Текст книги "The Executioner"

Автор книги: Chris (2) Carter

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Hundred and Three

‘Which two have been killed?’ Elder’s cold voice had softened a touch.

‘Do you remember any of them?’ Hunter pressed.

Elder looked up, and his piercing eyes rested on Hunter. He blinked quickly a couple of times as if to clear his vision. The edges of his mouth curled up. ‘You’re the one who’s on a tight schedule, cop.’ The monotone was back. ‘Trying to catch a killer and all. I already know my fate. I ain’t ever coming out of here. You can play games all you like, it doesn’t bother me. Maybe I do remember them, but first I wanna know which two have been killed.’

Peter Elder needed a reason to help. From the way he stared at Amanda Reilly, it was clear he was struggling with an emotion he hadn’t felt in too many years. And the picture had certainly stirred some of it back to life. Hunter decided to gamble. ‘The last two girls on the right – Debbie Howard and Jessica Pierce.’

Elder’s face relaxed a fraction with relief. Hunter was certain he’d gambled correctly – time to roll the dice one more time. ‘The others are all in danger, as is everyone who was part of your street group. We have reason to believe the next one on the killer’s list will be the second girl from the left – Amanda Reilly. Do you know her?’

Peter Elder tensed. ‘If you believe she’s gonna be the next victim, why don’t you protect her?’

‘We can’t find her. We think she’s running scared. Our best chance is to catch the killer before he strikes again. We know those girls knew each other, but we still don’t have a link between them and Brett.’

‘And how will that help?’

Hunter leaned forward. ‘Look, I know you guys bullied a few kids when you were young; it happens in every school in America. From what we have so far, it looks like that for some reason one of the kids you pushed around back then decided it’s payback time.’

Elder frowned. ‘That was about twenty-five years ago.’

‘Some people don’t ever forget.’

‘But these girls weren’t Compton High students. Why would the killer go after them?’

Hunter explained his street gang theory.

Elder used both hands to scratch his forehead. ‘So you need me to confirm if you got it right. A pushed-around kid who decided to get his own back on our little gang.’

Hunter nodded.

‘You didn’t.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your theory is bullshit, cop.’ Elder allowed his eyes to study the picture again and they mellowed. ‘Some of us did hang out together.’ He pointed to the last girl on the right. ‘Debbs, one of the girls you said was killed, was one of them, and so was Mandy.’ He pointed to Amanda Reilly. ‘But this other girl who died, what did you say her name was?’

‘Jessica Pierce.’

‘I’ve never even seen her before. She didn’t hang out with us; neither did the other one. So this killer of yours can’t be going after my old street gang.’

‘Your old gang – how many were you?’

Elder thought about it for a moment. ‘Eight, counting me.’

Hunter pulled a new picture from his folder and slid it across the table. Elder switched his gaze from the girls’ photo to the new one – a slender man with neatly trimmed fair hair leaning casually against a white wall. The one they got from the house in Malibu – the still unidentified first victim. Hunter observed Elder’s eyes and expression. The recognition came within five seconds.

‘He was the first victim,’ Hunter announced.

Elder remained silent.

‘Was he part of your street gang?’

Elder returned his clasped hands to his lap and considered what to say. ‘Strutter was the craziest motherfucker I’d ever met.’

Hundred and Four

Hunter’s brow creased slightly. ‘Strutter?’ he asked.

‘That’s what we called him. He was a huge Kiss fan and “Strutter” was his favorite song.’

‘Good song,’ Hunter agreed.

The smile that came to Elder’s lips was genuine. ‘He was a bad motherfucker, but a very cool guy. If there was a leader in the group, he’d be it. Strutter wasn’t scared of shit, except wasps. He was very allergic to them. If one came flying around, Strutter was out of there like lightning.’

‘Was he a student at Compton High?’

The smile turned into a laugh. ‘Strutter wouldn’t be caught dead inside a school. He hated the whole education thing. He used to say he could learn everything he’d ever need from the streets.’ He studied the picture once again and shook his head almost sadly.

‘What was his real name?’

