn-off skin and the melted rubber petrolatum combination used by the killer.

‘Where would the killer get hold of that stuff?’ Garcia asked after Hunter read the printout out loud.

‘Petrolatum is really just petroleum jelly,’ Hunter explained. ‘It can be bought over the counter at any drugstore. Lead oleate can be easily ordered over the internet, and the killer could’ve gotten the rubber simply by melting a common Halloween mask. The amount needed to create enough jelly to cover Amanda’s face would’ve been distinctively small.’

Garcia accepted it but still looked unsettled.

‘What’s bothering you?’ Hunter asked, placing the printout on his desk.

Garcia pulled his hair into a ponytail. ‘The conversation we had with Mollie this morning and everything she told us. It’s like she was there when it happened.’

‘And what do you think?’ Hunter pushed for an opinion.

Garcia paced the room. ‘She knew too many details about both crime scenes for her to be a hoax. She knew about the numbering. Her whereabouts on both nights checked out.’ He lifted his hands as if giving up. ‘I’m gonna be straight with you, Robert. I never really believed in any of this psychic crap. But unless she knows who the killer is and he’s been telling her stories, I think you’re right. She’s the real deal. And if so, she’s told us something we didn’t know.’

‘The killer showed the victims a piece of paper,’ Hunter admitted.

Garcia nodded. ‘And as you suggested before, it could easily have been a drawing or a picture of somewhere or someone.’

‘Whatever it is,’ Hunter said, his eyes fixed on Garcia, ‘if Mollie is right, that piece of paper links the victims together.’

Seventy

A muffled, single click sound from Hunter’s computer announced the arrival of a new email. This time, Mike Brindle had sent them the blood test results from the photographs they found on the fireplace. Hunter read it first before handing the printout to his partner.

‘The killer used the same blood on both pictures?’ Garcia sounded unsure.

Hunter nodded and rubbed his eyes.

‘Doesn’t that do away with your theory that the killer uses the blood of the previous victim to mark his next one?’

‘Not at all.’ Hunter went back to his seat and reached for his mouse. Click, scroll, click.

Garcia waited a few seconds but got nothing. ‘Do you wanna elaborate on that?’

‘Those weren’t the real victims; they were pictures of the victims. Suppose the killer kills a victim and goes away with just enough blood to be able to number his next one. He’s not counting on the number washing off or somehow disappearing and having to redraw it.’ He pressed a few keys on his keyboard. ‘So when the killer finds himself in a situation where he has to use photographs to reclaim victims one and two, he’s fresh out of victims’ blood.’

Garcia considered this. ‘So he adapts and has to use the same blood to mark both photos.’

Hunter stopped dead and faced Garcia. ‘He didn’t use their blood,’ he murmured.

‘What?’

‘The killer was at a crime scene when he left both pictures on the mantelpiece.’

‘Yeah, so?’

‘So he could’ve used Amanda’s blood. She was right there and he wouldn’t even have needed that much to draw two small numbers on the back of the photos. Why didn’t he use her blood?’

Garcia shook his head slowly.

‘He also could’ve used Father Fabian’s blood,’ Hunter carried on. ‘He obviously had some with him to draw the number four on Amanda’s back. He wouldn’t have needed any more than a small dab for each number.’

Garcia chewed on his bottom lip as he thought about it. ‘Maybe he drew the numbers on the back of the pictures before getting to the house in Malibu,’ he suggested.

‘OK, so why not use Father Fabian’s blood? As I said, he had some with him since the Seven Saints murder.’

‘Maybe he had some blood left from the previous victims.’

‘According to the test results, it’s not Amanda’s blood, it’s not Father Fabian’s blood and it’s not the same blood as the one the killer used on the priest, the pregnant woman’s.’

‘So if your assumptions are correct and the killer really is using the blood of a previous victim to mark his next one, the blood used on the pictures wouldn’t have come from victims two, three or four.’

‘That’s right.’

Garcia leaned against his desk. His eyes studied Hunter for a brief moment. ‘I can see from the look on your face that you don’t believe the blood belongs to the first victim either.’

‘I think the killer keeps only a small amount of victim’s blood so he can number the next one. After that, my guess is that he disposes of what he has left.’

Garcia pinched his chin, his brow creased with worry. ‘If your theory is right, why is he doing it? Why is the killer using the blood of a previous victim to mark the next one?’

Hunter’s eyes widened and he felt his pulse race. ‘He’s linking them together.’

‘The killer’s linking them?’

