Текст книги "The Executioner"

Автор книги: Chris (2) Carter

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Thirty-Eight

Hunter sat in silence staring out of the window as Garcia sped down Hollywood Freeway. Night had already fallen over Los Angeles, and with it came rain. Not your typical, heavy Californian downpour, but a steady, annoying English-type drizzle. The sky was covered by gray clouds. The wet weather would go on for hours.

Hunter was softly massaging between his eyebrows with his index finger, focusing his attention on the raindrops on the passenger’s window. His thoughts were tangled in a tight cluster, and he was trying hard to unwind them. In the space of half an hour, the whole complexion of the case had changed. Now that they knew about the priest’s dream, the idea of the killer being ritualistic took a knock. Hunter was certain that what happened a few days ago inside the Seven Saints church was not a ritual. The killer had simply acted out Father Fabian’s nightmare, but why?

Garcia’s attention was on the road, but he’d noticed his partner’s change in mood inside the interrogation room. Something that girl said had really got to Hunter.

‘Can I ask you something?’ Garcia asked tentatively.

‘Shoot,’ Hunter said without breaking his stare.

‘Who’s Helen?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Monica, the—’ Garcia searched for the correct word ‘—psychic girl we just talked to. She said something about Helen and it not being your fault. Who’s Helen?’

Hunter closed his eyes.

Garcia knew better than to push for an answer. He allowed the silence to stretch.

‘My mother,’ Hunter finally replied, returning his attention to the window. ‘Helen was my mother.’

He’d only been seven when it happened, but the memories crowding his mind now were still fresh.

Thirty-Nine

He sat alone in his room watching the heavy rain hammering against the window. He liked rain, especially heavy rain. Its thundering noise was almost enough to cover the crying, the moans of pain that came from the room next door – almost. He’d asked his father why the doctors didn’t do something. Why they didn’t take her into hospital and make her better.

‘There’s nothing more that can be done,’ his father had said with tearful eyes as he placed two tablets next to a glass of water before hiding the medicine bottle deep inside the highest cupboard in their small kitchen.

‘Can’t we give her some more tablets, Dad? They help with her pain. She doesn’t cry so much when she takes them.’

‘No, Robert,’ his father replied in a nervous voice. ‘Too many aren’t good for her.’

He had to take care of her when his father wasn’t home, and back then his father worked nights.

Nights were always worse. Her screams sounded louder, her groans deeper and heavier with pain. They always made him shiver. Not like when he felt cold, but an intense shiver that came from deep within. Her illness had brought her so much pain, and he wished there was something he could do to help.

He cautiously opened the door to her room. He felt like crying, but his father had told him he mustn’t. She was curled up on the bed. Her knees pushed up against her chest. Her arms wrapped tightly around her legs. She was crying.

‘Please help me,’ she whispered. ‘It hurts so much.’

He was shivering, trying to keep his tears locked in his throat. ‘What can I do, Mom?’ His voice was as weak as hers.

She curled up into a tighter ball.

‘Do you want me to call Dad?’

She shook her head. Tears were streaming down her face.

‘Dad can call the doctor. He’ll come and help you.’

‘Dad can’t help, honey. Neither can the doctor.’

His mother looked like a different person now. She was so thin he could see her bones poking at her sagging skin. Her eyes had the darkest bags under them. Her once-beautiful long blond hair was now fine and frizzled and sticking to her sweaty face. Her lips were cracked and crusted.

‘I can heat some milk up for you, Mom. You like hot milk.’

She managed a delicate shake of the head. Her breath was coming in short gasps.

‘Would you like me to get you some biscuits? You haven’t eaten much today.’

She winced as a new surge of pain took over her body. ‘Please, baby. Help me.’

He couldn’t hold his tears anymore and they started rolling down his cheeks.

‘You can help the pain go away,’ she said in a trembling voice. ‘You can get me my pills. You know where they are, don’t you?’

He ran the back of his right hand against his running nose. She could see he was scared and shaking. ‘They’re very high up,’ he said, hiding his eyes from her.

