Текст книги "One by One (Роберт Хантер 5 Поодиночке)"

Автор книги: Chris (2) Carter

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Garcia used the sleeve of his white coverall to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

‘But I did say that the cardiac arrest was probablycaused by anaphylactic shock.’ Doctor Hove opened a red folder that was resting on the stainless-steel counter to her right. ‘But there’s another possibility. The main characteristic of the tarantula hawk’s venom is that it paralyzes its prey. Now you have to remember that its main prey is the tarantula spider, which can be twice, maybe three times larger than the wasp itself.’

‘Very strong venom,’ Hunter said.

‘For its natural prey, fatal,’ Doctor Hove agreed. ‘But its paralyzing ability shouldn’t affect humans, unless a very high quantity of it is injected into the bloodstream. In that case, there’s a very high possibility that the venom could induce a human heart into paralysis.’

Everyone’s gaze came back to the body on the table for a long, silent moment.

‘I read Mike Brindle’s report,’ Doctor Hove said, grabbing their attention again. ‘And I also looked through his inventory list from the abduction scene . . . her own home, right?’

Hunter nodded.

‘The broken nails he found . . . they match.’ She indicated the body’s hands.

Hunter and Garcia moved a little closer to examine them. The nails of the index and middle fingers on the right hand had been torn. The same had happened to the nail of the index finger on the left hand.

‘Anything under the remaining nails?’ Hunter asked.

Doctor Hove pulled a face. ‘Well, there should have been, right? Brindle’s report describes a typical struggle scene.’

‘That’s right,’ Hunter confirmed.

‘So if she fought her aggressor, chances are that something would’ve lodged itself under a nail – fabric fiber, skin, hair, dust . . . something.’

‘There was nothing?’ Garcia this time.

‘She was cleaned up,’ the doctor said. ‘Her nails have been scrubbed with bleach. They’re as clean as a newborn baby’s. This killer is taking no chances.’

Doctor Hove allowed them to study the body’s hands for a few more seconds before she spoke again.

‘Now, here’s a surprising fact,’ she said. ‘The killer preserved the body after she died, by cooling it down.’

Hunter wasn’t so surprised. He had had his suspicions.

‘We all know that she died five days ago, on Friday evening,’ the doctor explained, ‘but her body was only discovered on Monday morning, that’s almost seventy-two hours later. The average temperature in Los Angeles in the past week was around eighty-three degrees. After three days, the body should’ve been bloated and discharging fluids from just about everywhere. The inflamed lumps from the wasps’ stings should’ve subsided considerably, large blisters substituting them, caused by body gases. Rigor mortis should’ve come and gone two days ago. The body was still in the late stages of it by last night. The perp preserved the body.’

Refrigeration slowed decomposition in the same way it delayed cold cuts from spoiling, and preserved fruits and vegetables from going bad too quickly.

Both Hunter and Garcia knew that in most cases, when the perpetrator preserved the wholebody after the murder, a very strong emotion was involved. The three most common ones were hate, love and lust.

In the case of love, the perp generally avoided disfiguring the victim, keeping the body as close to its original state as possible, for as long as possible. Disposing of the body wasn’t something the perp was prepared to do so easily.

In the case of hate, the perp kept physically punishing the victim over and over again, to soothe the anger inside. Disfigurement was inevitable.

And in the case of lust, the victim was usually raped several times prior to the murder. After death, necrophilia was also often committed.

‘Was she raped?’ Hunter asked. ‘Prior to or after the murder?’

‘No, she wasn’t.’ The doctor shook her head. ‘As I’ve said before, because she was wearing a pair of panties, her groin area wasn’t as exposed to the wasps’ stings as the rest of her body. I found no indication of forced penetration. No abrasions to the skin surrounding her vagina. No semen left inside her, or on her skin. No lubricant residue in her vaginal walls either, which could indicate that the perp did rape her but used a prophylactic. The lab will tell us if they find any semen on her underwear, but I don’t think they will. I don’t think this killer was after sex. I don’t think he was in love with her either. Which theoretically leaves you with two alternatives.’

‘Hate, or pure homicidal mania,’ Hunter said.

Doctor Hove agreed.

‘Maybe he was unable to dispose of the body straightaway and didn’t want it to start rotting and smelling up the place,’ Garcia suggested.

