Текст книги "The Executioner"

Автор книги: Chris (2) Carter

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Eighty-Seven

Garcia picked Hunter up at 7:00 a.m.

After a marathon of phone calls the night before, Mrs. Adams, Gardena High School’s librarian, had agreed to meet them at the school at 7:30.

‘I found Mollie,’ Hunter said as Garcia joined Hollywood Freeway heading northwest.

The statement caught Garcia by surprise, and he glanced at Hunter. ‘What, really? How?’

‘Actually, she found me. She called me last night.’

‘What did she say? Where is she?’

‘It took some convincing, but I booked her a room at the Travel Inn just a few blocks from my apartment.’

‘You booked her a room? Is she OK?’ Garcia asked, concerned.

‘She’s scared. She was about to run away.’

‘Where to?’

Hunter tilted his head. ‘Anywhere but here.’

Garcia thought about it for a moment. ‘Because of the newspaper article?’

Hunter nodded. ‘She told me a little bit more about herself last night. She was abused in every possible way. She’s terrified her father will find her.’

‘How can you guarantee she won’t run away from us again?’

‘I can’t. But I’m earning her trust.’

Garcia knew no one who inspired trust more than Hunter.

‘I gave her a prepaid cell phone. Our numbers are programmed in and it’s equipped with GPS. I told her never to turn it off.’

They hit heavy traffic as they merged into Harbor Freeway.

‘She had another vision.’

Garcia stared at Hunter in anticipation. ‘A new victim?’

A quick head shake and Garcia let out a relieved breath. ‘What did she see this time?’

Hunter ran through everything Mollie had told him the night before. Traffic started to ooze through, but Garcia didn’t notice.

‘New Year’s Day? What does it mean?’

‘I’m not sure, but Mollie was certain it meant something to the killer. Something important.’

‘Maybe it’s when the killer plans to strike again,’ Garcia ventured.

Hunter closed his eyes and massaged his forehead. ‘Or the day he plans to end it. Maybe it means that they’ll all be dead by New Year’s Day.’

‘All? How many is all?’

‘I’m not sure, but whatever she meant by New Year’s Day, it doesn’t give us much time.’

‘Nine days, to be exact.’

Hunter understood and shared Garcia’s frustration. So far they had nothing concrete, no real leads, just suppositions based on the little they knew and the visions of a seventeen-year-old girl.

Angry drivers sounded their horns. Garcia inched his car forward.

‘Did she see any reasoning behind any of this? Why the killer is going after these people? Anything to do with the schools or the students at all?’

A quick head shake.

They drove the rest of the way in silence.

Eighty-Eight

Hunter and Garcia arrived at Gardena High fifteen minutes late.

Mrs. Adams was a plump, cheery-looking woman of almost sixty with perfectly coiffed silver hair and a heartwarming smile. She was glad to help and directed both detectives to an archives room filled with storage boxes at the back of the library.

‘The boxes are all labeled by year.’ Mrs. Adams’s voice was as sweet as her pale green eyes.

Hunter turned to her. She was almost a foot shorter than him. ‘Thank you very much for your kindness, Mrs. Adams. We’ll be OK now.’

She hesitated at the door.

‘We won’t make a mess.’ Hunter smiled. ‘I promise.’

‘If you need me, I’ll be in the main library floor.’ She closed the door behind her.

From a folder he’d brought with him, Hunter retrieved the picture of the four girls Garcia had gotten from the old storage room the day before. He placed it on a large table in the center of the room. He also retrieved the male photograph they’d found on the fireplace in the house in Malibu. If the second victim had been a student in Gardena High, there was a chance so had the first one.

‘This was taken in 1985.’ Hunter pointed to the girls’ photo. ‘Let’s include that year and go two above and one below – from ’84 to ’87.’

Garcia frowned.

‘Just because these girls hung out together doesn’t necessarily mean they were in the same class,’ Hunter explained.

They pulled the relevant boxes out of the shelves and it didn’t take them long to find four black and white thirty-six– by twenty-four-millimeter photographs of the graduating classes. Hunter started at the top, class of ’87, the year Amanda Reilly would’ve graduated if she hadn’t dropped out of school. There were a hundred and twenty-six tightly packed students in the photo.

Using a magnifying glass, he took his time jumping from the graduating photo to the girls and the unidentified first victim one, comparing every face until he was sure.

Nothing.

