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

Автор книги: Chris (2) Carter

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

‘This is Brandon Fisher,’ Hunter began. ‘Until two and a half years ago, Brandon was a student at Jefferson High in south Los Angeles. Despite being terribly shy and sometimes withdrawn, he was an intelligent kid, with the grades to prove it, mostly As and Bs. Brandon was also a very promising quarterback, with a much-talked-about left arm. His chances for a university football scholarship were very high.’ Hunter moved from behind the podium. ‘A few weeks after receiving his driver’s license, Brandon was involved in a very serious collision at the junction between West Washington Boulevard and South La Brea Avenue. The accident took place at 2:41 a.m.,’ Hunter explained. ‘Even though Brandon was a novice to driving, the accident wasn’t his fault. Other than the fact that three distinct witnesses testified to it, LA Traffic PD also had photographic evidence supplied by the red-light-infraction-activated camera at that junction. The other driver jumped the red light.’

Hunter pressed the clicker again. Brandon Fisher’s portrait was substituted by a series of six photographs, positioned two by two in three rows. The sequence of events depicted on them clearly showed a dark blue Ford Mustang running over a red light and colliding with a silver Chevrolet Cruze. The Mustang speed shown at the bottom right-hand corner of every picture was 55mph.

‘The collision sent Brandon’s car spinning twenty-seven yards into West Washington Boulevard,’ Hunter said. ‘There was no one else inside the vehicle with him. Brandon fractured his left arm, both of his legs, received severe cuts to his face and body and broke several ribs, one of which perforated his left lung.’

Another click and a new portrait of Brandon Fisher took over the entire projection screen. Murmurs and curse words came from the SWAT agents. Hunter saw Garcia cringe. He saw Captain Blake and Michelle Kelly gasp and bring a hand to their mouths in surprise.

Brandon’s eyes now carried a sadness that seemed contagious. His once good-looking face was severely disfigured by two large scars and several small ones. The larger of the two scars had missed his left eye by a fraction, but it had cut across his small nose, brutally deforming it, before moving down to traverse both of his lips, tipping the entire left side of his mouth downward, as if it’d been melted into an eternal sorrowful smile. The second large scar started at the top left side of his forehead, just under his scalp, and moved unsteadily all the way across to his right ear, slicing through the top of his right eyebrow and stretching it out of shape, together with his eyelid.

‘This picture was taken about twelve months after the accident,’ Hunter explained, ‘once the scars had pretty much healed. He’d also already had two cosmetic surgeries to try to lessen their effect, and this was as good as it would get. Doctors and more operations could do little more for him.’

‘Poor kid,’ Michelle whispered.

‘You don’t need me to tell you that such severe, life-changing facial disfigurement is something most people will rarely find a way to completelycope with,’ Hunter said. ‘No matter how much time passes, or how much support they get.’ He paused for breath. ‘As I’ve said, Brandon was an already shy and withdrawn kid. It’s no surprise that the accident sent him down a bottomless depression dark hole. He wasn’t able to play football anymore, or any other sport for that matter. Despite healing properly after the fractures, his legs and left arm weren’t as fast or as strong as they used to be, and, after being perforated, his left lung worked in a reduced capacity. At first, the few friends he had tried to be supportive, but kids will be kids, and slowly but surely they began distancing themselves from him. It wasn’t long before the gossiping, the jokes and the name-calling started happening behind his back. But things like that never stay “behind the back” for too long. He knew. His girlfriend also ended their relationship, and that devastated him.’

‘Didn’t he get any psychological help?’ Captain Blake asked.

‘He did. As soon as he was able to,’ Hunter confirmed with a head nod and a half shrug. ‘Three one-hour sessions a week, that was all.’

‘Yeah,’ one of the SWAT agents chuckled. ‘How much do you think that’s going to help?’

‘And even if it does,’ another one added, ‘with only three sessions a week, how long do you think it will take?’

‘Too long,’ Hunter agreed.

Murmuring came back to the room.

Hunter pressed the clicker button once again. The image that took over the screen this time was that of a bridge in downtown Los Angeles.

‘Twenty-nine months ago, on a Tuesday night,’ Hunter proceeded, and the room quieted down again, ‘Brandon kissed his mother and father goodnight and went to his room, but he didn’t go to bed. He waited until the house was silent before exiting it through his bedroom window and making his way to the 6th Street Bridge in downtown LA, just a few blocks away from where he lived, in Boyle Heights.’

The briefing room was completely silent. Everyone had their eyes on Hunter.