‘The killer probably used a medium-sized chest freezer to preserve the body,’ she said. ‘From skin folds and blood pooling marks, I can tell you that she was most certainly preserved in a fetus position.’

Doctor Hove waited a few seconds before pulling a white sheet over the body. ‘Unfortunately there isn’t much else I can tell you. Her death wasn’t a mystery. We all saw what happened to her. Toxicology will be a few days.’

Hunter and Garcia nodded and made for the door as if they were schoolkids who’d heard the final bell before summer vacation.

‘Keep us posted if anything new comes out of any of the tests, will you, Doc?’ Hunter said.

‘Always do.’

They were both already halfway down the corridor by the time she looked up.

Fifty-Four

Dennis Baxter had managed to break through the simple four-digit security password in the smartphone Hunter had handed him last night – Christina Stevenson’s cellphone. With the phone active, he had no problems accessing all the information on the SIM card.

Baxter quickly found out that the phone’s battery had died sometime on Sunday morning, two days after the killer’s broadcast. In between Thursday night, the night Christina was abducted, and Sunday morning, the smart-phone’s voicemail picked up twenty-six messages. There were also forty-two new text messages. A quick check through the smartphone’s applications and memory revealed several photo albums, a few videos, four voice memos and sixteen pages of notes. It didn’t look like Christina had ever used her cellphone’s calendar application, but she sure as hell used her email one. Adding up the contents of her inbox, sent and deleted folders, there were literally hundreds, maybe thousands of emails.

When Hunter and Garcia got back to the PAB, Baxter quickly gave them a summary of everything he’d found, and handed over the phone. He was certainly glad it wasn’t his job to read through that mountain of emails.

Hunter and Garcia began by listening to Christina Stevenson’s cellphone’s voicemails, checking her memos, reading her text messages and notes, and looking through all the photo albums and videos she had saved in the phone’s memory and SIM card. It took them almost two hours to get through everything.

Most of the voicemail messages were left on Sunday morning. They came mainly from other reporters and press-related people – all congratulating her on her article. Some even sounded a little jealous. But one person, who had called three times since Sunday and sent Christina two text messages, sounded more like a friend. Her name was Pamela Hays. Hunter found out that Pamela was actually Christina’s editor at the LA Times’entertainment desk.

It took Hunter just over half an hour to map every caller who had left Christina a message to an entry in her smart-phone’s address book, and that meant that every caller was known to her. No strangers.

None of the voicemail, text messages, notes or voice memos were interesting enough to raise any suspicions, but what Christina’s phone had given them was a long list of people they could talk to. Kevin Lee Parker’s name wasn’t in her address book.

‘Now that this story is out there,’ Hunter said, pushing himself away from his desk. ‘I’d like to take a trip down to the LA Timesbuilding and have a chat with this Pamela Hays woman, Christina Stevenson’s editor.’

Garcia rubbed his eyes. ‘OK, I’ll get started on these emails.’ He pointed to Christina’s phone on the desk. ‘I’ll call Dennis and see if there’s a way we can connect the phone to a computer monitor or something. Reading all these emails on a 3.5-inch screen is just not an option.’

Hunter agreed with a head gesture. ‘I’m sure Dennis will be able to sort something out. But it might be an idea to ask him if he can batch-copy or download all the emails to a hard drive. What you have there is a live connection to her inbox at the LA Times.If their IT department cancels her password, or shuts her account down, we’re locked out.’

‘Yeah, I thought of that too.’ Garcia got up to stretch his body. ‘And I would still like to have a look at that film, The Devil Inside, just to scratch that itch, you know what I mean? I can watch it on my computer, here. I don’t want to do it at home in front of Anna.’

Another nod from Hunter. ‘I haven’t forgotten about that.’ He checked his watch and reached for his jacket. ‘Let me know if you come across anything.’

‘You too.’

Fifty-Five

Hunter didn’t call the LA Timesto request an appointment with Pamela Hays. He much preferred turning up unannounced. He’d dealt with too many reporters in the past to know that they loved asking questions but hated answering them.

Hunter didn’t know how much of a friend Pamela Hays was to Christina Stevenson. Maybe Hunter had misinterpreted her concerned tone in the voicemail messages she’d left Christina. If that had been the case, Hunter knew that if he called in advance to try to arrange an appointment, chances were that Pamela Hays would’ve given him some sort of lame excuse, like being in a meeting all day. Turning up unexpectedly put the element of surprise on Hunter’s side, catching the person being interviewed unprepared. In Hunter’s experience, that was always an advantage.