He moved on to the next picture, and the slow, comparing process started again. Twenty-five frustrating minutes later, Hunter struck gold.

‘I found her.’

‘Who?’ Garcia looked up excitedly.

‘Our victim number two.’ Hunter turned the picture around and pointed to a girl hidden behind two quarterback-looking boys on the second to last line of students. Only her face was visible.

Garcia used his magnifying glass, his eyes bouncing between pictures. ‘It’s her alright.’

Hunter consulted the name sheet attached to the back of the photo. ‘Her name’s Debbie Howard.’ He quickly got on the phone to Hopkins with the news, asking him to dig out everything he could on Miss Howard.

It took Garcia another twenty-five minutes to find the first of the remaining two girls – Emily Wells, class of ’84. Fifteen minutes later Hunter spotted the last one – Jessica Pierce, class of ’85. They’d been through all the pictures as thoroughly as they could. Victim number one wasn’t in any of them. They were both very sure of it.

Emily Wells and Jessica Pierce’s names were immediately passed on to Hopkins and the Investigative Analysis Unit.

‘Find them,’ was all Hunter said.

Eighty-Nine

The address they had for Patricia Reed, Father Fabian’s old algebra 2 teacher, was in Pomona, the fifth-largest city in Los Angeles County and home to the famous California State Polytechnic University (Cal Poly). In stop-and-go traffic, the drive from Gardena Senior High took them an hour and a half.

Minnequa Drive was a quiet street about ten minutes away from Cal Poly, and they had no problem finding the building they were looking for. Modern in style and set back from the street, the large two-story house was fronted by several perfectly trimmed hedges, a small patch of grass to the left and a two-car garage to the right. A black Dodge Journey was parked in the lavish black-and-white-checked paved driveway.

‘Wow, this is quite a nice retirement home,’ Garcia said, parking on the street in front of the house. ‘Nice ride too.’

They climbed the railed granite steps that led to the front door and rang the bell. After a few moments it was answered by a diminutive, wiry Mexican woman in her thirties dressed in a uniform like a hotel maid’s. Her black hair was bundled tightly under a hairnet.

‘Good morning,’ Hunter said with a pleasant smile, quickly returning his badge to his pocket. He knew from experience that many private house workers in LA were illegal immigrants. A police badge only causes them to panic. ‘We’re looking for Mrs. Reed.’

‘Mista Reed?’ the maid replied in heavy accented English, returning the smile.

‘No, no. Mrs. Reed. Patricia Reed.’

‘Ah. No hay. No Mrs. Reed.’

‘What do you mean, no Mrs. Reed? She isn’t home?’

‘No. Ella se ha ido para siempre.’

Hunter frowned. ‘She’s gone forever?’

‘What’s the problem, Emilia?’ A man in his early forties dressed in a gray pinstripe wool suit with a light blue tab-collar shirt and a blue-on-blue striped tie appeared at the end of the entrance hall. He was tall, well built and movie-star handsome, with dark blue eyes and a strong, squared jaw.

The maid turned to face him. ‘Creo que estos señores están en busca de su madre, Mr. Reed.’

‘Esta bien, Emilia, tranquilo. I’ll talk to them.’ He motioned her to go back to her duties.

‘Good morning, gentlemen. I’m James Reed,’ the man said as he got to the door. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I understand by what Emilia said that Patricia Reed is your mother?’ Hunter asked in a polite tone.

‘I thought you said you didn’t understand Spanish,’ Garcia said under his breath.

‘Patricia Reed was my mother. She passed away five months ago.’

‘We’re sorry to hear that. We didn’t know.’

‘What’s this about, gentlemen?’

Hunter and Garcia introduced themselves, going over the customary badge-displaying ritual.

‘We were hoping to ask her a few questions about one of her old students from Compton High,’ Hunter said.

A look of interest came over Reed’s face. ‘What year are you talking about?’

‘1984, 1985?’

‘I was a student at Compton High in ’84. It was my freshman year. I graduated in 1987.’

‘Really?’ Hunter’s interest grew. ‘Would you mind looking at some pictures for us? Maybe you might remember them.’

Reed checked his watch and screwed up his face. ‘I’m a professor at Cal Poly. I’m due in class soon. I’ve got only about an hour before I have to leave. Could you come back later this evening, maybe?’

‘It shouldn’t take more than ten, fifteen minutes max,’ Hunter pressed.