‘Brandon had been at this for weeks, maybe months,’ Hunter moved on. ‘He had everything planned out, including time schedules. When the correct time came, he jumped off the bridge.’

Captain Blake and Michelle Kelly shifted uncomfortably on their chairs.

‘As you all know,’ Hunter said, ‘the 6th Street Bridge not only provides a crossing over the Los Angeles River but also over several train tracks. Brandon chose the tracks instead of the river.’ Hunter paused and cleared his throat again. ‘As I’ve mentioned, Brandon seemed to have had everything planned out to the last detail, including the train’s schedule. He timed his jump to perfection. A split second after his feet touched the tracks, an oncoming cargo train hit him at full speed. His body almost disintegrated.’

Another button click and the picture on the screen changed to a section of the train tracks that ran underneath and just past the 6th Street Bridge. A forensics evidence marker had been placed next to something that looked like a human leg.

‘His body parts were scattered over a fifty-yard area,’ Hunter added.

More nervous chair shuffling. This time it came from everyone in the briefing room.

Hunter wasn’t finished yet. ‘Before jumping off the bridge, Brandon said that most of the world believed in the stupid misconception that everything we do in life is ultimately down to us. That we alwayshave a choice, whether we want it or not.’ Hunter paused and folded his arms over his chest. ‘And then Brandon said, “What about the choices other people make that end up completely changing your life, not theirs? Where is our choice there, then?”’

‘Wait a second,’ one of the SWAT agents said, lifting a hand as if requesting his teacher’s permission to speak. ‘How do you know what the kid said on the bridge?’

Hunter took a deep breath before looking back at the room.

‘Because I was there.’

Ninety-Seven

Twenty-nine months ago

Whittier Boulevard,

about twenty seconds away from the 6th Street Bridge

01.19 a.m.

Hunter had given up the fight against another sleepless night. As he had done so many times before, and was sure to do countless times again, instead of sitting at home and staring at his dull and faded walls, all in desperate need of a new coat of paint, he had decided to go for a drive. Once again, he drove around aimlessly, going nowhere, searching for nothing. The city simply washed past the windshield as he drove. Empty minded, he allowed the streets and turns to guide him.

For no particular reason, or maybe it was because he had done the exact same thing just a few days ago, and had then decided to drive down to Venice Beach, tonight he chose to drive around downtown LA.

With the financial district and the city supposedly asleep, the streets of central Los Angeles seemed disturbingly quiet, too alien to what most people were accustomed to.

Hunter had just driven through Boyle Heights, turned right on El Camino Real and joined Whittier Boulevard, heading toward the 6th Street Bridge, when the police radio in his car crackled loudly.

‘Attention any downtown units near the 6th Street Bridge. We just received a 911 call about a possible suicide attempt on the bridge. Subject appears to be in his teens. According to the caller, the kid looks like he’s going to jump. We need immediate response. Is anyone close enough?’

Hunter looked up from his dashboard, where his eyes had rested while he listened to the call from dispatch. The first thing he saw was the large green road sign announcing the bridge that lay straight ahead, less than fifteen seconds away. Though many call it the 6th Street Bridge, the official name, and the one shown in all the city road signs, was Sixth Street Viaduct.

Hunter quickly reached for his radio.

‘Dispatch, this is Detective Robert Hunter, LAPD Homicide Special. I am practically on the bridge, approaching it from the east side – coming from Whittier Boulevard. I’ll be there in about ten seconds. Is there any info on the subject?’

‘Roger that on location, proximity and ETA on the bridge, Detective Hunter, but on subsequent info on the subject, that’s a negative. Caller was a passerby who spotted the subject on the ledge. There’s nothing else I can offer at this point. I’m sorry.’

‘Roger that,’ Hunter replied. ‘I’m coming to the bridge now and I have visual on the subject. He’s up on the north-facing ledge – west end of the viaduct. I repeat – subject is up on the north-facing ledge, at the west end of the Sixth Street Viaduct. Send backup in the form of the fire brigade, and a psychologist ASAP.’

‘10-4 on backup and medical help, Detective. Good luck.’

Hunter reduced his speed and stopped his car halfway through crossing the bridge, blocking all westward traffic. He did none of that briskly. There was no screeching of the tires, no slamming of the doors, no loud sound or abrupt movement that could potentially worsen an already extremely tense situation. The dashboard clock read 01:21 a.m.

As Hunter had described to dispatch, the subject was standing on the north-facing ledge, at the west end of the viaduct. His back was toward Hunter, but instead of looking down at what awaited him if he jumped, he was looking ahead in the distance, as if waiting for something, or maybe contemplating a change of mind. That was a good sign.