‘Fucked if I know, cop.’ Elder chuckled. ‘We just knew each other from the streets. I knew Brett’s name because we were in school together. In the streets we called everyone by their nicknames – Strutter.’ He pointed to the picture before moving to the girls’ one. ‘Mandy, Debbs. Brett was BS, and that didn’t mean Brett Stewart. I was Kicker and then there were JayJay, Double D and Lipz.’ Elder noticed Hunter’s intrigued look and clarified. ‘JayJay was a crazy, skinny fucker, Double D an all-dancing, all-jiving black dude and Lipz a very hot Puerto Rican girl. She had the sexiest lips I’ve ever seen or kissed.’ He smiled as he remembered.

‘And you never called them by their real names?’

‘Not really,’ he replied coolly. ‘I don’t think I ever knew Strutter or JayJay’s real name. Lipz’s one was too strange for me to pronounce. Double D’s was something like Darnell or Darrell or something like that.’

Double D – Darnell Douglas. Hunter chose not to mention anything for now. His urgency was in identifying the two remaining members of Elder’s old gang. ‘How about JayJay and Lipz? Were they students at Compton High?’

‘Nope.’

‘Were they like Strutter, street kids?’

‘No, they did go to school somewhere, but it wasn’t Compton High. I didn’t fucking know and I didn’t fucking care. We all hated school anyway. I think they both flunked out of it just like me.’

Hunter pulled one last item from his file, the Compton High yearbook. ‘Could I ask you just one more thing?’ He placed the book in front of Elder, who arched an eyebrow. ‘Could you have a look at this yearbook and point out the students you guys pushed around the most?’

‘Why? I already told you your theory is shit. Your killer killed a girl who wasn’t part of the gang.’

Time to play the last card. Hunter retrieved a photograph of Darnell Douglas and placed it on the table. ‘Do you recognize him?’

From his leaned-back position Elder lowered his eyes to the picture, studying it for a moment. A few seconds later his relaxed expression morphed into a frown. He craned his body forward and picked the picture up with both hands.

‘Motherfucker. It’s Double D,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘He put on some weight.’

Hunter took a deep breath. ‘He was found murdered yesterday.’

Elder’s head snapped up.

‘It was the same killer.’ Hunter had to think quickly. ‘Maybe Jessica Pierce wasn’t part of your gang, but she might’ve pushed him around anyway. Maybe the killer had a crush on her and she made fun of him, embarrassed him in front of others.’ Hunter pointed to the pictures again. ‘Brett, Strutter, Double D and the girls’ paths never crossed in their adult lives. You all went your different ways. Nothing connects the five victims except their school days and your old gang. That’s no coincidence.’

Elder’s left eye twitched slightly.

‘We can still save them.’ Hunter tapped the girls’ picture, making sure his finger landed on Amanda Reilly. ‘But they need your help.’ He extended his hand offering the convict a blue crayon.

Elder paused for a long instant before taking the crayon and drawing a circle on the table around the yearbook. ‘There you go. We messed with just about everyone in that school.’

‘OK, how about if you narrow it down to the ones you messed with not only in but outside school as well? Just the ones your gang pushed around.’

‘Why should I give a shit? None of them ever came to visit me. They didn’t give a fuck for how I was doing. Not even BS came to see me. He was my best friend.’

Hunter tried to think of something he could say. He could lie and tell Elder that it wasn’t true. That Brett and Amanda had requested visitation rights but were denied. But that would play in Elder’s mind until his last days, and no one deserved that kind of psychological torture. ‘I can’t answer that question,’ he finally said. ‘Only you can find a reason why you should care.’

The silence that followed as they stared at each other seemed interminable.

‘This could take a fucking long while, cop,’ Elder said, flipping open the yearbook and reaching for the crayon.

Hundred and Five

Hunter was on the phone to Doctor Winston as soon as he left CCI. The autopsy had confirmed their suspicions. Darnell Douglas had died of severe blood loss. Toxicology showed he’d been injected with succinylcholine, a paralyzing agent used for surgery that doesn’t affect the nervous system. The subject wouldn’t be able to move, but he’d still feel everything. The black Cadillac found outside the crime scene gave the forensic team nothing; not even Darnell’s prints were found. The killer had done a thorough job of wiping the car clean.