‘I’ve got some papers I still have to go over. I have very little time.’

‘It’s very important, Mr. Reed,’ Hunter stated.

Reed studied both men before relenting. ‘Please come in,’ he said, showing them inside.

Ninety

James Reed’s living room had a hardwood floor and an L-shaped sofa that faced a large wall-mounted flat-screen TV. The curtains were drawn shut. The only light came from a single pedestal lamp in a corner, positioned to illuminate a large round table. On it, thousands of pieces of an unfinished jigsaw puzzle were perfectly separated into color groups. All the border pieces had already been assembled, forming a large rectangular frame. Reed was an aficionado and very organized, Hunter noted.

‘Seven and a half thousand pieces,’ Reed confirmed, following Hunter’s gaze. ‘It won’t take me long to finish it,’ he admitted proudly. ‘I only started it yesterday. Do you like jigsaw puzzles, detective?’

Hunter looked up from the pieces on the table. ‘I do.’

‘There’s no better exercise for a human’s analytical and visual mind.’ Reed paused by the table. His eyes studied the pieces and he picked one up, slotting it into place at the top right-hand corner. ‘It’s also very therapeutic,’ he said before motioning both detectives to the seating area.

Hunter and Garcia sat on the sofa while Reed took the antique-looking chair facing them.

‘Is it a particular student you’re after?’ Read asked, crossing his legs and resting his hands on his knees.

‘Yes,’ Hunter replied, placing the old Compton High yearbook on the glass coffee table in front of them and flipping it open. ‘He wasn’t from your year. Three years your senior. His name’s Brett Stewart Nichols.’

James Reed tensed and shuffled on his seat.

‘This is him.’ Hunter pointed to the photograph in the center of the page – a skinny kid with wild black hair and energetic dark brown eyes.

Reed made no effort to look at it. His unflinching eyes stayed on Hunter. ‘I don’t need to look at the picture. I remember him.’

‘What do you remember about him?’

Reed ran a hand over his mouth a couple of times as he searched for the right words. ‘He . . . wasn’t a very nice person.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What did he do, detective? Did he kill someone? That wouldn’t surprise me. In school he could easily have been classed as a psychopath in the making.’

Neither detectives were expecting that statement.

‘Why do you say that? Can you tell us a little more about him?’

Reed leaned back, his shoulders tense. ‘He was a bully. He didn’t go to school to learn. School was just a place full of weaker kids he and his friends could push around.’

‘Did he push you around?’ Hunter watched every subtle movement and reaction.

Reed chuckled nervously before retrieving a cherry ChapStick from his pocket and running it over his lips. ‘They pushed everyone around. It didn’t matter what grade you were in. They didn’t care. People were scared of them.’

‘Scared?’

‘You know, when the word bully was used back then, people just imagined a foul-mouthed pupil calling other students names. Maybe teasing them because they were a little overweight or dressed funny or weren’t very good at sports, but not Brett and his friends. If you could imagine a modern-day street gangster with a severe attitude problem being taken back in time, then you’d probably come close to what kind of person Brett was.’ Reed paused and scratched his chin apprehensively. ‘There was this girl I remember. Katherine, I think her name was. She wasn’t in my class. I was a freshman, she was a junior, but I remember she was quite shy, very chubby, always by herself. She wasn’t an attractive girl – strange, hawk-like nose, unaligned teeth, bad hair and deep-set eyes behind big thick glasses. Brett and his friends loved tormenting her. Every time they saw her they’d make loud pig noises and call her names. Anyway, one day, I think it was during fifth period, they followed her into a bathroom and while she was in her cubicle, from over the partition of the adjacent one, they poured a bucket of human excrement over her.’

Garcia grimaced.

‘Did anyone see Brett doing it?’ Hunter asked.

‘No, but everyone knew no one else in Compton High would’ve been capable of something like that.’

‘Nobody ever notified the authorities or the school principal?’ Garcia asked.

‘I don’t think there were any witnesses to that specific incident.’

‘How about bullying in general?’ Hunter asked. ‘Did they simply get away with it all the time?’

Reed looked at Hunter. ‘Do you understand how bullying works, detective?’

Hunter met his stare. ‘Yes. Intimidation.’