‘Can’t you reach them for me, baby? Please, the pain has been going on for so long. You don’t know how much it hurts.’

His eyes were so full of tears everything appeared distorted. His heart felt empty, and he felt as if all his strength had left him. Without saying a word, he slowly turned around and opened the door.

His mother tried calling after him, but her voice was so weak that only a whisper left her lips.

He came back a few minutes later carrying a tray with a glass of water, two cream biscuits and the bottle of medicine. She stared at it, hardly believing her eyes. Very slowly and through unbearable pain, she pushed herself up into a sitting position. He stepped closer, placed the tray on the bedside table and handed her the glass of water.

She gave him the most honest smile he’d ever seen.

‘I’m not strong enough to open the bottle, darling. Can you do it for me?’

He took the bottle, pressed down on the cap and twisted it anticlockwise. Pouring two pills onto his hand, he offered them to her. She took them, put them in her mouth and swallowed them down without even sipping the water. Her eyes pleaded for more.

‘I read the label, Mom. It says you shouldn’t have more than eight a day. The two you just had make it ten today.’

‘You’re so intelligent, my darling.’ She smiled again. ‘You’re very special. I love you so much and I’m so sorry I won’t see you grow up.’

His eyes filled with tears once again as she wrapped her bony fingers around the medicine bottle. He held on to it tightly.

‘It’s OK,’ she whispered. ‘It’ll all be OK now.’

Hesitantly, he let go. ‘Dad will be angry at me.’

‘No, he won’t be, baby. I promise you.’ She placed two more pills in her mouth.

‘I brought you these biscuits.’ He pointed to the tray. ‘They’re your favorite, Mom. Please have one.’

‘I will, honey, in a while.’ She had a few more pills. ‘When Daddy comes home,’ she whispered. ‘Tell him I love him. Can you do that for me?’

He nodded. His eyes locked on the now almost empty medicine bottle.

‘Why don’t you go read one of your books, darling? I know you love reading.’

‘I can read in here. I can sit in the corner if you like. I won’t make a noise, I promise.’

She extended her hand and touched his hair. ‘I’ll be OK now. The pain’s starting to go away.’ Her eyelids looked heavy.

‘I can guard the room. I’ll sit by the door.’

She smiled a pain-stricken smile. ‘Why do you wanna guard the door, honey?’

‘You told me that sometimes God comes and takes ill people to heaven. I don’t want him to take you, Mom. I’ll sit by the door and if he comes I’ll tell him to go away. I’ll tell him that you’re getting better and not to take you.’

‘You’ll tell God to go away?’

He nodded vigorously.

She smiled again. ‘I’m gonna miss you so much, Robert.’

Forty

As they drove down Pacific Coast Highway, the scenery had changed from the hustle and bustle of Downtown Los Angeles to the tranquility and breathtaking ocean views of Malibu. Hunter continued to stare out of the window.

Malibu is famous for its warm sandy beaches and for being the home of countless movie stars and celebrities. A place reserved for the rich and mega-rich.

‘No need to check for the address,’ Garcia said, slowing down. ‘I guess that’s it.’

About a hundred yards ahead on the left, several police vehicles were parked at the gates to a large mansion. News vans from various channels were already at the scene. Satellite antennas raised high in the cold and wet night sky.

Garcia slowly zigzagged his way around the cars and came to a stop in front of the intimidating electronic iron gates. An officer wearing a standard-issue LAPD vinyl raincoat came up to the driver’s side.

‘Detectives Garcia and Hunter,’ Garcia said after lowering his window. ‘Homicide Special.’

The officer nodded and used the remote control in his hand to open the gates. ‘Forensics and the two other detectives have been in there for a while now,’ he said.

‘Two other detectives?’ Hunter asked, leaning across Garcia.

‘That’s right,’ the officer replied, stepping back from the car and gesturing for them to drive through.

As Garcia drove forward, Hunter caught a glimpse of Claire Anderson standing under a large white umbrella with the other reporters.