It took Hunter just short of two hours to drive back to LA. At Parker Center he went straight down to the basement and the Investigative Analysis Unit. Hopkins wasn’t at his desk and neither was Jack Kerley. Hunter called the young officer’s cell phone.

‘Ian, where the fuck are you?’

‘I’m at the morgue.’

‘What the hell are you doing there?’

‘Going over personal possessions’ inventories. They’re handwritten forms, remember? I can’t search them using a computer.’

‘Well, get someone else to go over the forms for now. I need you back at the RHD.’

‘OK, I’m on my way.’

Garcia was at his desk going over a few files when Hunter entered the office.

‘How did it go with Peter Elder?’ he asked eagerly.

Hunter quickly summarized his interview while checking the fax Doctor Winston had sent.

‘Debbie Howard’s case files only got here this morning from Lancaster,’ Garcia said, making a face and handing Hunter some of the documents he’d been studying for the past hour.

Hunter took them and sat at his desk, quickly flipping through the crime-scene pictures and frowning several times in the process.

‘Do we have an autopsy file?’

‘The green folder on your desk.’

Hunter scanned it. ‘According to the autopsy report, Debbie Howard drowned.’ He arched his eyebrows at his partner. ‘The crime-scene pictures show her inside an empty bathtub.’

Garcia handed him a new file. ‘Debbie’s husband, Jonathan Hale’s account of events. He found the body.’

Hunter read his statement in silence.

Jonathan Hale had been out of town for four days on an architects’ convention. His flight back from Dallas on 13 December was delayed by three hours, and by the time he made it home from the airport it was past midnight. He didn’t manage to get through to Debbie on the phone, but he left her a voice message explaining about the delay. Debbie worked late more nights than not, so finding the house quiet with the lights turned off didn’t come as a surprise to Jonathan. The burglar alarm was armed and there was no sign of a break-in. He spent some time in the kitchen preparing a sandwich and a cup of coffee before making his way up to their room. The room looked tidy and unperturbed. No sign of any struggle. He walked into the bathroom to get cleaned up and that’s when his life shattered.

Debbie Howard was naked, hanging from her feet upside down over their large bathtub. Only her head and shoulders were submerged in water. Jonathan panicked, jumping into the tub and trying to lift her lifeless body. He cut her down and sat hugging her for what must’ve been at least an hour before emptying the tub and calling the police.

‘By cutting her down and emptying the bathtub, Jonathan Hale completely destroyed most of the evidence from the crime scene,’ Garcia said as Hunter reached the end of the file.

‘It’s understandable, though,’ Hunter said, rubbing his eyes. ‘You come home to find your wife hanging upside down in your bathroom, her head submerged in water, what do you do?’

Garcia’s eyes saddened, and Hunter knew he was thinking of Anna.

‘Most people would do what Jonathan did. They’d go to her and hug her . . . and cry . . . and ask why. Preserving the crime scene didn’t even enter his mind.’

Garcia let out a deep, heartfelt sigh, and the room went silent for a short moment. ‘Check the autopsy report again,’ he said. ‘At the bottom of the first page.’

Hunter glanced at it. ‘She was pregnant.’

Hundred and Six

Garcia used his index finger to rub between his eyebrows. ‘Three weeks,’ he confirmed.

‘Has the lab tested her blood against the one used to draw the number three on Father Fabian’s chest?’

‘No. This was two weeks ago, and though the investigation is still ongoing, Jonathan Hale, with the support of the DA’s office, did everything he could to get the body released. She was cremated two days ago.’

‘Fantastic,’ Hunter said, running his fingers through his hair.

‘It doesn’t matter, Robert. She was pregnant just as you said the second victim would be,’ Garcia said in a more animated tone. ‘Her picture was left in Amanda Reilly’s crime scene by the killer, who drew the number two on the back of it. I don’t think there’s much doubt Debbie Howard was a victim of this same lunatic.’

‘It’s dismissive to think this killer is a lunatic. Don’t make that mistake, Carlos.’

Garcia picked up a new sheet of paper from his desk. ‘In a later interview, Jonathan Hale said Debbie was petrified of water. I mean, going into deep water. We live in a tropical weather city where the sun shines almost throughout the year. They were a very well-off family. Their house is massive, but it’s the only one in their street without a swimming pool. The reason for it is because Debbie never wanted one. She wouldn’t even go close to pools or the beach or anything. Apparently, she came this close to drowning when she was young.’ He brought his thumb and index finger close together. ‘Just like the other victims, Robert, she was killed in the way that scared her the most. As you said, this guy goes after their fears.’