‘That’s right, intimidation, and they were very good at it. In and out of school. They’d do things like what they did to this Katherine girl just for fun. No reason, no major grudge against anyone, just because they liked pushing people around and it made them laugh. Imagine what they’d do if you crossed them and they wanted to get back at you.’

‘This gang you refer to, how many were there? Could you point them out to us?’ Hunter pushed the yearbook towards Reed.

‘I can’t really remember.’ Reed shrugged, ignoring the book. ‘It was twenty-five years ago. I was a freshman, Brett was a senior. I tried my best to keep out of their way, as did everyone else. But Brett wasn’t the worst one. He wasn’t the—’ he drew quotation marks in the air ‘—leader.’

Hunter exchanged a quick look with Garcia. ‘So who was?’

Reed pinched his lip for a moment. ‘You still haven’t told me what this is about, detective. Is he wanted for questioning?’

‘Not exactly,’ Hunter replied.

Reed studied Hunter and Garcia. ‘Wait a minute. You guys are homicide, right? Did someone finally kill Brett?’ A thin smile played on his lips.

‘Do you think someone would have reason to?’

‘Did you listen to anything I said?’ Reed frowned. ‘They terrorized everyone in that school. Some students and at least one teacher quit Compton High because of them. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if they became hardened criminals after they left school.’

Hunter leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘Would it surprise you if I told you Brett Stewart Nichols became a Catholic priest?’

Reed stared at both detectives. ‘Are you serious?’

No reply.

‘They say redemption isn’t beyond anyone, but yes, that would surprise me immensely.’

‘The leader,’ Garcia questioned again, pushing the open yearbook closer to Reed. ‘Who was he?’

Reed’s eyes finally drifted towards the book. For a minute he flipped through the pages before pausing and glaring at a picture on the bottom left-hand corner for a long while. A nervous muscle flexed on his jaw as he tapped the photo with his right index finger.

‘Him.’

Ninety-One

The picture Reed had pointed out showed a pale-faced boy with full lips, cat-like menacing dark eyes and shoulder-length black hair. The name under the picture read Peter Elder.

Hunter wrote the name down in his black notebook. ‘What do you remember about him?’

‘I already told you. They were bullies and I stayed out of their way. There’s nothing else I can say.’

‘Anyone else you recognize?’ Garcia pressed. ‘The rest of their gang, maybe?’

‘No,’ Reed said curtly, closing the yearbook with a thump and pushing it back in Hunter’s direction.

‘How about any of these girls?’ Hunter showed Reed the photograph of Amanda Reilly’s girl group.

Reed looked at it attentively for almost a minute before shaking his head. ‘No, I never saw them in school.’ His eyes stayed on the picture.

‘They weren’t students at Compton High. I was wondering if you might’ve seen them hanging around outside school, maybe with Brett and Peter’s gang?’

‘We’re talking twentysomething years ago, detective. Unfortunately, I don’t have a photographic memory. And as I said, I did everything I could to stay out of their way.’ Reed checked his watch. ‘This has gone way over fifteen minutes, detective. I really have to get going.’

‘As a teacher, your mother suspended Brett seven times, didn’t she?’ Hunter pushed.

‘That’s right.’ The answer came with a hint of indignation. ‘My mother was a very good and proud teacher. She always did what she thought should be done in any given situation. She refused to be intimidated by anyone, never mind a pushy student.’

‘Did he threaten her after he was suspended?’

‘Brett and Peter didn’t threat. They acted.’ The muscle in his jaw flexed again.

‘What did he do?’

The question made Reed edgy. ‘Gentlemen, I really have to go. I have a class to teach.’ He sprang to his feet, and both detectives stood. Reed motioned his guests towards the door.

As Hunter walked past the large table with the jigsaw puzzle he paused, studied the pieces for a few seconds, reached for one and slotted it in place.

Reed glared at him.

‘Lucky guess,’ Hunter said, shrugging.

At the door Reed’s eyes narrowed and a look of recognition came over his face. ‘Wait a second. Now I remember where I’ve seen you two before. You were in the paper yesterday. The Tarot Cops, right? Something to do with enlisting the help of a young girl who claims to be psychic.’

‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers,’ Garcia shot back.

‘A priest was killed, isn’t that right?’ Reed continued. ‘Decapitated? The papers are calling the killer the Executioner. You said Brett became a Catholic priest. Was he the one who was killed?’ A flicker of satisfaction flashed in his eyes.