The LA Timesheadquarters was an odd complex of four different constructions grouped together to form one massive building. From one side it looked like a courthouse, from another like a multistory car park, and if you approached it from West 2nd Street, you’d be forgiven for thinking you were walking into a branch of some European bank.

The tall, tinted-glass double doors set deep inside the plush brown-granite entrance led to a wide, pleasantly lit and comfortably air-conditioned lobby. The place was active with people. Some coming and going. Some sitting patiently in the waiting area to the right. Some waiting not so patiently. The entire floor was tiled in marble, which amplified the sound of every footstep, making the whole entrance area sound like a beehive.

Hunter was making his way up to the large reception counter at the back when a slim woman of about five foot five caught his eye as she walked across the busy lobby. She was walking slowly, her head low, her demeanor sad and drained. He immediately recognized her from a picture on the LA Timeswebsite – Pamela Hays.

Hunter caught up with her just as she was approaching one of the four elevator doors in the empty corridor to the left and past the reception counter.

Pamela pressed the button, took a step back and waited. Her head still low.

‘Ms. Hays?’ Hunter said.

It took her a moment to look up. Her eyes moved to Hunter’s face, but they lacked focus. She was wearing a well-fitted dark suit that almost made her fade into the black and gray granite walls around her.

Hunter waited a couple of seconds, and as her stare intensified he saw the moment her absent mind reentered reality. Her eyes were steel blue, her hair caramel blonde, worn just off her shoulders. There was an angular quality to her jaw, cheekbones and nose that made her look as though she was concentrating very hard. Pamela smiled for an instant, but it did nothing to soften her.

‘Ms. Hays,’ Hunter said again, this time displaying his credentials. ‘I’m Detective Robert Hunter with the LAPD Homicide Division. I was wondering if you could spare a few minutes of your time?’

Pamela Hays didn’t reply. Things were still slotting into place inside her head.

‘Ms. Hays, I could really use your help . . . and so could Christina Stevenson.’

Fifty-Six

Pamela guided Hunter back out onto West 1st Street and around the corner to The Edison Lounge, just across the road from the Police Administration Building. She didn’t feel like sitting in a conference room, or anywhere else inside the LA Timesheadquarters at the moment.

The Edison was an elegant and sophisticated bar located in the basement of the famous Higgins Building in downtown LA. At the beginning of the twentieth century, that same basement housed the city’s first privately owned power plant. As homage to the plant’s place in history, The Edison retained many of its original architectural and mechanical artifacts.

In an area to the left of the main bar, they found two high-backed leather armchairs, arranged around a knee-high, varnished, marble-effect coffee table. The dim lights and soft 1930s music, together with the period features and detailed decoration, created such a nostalgic atmosphere that could almost take you back in time.

Hunter waited for Pamela to have a seat before he took his.

She gave him another weak smile, acknowledging the gesture.

‘Before you start asking questions,’ Pamela said. ‘Please answer me this: has Christina’s body been found?’

It wasn’t hard for Hunter to read Pamela’s thoughts. Right at that moment she wasn’t being a reporter. She wasn’t asking questions because she wanted information for a possible story. Right at that moment she was still holding onto a sliver of hope that all of what she’d seen had been some crazy hoax – some big misunderstanding.

Hunter had been in this position countless times. And it only got harder.

His stomach tightened.

‘Yes.’

He saw a light turn off inside her eyes. Something he’d seen many times before. Not like a parent who’d just lost a son or a daughter, but like someone who’d not just lost a close friend, but now also realizes that danger and evil are closer than what they had once believed. If it had happened to someone like Christina, it could happen to her. It could happen to her family. It could happen to anyone.

Pamela took a deep breath as tears welled up in her eyes.

‘When?’

‘Yesterday.’

‘Where?’

‘Not far from her house.’

A waitress, who could easily have run for Miss California, approached them.

‘Hello, and welcome to The Edison,’ she said with the same smile Hunter was sure she gave every guest. ‘Would you like to see our cocktail menu?’

‘Um . . . no, that’s OK,’ Pamela said, shaking her head. ‘Can I just have a vodka martini, please?’

‘Absolutely.’ The waitress looked at Hunter, ready for his order.