The perfectly cement-paved driveway must’ve been at least a hundred yards long, flanked by numerous palm trees. Just past the gates, on the left, there was a tennis court. The large green area between the court and the impressive two-story mansion had been impeccably mown, and the hedges around it were neatly cropped.

Garcia entered a circular parking bay and pulled in next to a forensics unit van, just in front of a four-car garage.

‘Wow, would you have a look at this place,’ Garcia said, stepping out of his car. ‘Someone knew how to live in style.’

The house was white and modern with a terracotta-tile roof and large glass windows. On the second floor, the room at the corner of the house had a wrap-around balcony offering panoramic views of the beach. A few police officers were standing on the stone steps that led up to the front door, sheltering themselves from the rain.

With his badge in hand, Hunter took the steps two at a time. All the officers at the house’s entrance were unnaturally quiet. The look on their faces was a mixture of sorrow and skepticism.

Double doors led them into a reception area that was bigger than Hunter’s entire one-bedroom apartment. It was a rich, sterile room, full of money and devoid of character – the kind of elegant space in which it was hard to believe people actually lived.

A strange, unidentifiable smell lingered in the air. The sort of smell that could make you sick if you were exposed to it for long enough.

A short and bulky man in a white Tyvek coverall noticed the two detectives as they stepped into the house.

‘Detective Hunter?’ he asked, approaching them.

‘Yes.’ Hunter turned around.

‘I’m Detective Martin, Thomas Martin, from the LASD Malibu/Lost Hills station.’

They shook hands firmly.

Malibu is actually an incorporated city in Western Los Angeles County. Any homicides committed in that city initially fall under the Los Angeles Sheriff Department jurisdiction.

‘What do we have?’ Hunter asked, looking around.

‘A fucking mess, that’s what we have. It started as a missing person’s call to the West Hollywood station.’

‘West Hollywood?’ Garcia enquired, surprised.

Martin nodded. ‘I suggest you guys suit up while I fill you in.’ He pointed to two coveralls on a table together with surgical masks and latex gloves.

Forty-One

‘A realtor called Reilly, Amanda Reilly,’ Detective Martin continued after Hunter and Garcia stood ready. ‘She owned her own estate agency called, funny enough, Reilly’s, in West Hollywood. This morning she didn’t turn up for work. Her work colleague . . .’ Martin snapped his fingers a couple of times as he tried to remember her name. ‘Aw damn. It’s on the report, I’ll check it later. Anyway, her colleague got worried. She said she’s never known Miss Reilly to come in late in over ten years they’d worked together, never mind not turning up.’

A tall and skinny black man, also wearing a Tyvek coverall, entered the reception area from the door at the far end of it.

‘Hey, CJ,’ Martin called, gesturing for him to join them.

‘What’s up, Tom?’ CJ said, freeing his nose and mouth from the surgical mask he had on. ‘Are these the Homicide Special guys?’

Martin nodded before turning towards Hunter and Garcia. ‘This is my partner, Detective CJ Simmons.’

‘Call me CJ, everyone does.’

They all shook hands.

‘CJ, what’s the name of the lady who reported Miss Reilly as missing. I can’t remember it for the life of me.’

‘Mrs. Riggs, Tania Riggs. The report’s in the car. I’ll go and get it before we hand the case over to you guys.’

Hunter noticed a look of relief on CJ’s face.

‘Miss Reilly’s car is parked back in West Hollywood,’ Martin continued. ‘It’s been in the same spot for two days.’

CJ took over. ‘The last Mrs. Riggs knew about Miss Reilly was that she was supposed to show this house to a prospective buyer on Saturday – early evening.’

‘So this house is for sale? No one lives here at the moment?’ Hunter asked, zipping up his overall.

‘That’s right.’ CJ nodded. ‘You know the protocol. So in the middle of the afternoon, a request was sent to our station asking us to dispatch a black and white unit down here to check it out. And then . . .’ CJ shook his head slowly without finishing the sentence.

‘And then all fucking hell broke loose,’ Martin picked up. ‘What’s in there’s just fucking insane. Someone had a lot of hate for this Miss Reilly.’