Hunter zipped up his jacket and nodded. ‘Yes, Brett Stewart Nichols was savagely murdered.’ He waited for a reaction from Reed but got none. ‘Thanks for your time and help, Mr. Reed.’

‘All the best with your investigation, detective.’ Reed closed the door calmly. A satisfied smile spread across his thin, ascetic face.

Outside, Hunter reached for his phone and called Hopkins again. ‘Ian, listen, there’s one more thing I need you to investigate . . .’

Ninety-Two

Today was an important and proud day for young police officer Shauna Williams. It was her first-ever solo patrol.

Shauna was born in Inglewood, a tough neighborhood in southwestern LA. The youngest of four siblings, she was also the only girl. In school, contrary to all her brothers, she was dedicated and studious. Her grades only occasionally fell under B+. Tall and athletic, Shauna played shooting guard for the basketball team and third base in varsity softball. She was the first and only of all four Williams to ever graduate from high school. Maybe, if things had turned out differently, she would’ve also been the first in her family to have ever gone to university.

Shauna knew her brothers were involved in bad things, she just didn’t know how bad. It’s hard to grow up in an underprivileged neighborhood in a city like Los Angeles and not be affected by the crazy gang culture that rules the streets. Being African-American, for some reason, seemed to make it even harder. She’ll never forget the night she opened the door to a couple of police officers who’d come to give her parents the worst news any parent can ever get. All three of her brothers had been gunned down inside a stolen vehicle in what looked to be a gang retaliation hit. She had just turned nineteen.

Shauna gave up her dream of university and months later, after passing the recruitment tests, she joined the LAPD academy.

The six months of rigorous training that followed didn’t bother her and Shauna graduated top of her class. Her ambition was to make detective or the SWAT team.

Shauna was assigned to the West Bureau Pacific Division and paired up with a more experienced officer, twelve years her senior. She’s been out of the academy for only five months, but she was a quick learner, very intelligent and extremely focused. Lieutenant Cooper thought it was time Shauna did a few rounds by herself, and when her partner called in sick this morning, Cooper saw it as the perfect opportunity.

Shauna received a call from dispatch about a teenage disturbance near Marina Del Rey, just a few blocks away from where she was. The disturbance turned out to be nothing more than a couple of drunken kids making a mess and burning off steam near an abandoned construction site. Shauna was able to tactfully and quickly de-escalate the situation. As she returned to her vehicle, something caught her eye. A black Cadillac Escalade half hidden behind the unfinished building. She remembered an All Points Bulletin that circulated the day before about a black Cadillac car that’d been taken out from a dealer’s in West Hollywood for a test drive and never went back. She checked her in-car computer – the plates matched.

Shauna called dispatch requesting more information and was told that the salesman, an African-American citizen named Darnell Douglas, had taken the car out for a quick test drive with a potential buyer. They had no information on who the customer was. No dangerous warnings had been issued. Shauna told dispatch that she was going to investigate.

The car’s bodywork was intact – no bumps, no scratches. It didn’t look to have been involved in any sort of accident. The doors were all locked. Shauna used her flashlight to illuminate the car’s interior through the tinted windows – nothing suspect. The car was parked on a cemented area. No footprints showed around the vehicle.

Calling dispatch again, Shauna told them she was going into the building to make sure neither Darnell nor the unidentified customer were inside and in need of assistance. She’d call them back if she found anything.

The first room was large and full of construction debris. The air inside was heavy with the pungent fragrance of urine.

‘Hello?’ she called in a loud and firm voice. ‘Anyone in here?’

No sound. Thick, once-clear plastic sheets had been used as a cheap substitute for doors. Shauna used her flashlight to push the ugly drapes aside and moved into the next room.

‘Darnell, are you in here? LAPD. Anyone in need of assistance?’

Nothing.

Shauna cautiously moved deeper into the abandoned building. The further she went, the darker it got, the staler the air became – another empty room, and then another, and then another. Everything was quiet, but instinct told her something was wrong. She was about to go back when a gust of wind shifted a dirty plastic sheet door at the entrance to a room on the south wall. She caught a glimpse of something and her skin crawled.

Cop training took over, and Shauna reached for her gun before nervously moving towards the door in baby steps.

‘Hello, Darnell?’

No reply.

‘LAPD. Anyone in there?’

Silence.

Using her flashlight, she lifted the plastic sheet and stepped inside.

Shauna vomited five seconds later.