‘I’ll just have a black coffee, please.’

‘Coming right up.’ The waitress turned and walked away.

‘Who is capable of something like that?’ Pamela asked. Her voice had gone dry, as if she had something stuck in her throat. She took a moment and swallowed down her tears. ‘We were able to find some snippets of the original Internet broadcast. Did you see it?’

Hunter held her gaze for an instant before nodding once.

‘What the hell was that she was in? A handmade glass coffin?’

Hunter didn’t reply.

‘And those buttons on the Internet. People were voting on how Christina was going to die?’

Still no reply.

‘They did, didn’t they?’ Pamela looked disgusted. ‘People actually voted.Why? They didn’t even know who she was. Did they think it was funny? Did they think it was some kind of game? Or did they simply believe that because the word GUILTY was written at the bottom of the screen, she was actually guilty of something?’

This time the intensity in Pamela’s eyes demanded an answer.

‘I can’t tell you what people were thinking when they clicked one of those two buttons, Ms. Hays,’ Hunter said, his voice even. ‘But all the reasons you’ve just put forward are valid. People could’ve believed that it was some sort of game, that it wasn’t real . . . or maybe they believed the GUILTY headline.’

Hunter’s words made Pamela pause, holding her breath. She quickly read between the lines. Headlines were what she used on a daily basis . . . what the press used to catch people’s attention. She knew that the more sensational the headline, the more attention it would grab, so to maximize the impact of what was said, words were chosen very carefully. Sometimes a single word was all that was needed. She also knew very well that, psychologically, headlines served different purposes. Sometimes they were geared toward grabbing people’s attention, while at the same time attempting to stamp a preconceived opinion onto one’s subconscious. And its power was much greater than what people gave it credit for. It worked. She knew it did.

‘ The killer used Christina’s trade trick against her,’ Pamela thought, and that made her shiver.

The waitress came back with their drinks. She handed Pamela her martini, and even before she had placed Hunter’s coffee on the table Pamela knocked her drink back, emptying the glass in three large gulps.

The waitress looked at her, trying her best to hide her surprise.

‘Could I have another one, please,’ Pamela said, handing the glass back to the waitress.

‘Um . . . of course.’ The waitress moved back toward the bar.

‘Is it OK if I ask you a few questions now, Ms. Hays?’

The drink had settled her nerves a little. Her attention refocused on Hunter and she nodded. ‘Yes, and stop calling me Ms. Hays. It makes me feel like I’m back in Catholic school again, and I hated that place. Call me Pamela, or Pam. Everybody does.’

Hunter began with simple questions, just to establish what sort of relationship Pamela and Christina had. It was soon clear that Pamela wasn’t just Christina’s boss, but that over the years they had also become very good friends. She told him that as far as she knew Christina wasn’t seeing anyone. Her last relationship, if anyone could’ve called it that, ended about four months ago. It had lasted only a few weeks. Pamela told Hunter that it had been doomed from the start. The guy was a lot younger than Christina, a total womanizer, and a drummer in an up-and-coming rock band called Screaming Toyz.

Hunter’s eyebrows arched. He had seen Screaming Toyzplay at the House of Blues not too long ago.

The waitress returned with the new martini, and this time Pamela sipped it instead of gulping it.

Hunter asked her about the three letters – SSV – and the number sequence – 678. Pamela thought about it for a long moment, but said that they meant nothing to her, and that she couldn’t think of how they could relate to Christina Stevenson either.

Hunter thought about asking Pamela if she’d heard the name Kevin Lee Parker before, but decided not to. Chances were she hadn’t, and there was no escaping the fact that she was still a reporter. Hunter was sure she would check the name later, and consequently find out that he’d also been murdered just a few days ago. Armed with that information, a sensational headline about a new serial killer who liked to broadcast his own killing show would be across the front page of the LA Timesin no time at all. One dramatic murder headline across the front page of the papers created shock and got people talking, but the news of a new serial killer loose in LA would create city-wide panic. He’d seen it happen before. And right now Hunter and the investigation could do without it.

‘Did she mention anything about any threats?’ he asked. ‘Any letters, emails, phone calls? Anything that was worrying her at all? People who disliked her?’

Pamela chuckled nervously. ‘We’re reporters for the fourth-highest-circulating newspaper in the whole of the USA, Detective. Due to the nature of what we do, everyone dislikes us, no matter how friendly they seem. For example, you and all your cop friends across the road do.’