‘How do we come into all this?’ Hunter asked curiously.

‘That’s what I was wondering,’ Garcia added.

‘Forensics,’ CJ replied. ‘When they got here and had a good look at the body, the lead agent said that we needed to contact Homicide Special and ask for the two of you. Apparently, this case’s linked to one that you’re already investigating.’

‘Mike Brindle the lead forensic agent?’ Hunter asked.

‘That’s him,’ Martin agreed with a nod.

‘And the victim’s this Amanda Reilly?’ Hunter pressed on.

Martin and CJ exchanged a nervous look.

‘We can’t tell.’

‘OK, let’s go have a look.’ Hunter knew he wouldn’t get any more answers out in the reception area.

CJ smiled as he noticed that Hunter and Garcia were all suited up, but neither of them had a surgical mask. ‘I strongly recommend you wear the mask.’ He pointed to the one hanging from his neck. ‘And I hope you really enjoyed what you had for dinner today. ’Cos you’ll probably have it all back in your mouth as soon as you get in there.’

‘He’s right.’ Martin nodded sarcastically. ‘Have you noticed a terribly unpleasant bouquet in the air that sort of tickles your stomach?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Well, in there it’s fully matured.’

‘And if the smell doesn’t do it,’ CJ cut in. ‘Wait until you have a look at the victim.’

Frowning, Hunter and Garcia took the LASD detectives’ advice and grabbed a surgical mask each.

‘Through that door.’ Martin pointed to the door CJ had come through earlier. ‘There’s a round foyer. Take the door to the right of the stairwell and follow the corridor to the end. You can’t miss it; there are forensic agents everywhere.’

CJ and Martin were right. With every step, the smell got stronger and more sickening. They reached the last door and stepped into a nightmare.

The room was massive, furnished with delicate sofas and modern units. Mike Brindle and three other forensic agents were busy at work.

Hunter felt a sting in his eyes. He wasn’t sure if it’d been caused by the nauseating and repulsive smell, or by what lay before him.

Garcia’s body convulsed as he tried to keep himself from being sick, but the combination of the stench together with the ferocity of the scene became too much for him. He quickly stumbled back out of the room and Hunter heard him empty his stomach by the door.

‘My God!’ Hunter closed his eyes.

Forty-Two

At first Monica didn’t know why she’d said those words to Hunter. They simply came out, as if she had no control over what she was saying. But just a minute after Hunter and Garcia had rushed out of the interrogation room, she had her answer.

The same sickening feeling she’d experienced just a few days ago inside Los Angeles Union Station came back, and it came back stronger.

A hurricane seemed to have started in her stomach as her vision blurred. The large mirrored window in front of her was substituted by grainy, flickering images. She blinked several times, trying desperately to get rid of them. She didn’t want to see them. She didn’t want to be part of any of it. But she had no choice. Again, they lasted only a few seconds, but a few seconds was all that was needed.

As the images faded, she sat shivering and crying. Her breathing came in short, fast bursts and catatonically she repeated the words ‘please, no’ over and over again.

It took her two minutes to get her breathing back to normal and another two to stop shivering. On unsteady legs she stood up and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She looked dreadful. Her hair was a mess. Her skin looked dry and badly cared for and her lack of recent sleep showed in her tired-looking eyes. She was wearing no lipstick, which made the scar on her lips more noticeable. Her coat looked dirty and old with tiny tears on the sleeves. No wonder both detectives looked at her as if she was a drug addict on a bad trip looking for some attention.

‘What am I doing here?’ she whispered to herself as if waking up from a strange dream in an unknown place. ‘I must be insane thinking someone would’ve believed me.’

She checked her watch and wondered what to do next. The detective had said that he’d send an officer to take her details, but no one had showed up yet. Maybe that was a sign. Maybe telling others about the appalling things she saw wouldn’t help them. It wouldn’t help her.

Deep down she had hopes that if she could help any of the people she saw suffering, then, maybe, the images would go away and she could go back to having a normal life. But standing there, alone, in a police interrogation room, all she had were doubts.