Hunter thought about it for a second. ‘He cut her down,’ he whispered. ‘That’s why no one found the number two on her body.’ He stood up, approached the nonmagnetic marker board and started drawing on it.

‘Debbie is hanging upside down over her bathtub.’ He used a stickman to represent her. ‘Her husband comes in and finds her this way. He panics and cuts her down, but the bathtub is still full of water.’

Garcia took a step closer. ‘Jonathan allowed her body to splash into the tub.’

‘If there was a number drawn on her body, it got washed off.’

‘But why not just force her head into the tub and hold it there like we see it in the movies? Why take the time to hang her upside down and all? The drowning effect would’ve been the same.’

‘No, it wouldn’t,’ Hunter disagreed. ‘We have no pictures, but the report says that only her head and shoulders were submerged.’

‘That’s correct.’

‘If this killer goes after his victims’ fears, how would he exploit the fact that Debbie Howard was petrified of water? How could he really terrify her?’

Garcia rubbed his face as he stared at the crude stickman drawing. ‘Christ . . .’ He turned to face Hunter as he realized. ‘The tub was empty when he strung Debbie from the wooden beam on the ceiling.’

Hunter nodded. ‘I’m sure of it.’

‘Shit. Debbie knew her head was way past the bathtub’s edge. She could see the water creeping up slowly. She felt it as it wet her hair and forehead and it just kept coming. She had to watch her worst nightmare slowly becoming a reality.’

‘The killer could’ve tortured her even more by stopping the water just as it reached the top of her nose—’ Hunter took over again ‘—forcing her to breathe only through her mouth for a while. But even a calm person in an upright position would’ve found that hard to do, never mind a terrified woman hanging upside down knowing she was about to die. Her drowning was slow and very painful.’

‘That’s fucking creepy,’ Garcia said, screwing up his face.

‘It’s what the killer does,’ Hunter continued. ‘He sat and watched Amanda Reilly cook to death for two days. He slowly and patiently extracted two and a half liters of blood from Darnell Douglas, ten millileters at a time, before stabbing the syringes into his body. I’m sure he watched Debbie Howard drown, and he’d want to make it last. He wanted the torture.’

Garcia shuddered. ‘I’m glad I wasn’t a bully when I was in school. You never know what kind of freaks people may grow up to be.’

Hunter flipped through the autopsy photographs again but stopped halfway through the pile. ‘She had a venipuncture mark on her right arm,’ he announced, lifting one of the pictures to show Garcia and checking the coroner’s notes. ‘Probably acquired on the same day of her death.’

Garcia nodded. ‘The killer needed her blood.’

‘Exactly. Debbie drowned. No spillage of blood for the killer to collect. And he needed blood to draw the number on his next victim – Father Fabian. We need to talk to Jonathan Hale.’

‘Well, that’s gonna be a problem,’ Garcia admitted.

‘Why?’

‘He’s spending Christmas at his parents’ house far away from here.’

‘How far away?’

‘Tennessee.’

‘Damn.’

A knock came to the door.

‘Come in,’ Garcia called.

Hopkins stepped into the room with his usual blue folder under his arm.

‘I found him.’

Hundred and Seven

‘Who did you find?’ Hunter asked. His and Garcia’s stare locked on Hopkins, who frowned as his eyes rested on the stickman drawings on the board.

‘You guys playing hangman?’

‘Never mind the drawings, Ian,’ Hunter answered. ‘Who did you find?’

Hopkins smiled. ‘Victim number one. Just after you called me at the morgue, I came across the file. White male, six-three, two hundred pounds. Only person we found who had an LA Lakers commemorative NBA final champion’s watch. The body was taken in three weeks ago.’ He shook his head. ‘Not a pretty sight. And you won’t believe how he died.’

‘Let me guess,’ Hunter cut him short. ‘Wasp stings.’

Hopkins and Garcia stared at Hunter. ‘How the hell did you know that?’