Hunter said nothing. But she was right. He was yet to meet a cop who liked journalists.

‘On people’s “scum scale”, we rank right up there with corrupt politicians and lawyers.’ Pamela paused and had another sip of her martini. Despite her aggressive words, she knew full well what Hunter meant.

He waited for the moment to subside.

Pamela went back to the question. ‘The fact is, as reporters, we have all written articles that have upset some people. We have all received threatening letters and emails and phone calls. We still do every so often, but it’s all just bravado, really. People get angry when we expose the truth, because a lot of the time the truth doesn’t suit them.’

There was no denying that Pamela Hays was very passionate about her job.

‘Has Ms. Stevenson ever mentioned any of these letters, or emails, or phone calls to you? Something that she believed to be more than just bravado?’

Pamela started shaking her head, but paused halfway through the movement. Her stare became more purposeful, and if her Botoxed forehead could crease, it would have.

‘What did she say?’ Hunter asked, trying to seize the moment.

Pamela sat back on her chair. Her hand came up to her chin, and she partially extended her index finger so it was touching both of her lips. Her eyes moved down to her lap.

Behavioral psychology read the finger-over-mouth gesture as a tell sign – someone who was about to say something, or wanted to say something, but wasn’t sure if he or she should. In certain situations, the gesture was a clear giveaway that a lie was about to be told.

Hunter watched Pamela. Her reporter’s mind was clearly considering something, wondering if she should share whatever information she had, or hold it back. There could be a story there.

The problem for Pamela was that she wasn’t a crime reporter. The information would have to be passed over to someone at the crime desk. And she hated those pricks. Always looking down at everyone else, specially the entertainment desk, or as they called it the gossip pit.

Hunter sensed her hesitation and urged her again. ‘Pamela, even the tiniest piece of information could help us catch whoever took Christina. Was she frightened of something, or someone?’

Her gaze returned to Hunter’s face, and in his eyes she picked up the sort of determination and sincerity she didn’t see very often. Her features relaxed a little.

‘About four months ago, Christina wrote an article on a guy called Thomas Paulsen.’

‘The software millionaire?’

‘The one and only,’ Pamela replied, a little surprised that Hunter had heard of him. ‘What happened was, she was contacted by a former employee of Mr. Paulsen with a potentially big story. Christina came to me, and I gave her the go-ahead to investigate it. She spent two months working on it, and she unearthed a truckload of dirt on the scumbag. The story went to print, and Mr. Paulsen’s business and personal life were affected.’

‘What was the story about?’

Pamela had one more sip of her drink. ‘He liked to take his secretaries, PAs or whoever he fancied inside his company to bed, then intimidate them, using whatever means he saw fit, into keeping their mouths shut. He’s married with a daughter. When the exposé was printed, it was revealed that he’d been doing it for years. He allegedly bedded over thirty-five employees.’ She paused, measuring her words. ‘I know that to many that might not sound too devastating, but this is the USA, a country full of false morals and where being religious, faithful and a true family man counts for more than you would know. And this is LA, a city where the tiniest of affairs can end someone’s career overnight. The article affected Mr. Paulsen’s life pretty badly.’

Hunter wrote something down on his notebook. ‘And did he threaten Ms. Stevenson?’

Pamela pulled a dubious face. ‘Right after the article came out, she started getting these phone calls . . . something about pain, making her suffer and dying slowly. Christina had been through stuff like that before, and she wasn’t the type who would spook easy, but I know that something about those calls did really frighten her. We tried tracing the calls, but whoever was calling her was too smart. The calls were being redirected all over the place.’

‘Was she still receiving them recently?’

‘I’m not sure. She hadn’t mentioned anything for a while.’

Hunter took some more notes.

‘But we’re talking about articles she wrote while with the entertainment desk,’ Pamela offered. ‘Before I brought her over to entertainment, Christina was with the crime desk for nine months. And before that she’d spent time with just about every other desk in the paper. If what happened to her was because of an article she wrote, you’re looking at a very long list.’

‘Yeah, we know,’ Hunter said. ‘Is there a way I could get an archive of all the articles Ms. Stevenson wrote while with the entertainment desk? I’d like to start there.’

Though Pamela looked surprised, her eyebrows didn’t move. ‘We’re talking two years’ worth of articles here.’