Hunter nodded. ‘By using their blood on each other, he’s linking victims one and two together, victims two and three and victims three and four. Maybe they were all connected, we don’t know yet. But the killer’s telling us that there is a connection.’

Garcia paused for an instant as a new thought entered his mind. ‘OK, then I’ve got two questions for you. If your theory is correct, then whose blood did the killer use to number the first victim, since there was no previous one? And if you don’t think the killer used the blood of any of the victims to write the number on the back of those two photographs, where do you think the blood came from?’

Hunter stopped by the window and watched the hectic traffic outside for a moment. ‘Maybe the answer to both questions is the same.’

Garcia’s left eyebrow lifted in expectation.

‘The killer used his own blood.’

Seventy-One

Two days before the first murder

He rang the bell and stood waiting at the reception window of an old and derelict hotel in Lynwood, south Los Angeles. It was one of those hotels that rented their rooms by the hour, day, week or month. Any kind of arrangement could be reached, as long as you had the money. No questions asked.

The entry lobby was small and neglected. In fact, it looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years. There were water infiltration stains on the ceiling, cigarette burn marks on the carpet, cobwebs in every corner and the wallpaper was peeling off the walls. He thought places like this existed only in police movies, but this was exactly what he was looking for. A place where no one would notice him.

He rang the desk bell a few more times.

‘OK, OK. Keep your fucking pants on.’ The heavy, southern-accented voice came from behind the wooden partition at the back of the reception office. A few seconds later, a black girl, who couldn’t have been older than eighteen, appeared, followed by a massively overweight man. She was wearing tight blue jeans and a sleeveless yellow cotton blouse and seemed to be in a hurry to get out of there. As she unlocked the door and stepped out into the small lobby, the fat man gave her a sleazy wink while adjusting his elasticated trousers around his balloon waist.

‘Now next week you bring me the rent on time, you hear.’

The girl kept her eyes low, embarrassed, and disappeared up the narrow stairs.

‘What can I do you for?’ the fat man asked, finally coming up to the reception window. He smelled of garlic, and his greasy and thinning hair was in desperate need of a wash and cut.

‘I need a room.’

The fat man stretched his neck out of the reception window and checked the lobby – empty, except for a small suitcase by the man’s feet. When people came looking for a room in his hotel, they usually had a hooker or two hanging from their arms.

‘It’s five bucks an hour, or if you’re feeling like a stag you can get six hours for twenty dollars.’ He used his right index finger’s nail to scrape something off his front teeth.

‘I need the room for a few days. Maybe longer.’

The fat man frowned and looked at the six-foot-two guest skeptically.

‘I’ll pay cash.’

The worried look vanished as the fat man saw an opportunity presenting itself. ‘You know, Christmas is just around the corner and we’re quite busy in here, but I might be able to get you something.’

The guest waited patiently for the fat man to carry on.

‘If you wanna stay for a whole week, I can give you the room for . . .’ He paused, pretending he was calculating the correct amount. ‘Two hundred bucks.’

The guest let out a bizarre laugh, picked his suitcase up and silently made for the door.

‘Wait, wait,’ the fat man called in an urgent voice. ‘OK, I can see you drive a hard bargain. A whole week for one hundred and fifty bucks, what do you say?’

The man thought about it for a moment before pulling four hundred and fifty dollars out of his wallet.

‘I’ll take three weeks. Until New Year’s Day.’

The fat man took the money and counted it eagerly. ‘If you wanna get a real good deal, I can give you a whole month for five hundred bucks. That’s a great price.’

The man calmly returned his wallet to his back pocket and stared at the fat man.

‘OK, OK.’ He lifted his hands in surrender before pushing a guestbook through the window. ‘Just sign your name there and we’re all set.’

The man didn’t move.

Several silent uncomfortable seconds rolled past.

‘OK,’ the receptionist said, picking up on the man’s look. ‘I’ll sign you in as Jim Bob, how’s that? You’ll be the third Jim Bob we have staying here.’ He scribbled something down, threw the guestbook onto his messy desk and grabbed a key. ‘Room 34B,’ he said, handing the key over. ‘Third floor, facing the street. It’s a good room. One of the best we have.’ He let his mouth stretch into a smile, showing stained and dirty teeth. ‘If you need any entertainment.’ He gave the guest the same sleazy wink he’d given the black girl just a few minutes ago. ‘Girls, boys . . . you know what I mean. Just give me a shout. I can hook you up.’

The man wasn’t paying attention to the receptionist anymore. He needed nothing else from the fat man.