Hunter explained about Peter Elder identifying Strutter, him being the leader of their street gang and the fact that he was allergic to wasps’ venom and very scared of them.

‘Well, the killer did a great job. This is what he looked like when they found him chained to a wall in his own basement in Culver City.’

Hopkins handed Hunter a photograph, and he cringed as he stared at it.

Seated on the floor, naked, with his back against a brick wall, his arms chained by the wrists and extended high above his head, was the badly deformed body of a man. His face had puffed up grotesquely, with both of his eyes swollen shut. His lips had inflamed so severely they’d cracked where the skin could stretch no more. His nose was an undistinguishable red ball, so large the nostrils had sealed. The brutal swelling extended to his arms and the rest of his body where small, pinprick-like black dots were visible just about everywhere. He looked like an over-inflated rubber doll. His right ankle had been broken, the bone protruding through the skin. Three nails had been hammered into his right knee. On his chest, a long, vertical splash of blood.

‘There’s our number one,’ Hunter said, showing Garcia the photo.

‘No wonder no one recognized it as important,’ Garcia commented. ‘It looks more like the victim hemorrhaged from the mouth and it dripped onto his chest.’

‘The autopsy report says the subject had a systemic reaction and died from anaphylactic shock induced by his severe allergy to wasps’ venom,’ Hopkins explained. ‘The killer chained him to the wall and locked him in his basement, but not before retrieving a large wasps’ nest from a wooden box and exploding it on the floor next to him. He was stung over five hundred times. They found wasps in his mouth, down his throat and even in his stomach.’

Garcia rubbed his face as if in agony. ‘I hate wasps.’

‘Do we have a name?’

Hopkins nodded. ‘Gregory Carlson. I just found him, so I haven’t had time to gather a file on him, but I don’t think it’ll take me long,’ he announced before Hunter asked.

‘Good. Find whatever you can as soon as you can.’

‘I need to know,’ Hopkins said curiously. ‘What are the stick-man drawings for?’

Garcia quickly explained how they figured out why no one had found the number two drawn on Debbie Howard’s body.

‘It makes sense,’ Hopkins agreed and flipped a page in his notebook. ‘I’m trying, but I still haven’t found the two remaining girls from that Gardena High picture—’

‘We can probably put them on the back burner for now,’ Hunter interrupted him. ‘The killer won’t be going after them.’

‘Why not?’

Hunter told them how his bluff with Peter Elder had almost turned sour.

‘So they weren’t part of the gang?’

‘Out of that picture, only Amanda and Debbie. And unfortunately we’re too late for them.’

‘Yeah, but that confirms your theory,’ Hopkins said excitedly. ‘The killer is definitely going after the members of this street gang.’

‘It looks that way. And that leaves us with three remaining members. Peter Elder, who’s in CCI and a very hard target to get to.’

‘He got life,’ Hopkins said. ‘The killer doesn’t have to get to him. His fate is already sealed.’

‘We also have a Caucasian male they used to call JayJay,’ Hunter continued. ‘And a Puerto Rican woman they called Lipz.’

Garcia stretched his body. ‘If that’s all we have on them, they’ll be hard to find. Even if they’re still on the streets, their nicknames are too common.’

‘I understand,’ Hunter agreed. ‘But we’ve got something else to go on.’ He handed Hopkins the Compton High yearbook. ‘This is why I needed you back here. Peter Elder has highlighted a few pictures in there. Those were the students they bullied the most. The ones bullied by their gang.’

Hopkins started flipping through the pages.

‘I want you to scan all the pictures Elder’s highlighted. Let’s find out who those people are, what they’ve been doing since they left school and, most important, where they’ve been for the past three weeks. Get everybody you can on it. If you need more help, let me know and I’ll talk to Captain Blake. We don’t have much time left.’

‘No problem. I’ll get right . . .’ Hopkins stopped flipping the pages and squinted at something in the book. ‘Have you looked through these pictures?’

‘Not yet. I came straight out of CCI, got in the car and drove here. I can multitask but not that well. Why?’

Hopkins turned the opened yearbook towards Hunter and Garcia. There were three highlighted pictures on the two displayed pages.

‘The second picture,’ he said. ‘Read the name under it.’

‘No fucking way,’ Garcia said, running his hand through his hair.