‘Yes, I know. We have a team working on gathering them, but your help can really speed things up.’

She held his stare for a couple of seconds. ‘OK. I’m sure I can gather everything together and get a compressed archive to you by tomorrow.’

Fifty-Seven

The driver had started his day before the break of dawn. He had patiently sat behind the wheel, quietly observing the entrance to the apartment block across the road from where he was parked. Most people would consider the task boring, but he didn’t mind it at all. He actually enjoyed the stakeout process. All that waiting gave him time to think. To organize his thoughts. To work things out. Plus, he loved watching people. One could learn so much just by observing from afar.

For example, at 6:45 a.m., a balding, heavyset man, wearing an old and ill-fitting gray suit, exited the building and crossed the road. He walked slowly, defeated, with hunched shoulders and his head down, as if his thoughts were too heavy for him. His entire demeanor screamed one thing – sadness. Just getting through each day was a terrible struggle. The driver could tell that the man hated his job, whatever it was that he did. The thick, golden ring strangling his chubby finger on his left hand indicated that he was married, but it also indicated that he had put on a lot of weight since that ring first graced his hand. It was safe to assume that his marriage had long lost the fire that it might have once had.

The driver looked up at the building. On the first floor a woman with short dirty-blond hair, and clearly carrying a little more weight than she would like to, was staring out the window at the heavyset man. Her eyes followed him until he disappeared down another street. When he was gone, she faded back into the apartment, but three minutes later she was at the window again. This time, her anxious gaze concentrated at the opposite end of the road. The driver also noticed something different about the woman. Her hair had been brushed and the unflattering nightgown she was wearing was gone, replaced by something sexier.

Five minutes elapsed and nothing else happened. Then the woman’s lips spread into a smile. The driver followed her stare all the way to another man who had turned the corner and was now hurriedly walking toward the apartment block. He was at least forty pounds lighter than her husband, and about ten years younger. The woman’s lips broke into a wide smile.

The driver chuckled. Yeah, the things you can learn just by observing.

But he wasn’t there to catch anyone’s extramarital affair. His task was much more important than that.

At 7:15 a.m., another man exited the building. This one was tall with an athletic build. He walked with purpose. His eyes showed strong resolve and determination. Reflexively, the driver slid down on his seat, making himself even more unnoticeable, while at the same time attentively observing the man as he jumped into his own car and drove away.

The driver smiled. Everything was going to plan.

Twenty minutes later, his mark finally stepped out of the building. He sat forward and watched her walk to her car. She was attractive, with a charming aura around her, and a body he knew would be the envy of all her friends.

He took a deep breath and allowed the excitement to avalanche down his spine. Adrenaline rushed through him as he checked his broadcasting equipment and started his engine.

He’d spent the entire day tagging her, waiting for the right moment to strike. He knew that his success depended on choosing the perfect moment. Anything less than perfect and things could turn around very quickly.

After so many hours, that moment had finally arrived.

His show was about to go online again.

Fifty-Eight

When Hunter got back to the PAB, Garcia was rubbing his eyes vigorously.

‘Everything OK?’ Hunter asked.

Garcia looked up and let out a deep breath. ‘I just finished watching that film – The Devil Inside.’

‘Anything?’ Hunter asked, taking a seat behind his desk.

Garcia got up and massaged his neck. ‘I don’t think the note the killer left in Ms. Stevenson’s bedroom refers to the film.’

Hunter paused and looked at him.

‘As I said before, the plot revolves around a young woman whose mother had murdered three people while supposedly possessed by a demon. I was mainly interested in finding out about those murders. Specifically, the method used.’

‘And . . .?’

‘No resemblance at all to our case. It was a frenzied knife attack. All three victims were slaughtered inside the same house, in the same night, and in the space of minutes. The film then focuses on the woman’s daughter attending several exorcism sessions to try to figure out if her mother was really possessed by the devil when she did it. No one is locked inside any sort of enclosure, glass or not. No wasps or any other insect appear. No one is left inside an alkali or acid bath, nothing is broadcast over the Internet, and there’s no voting or choosing between death methods. If there really is a meaning behind the message the killer left in Ms. Stevenson’s bedroom, that film isn’t it.’

Hunter’s focus moved to the pictures board and the fluorescent orange fingerprint powder photograph. He scratched his head. ‘The devil inside. What the hell does that mean?’