‘I need to get out of here, this is crazy,’ she said as her eyes rested on Hunter’s card on the table.

Forty-Three

Mike Brindle was in a crouch position next to a large white leather sofa when he noticed Hunter standing by the door. Getting to his feet, he approached the detective in silence.

Brindle had been with the Los Angeles Scientific Investigation Division for over fifteen years, but the look in his eyes told Hunter that even he hadn’t seen anything like what had happened in that room.

They stood face to face without saying a word for a while before Brindle checked his watch.

‘I guess you take the prize,’ he finally murmured through his surgical mask.

Hunter narrowed his eyes and faintly shook his head.

‘Other than “yours truly”, nobody who’s come through that door has managed over forty seconds in here before losing their dinner,’ Brindle explained.

‘I didn’t have dinner.’

‘I guess he did.’ Brindle nodded towards Garcia, who had just re-entered the room. His surgical mask was back over his mouth and nose. His face was drained of all color.

‘What in the world’s happened here, Mike?’ Hunter asked once Garcia had rejoined them.

‘A lot of pain,’ Brindle said, turning to face the enormous river rock fireplace on the south wall. Just over a foot in front of it and tied to a metal high-back armchair sat the naked body of a woman. Most of the skin on the front of her torso, arms and legs had blistered, crinkled and burst open, revealing her bloody, now burned flesh. Parts of her body had completely carbonized, displaying a crusty texture and charcoal color, but all eyes were on her face.

Garcia felt his stomach play up again as they stepped closer to the body.

The skin on her face had been burned so badly that it seemed to have melted into crumpled and clustered lumps, like hot wax. Her exposed flesh and muscle tissue had severely wrinkled and hardened, as if her face had been deep-fried. Her eyeballs had exploded inside their sockets from the intense heat.

‘From what I’ve gathered so far,’ Brindle said, carefully sidestepping the small pool of blood, urine and feces that surrounded the armchair. ‘She was brought here on Saturday evening, tied to this chair and left in front of a blazing fire. She died long ago, but the fire was never turned off.’ He pointed to the fireplace. Heat still emanated from it.

Hunter’s stare quickly moved from the dead woman to Brindle. ‘The killer . . . cooked her?’

Brindle’s lips thinned as his head bobbed down. ‘Given her proximity to the fire, more like roasted her alive.’

‘This is fucking sick,’ Garcia commented, turning his head away.

‘This is a gas fire,’ Brindle continued. ‘Which means its intensity is controlled. Worst of all, it’s constant. It won’t die down unless somebody turns it off.’

‘Was it on when the body was found?’ Hunter asked, kneeling in front of the fireplace.

‘Yes.’ Brindle nodded. ‘But on a very low setting. Just enough to—’ he bit his lip ‘—simmer her. But look at the size of this fireplace, Robert. On its higher setting, it would feel like a proper bonfire.’

Hunter cleared his eyes, took a deep breath and forced himself to study the body for a moment. Garcia stayed a few steps behind. His right hand cupped over his nose. His face screwed up as if he’d tasted something sour.

The smell of burned human flesh is quite different from that of other animals because of our diet. Humans are the only animals who eat such diverse foods as meat, vegetables, sweets and chemically altered products. The combination of their smells gets embedded in the human flesh and then released, together with several toxins when the flesh burns.

Garcia felt something start to rise in his throat again.

‘We cut her loose,’ Brindle said, noticing Hunter’s look as he studied her severed restraints. ‘And that’s the reason why the two of you are here.’

Hunter’s brow creased in anticipation.

‘We’ve been here for a while. Her body and the scene have already been photographed. The two local detectives we thought would be taking the case had seen enough. The body was ready to be taken to the morgue.’

Brindle gestured for one of the crime-lab agents to come and give him a hand. Very carefully, they moved the dead woman’s back away from the armchair’s backrest.

‘And then we saw this.’

Hunter and Garcia repositioned themselves so they could have a better look.

‘Oh fuck,’ Garcia murmured through gritted teeth, pinching the bridge of his nose.