Hunter moved quickly but quietly, trying to get as close as possible before the jumper noticed him. He got to about fourteen feet when the kid broke eye contact with the nothingness in the distant darkness and turned around.

Hunter stopped moving and looked at the kid, trying to establish eye contact, and as the kid looked back at him Hunter froze in place for the briefest of moments. At that precise instant Hunter cursed the lack of prep information on the subject. He knew nothing about who that kid was, or what possible motives had led him to be on that bridge, ready to end his life. That would’ve better prepared him for what he saw.

Then Hunter cursed himself, because with or without prep information, an LAPD Homicide Special detective, especially one with a PhD in Criminal Behavior Analysis and Biopsychology, should’ve been prepared for anything. Prepared to expect the unexpected, no matter how shocking.

During that split second of hesitation, Hunter became terrified that his face, his eyes, his demeanor, his expression, anything about him at all gave away how surprised he was. If anything did, he knew that his chances of talking the kid down were already dead in the water.

Hunter’s surprise had come because when the kid finally turned and looked at him, Hunter saw that his face had been completely disfigured by heavy scars, as if he’d been thrown face first through several sheets of glass. It was the kind of disfigurement that would attract pitiful, shocked and even disgusted looks anywhere he went. The kind of disfigurement that gave bullies a buffet of abuse and name-calling to throw at him. A disfigurement that would scar much deeper than anyone could see – psychological scars capable of destroying self-esteem and throwing anyone into the deepest of depressions. The kind of disfigurement that could make anyone’s life seem unbearable, let alone a teenager’s.

If any surprise had been shown by Hunter, the kid didn’t seem to notice.

‘Hello,’ Hunter said. His voice was calm and warm, but loud enough.

No reply.

Hunter gave it a moment. ‘Do you mind if I step a little closer? It makes it easier to talk.’

‘I’d rather you didn’t.’ The left side of the kid’s mouth barely moved. Hunter guessed that the cut that had produced the large scar he could see traversing the kid’s lips had cut through nerves and muscles, paralyzing part of his mouth, maybe even part of his face. The kid’s voice was in contrast strong, determined.

‘That’s fine,’ Hunter said, lifting both hands in a ‘no problem’ gesture. ‘I’ll stay right here.’ A very short pause. ‘My name is Robert.’

Nothing.

‘Could I ask yours?’

A few silent seconds went by before the kid replied. ‘Brandon.’ He hesitated for a quick moment. ‘Or you can call me freakshow, slashface, scars-r-us,or make up one of your own. Everyone does.’

Hunter felt a disconcerting sadness drown his heart. He slightly tilted his head to one side and tried to sound upbeat. ‘Well, a lot of people call me idiot, imbecile, or my personal favorite – dumbass. You can use any of those if you like.’

Brandon didn’t reply. Didn’t smile. He simply looked back into the distant darkness.

Hunter took a step closer. ‘Brandon,’ he called. ‘Look, I was just going to get some pizza. What do you say you come with me? I’m buying. We can talk if you want, and you can tell me what’s going through your head right now. I’m a greatlistener. Actually, if there were a world listening championship, I’d walk it.’

Brandon looked back at him, and for the first time Hunter could clearly see his eyes.

Hunter knew that about seventy-five percent of all suicide attempts in the USA were preventable by the most simple of actions – listening and being a friend. One argued that most attempts are, in fact, a cry for help. In truth, those people didn’t really want to commit suicide any more than the next person along, but at that particular moment in their lives they are experiencing a great deal of emotional and psychological pain. They might be feeling rejected, misunderstood, neglected, depressed, alone, abused, forgotten, scared or any combination of very strong sentiments, none of them good. The emptiness they felt inside grew to such an extent that they reached a point where they believed that they had no other alternative, no other way out. Unfortunately that usually happened because they were left alone with their dark thoughts for too long. They had no one to talk to, and no one was prepared to listen when they did. That made them feel unimportant, uncared for, unappreciated and insignificant to everyone. Most of the time they genuinely wanted someone to help them, but they just didn’t really know how to ask for it. Nevertheless, if help were offered, they’d grab at it with both hands. They just needed someone to be there, someone who could show them that they mattered.

As Hunter locked eyes with Brandon, his heart seemed to stutter. Hunter saw none of that inside the kid’s eyes. What he saw was extreme sadness, and total and utter determination. Brandon wasn’t looking for help anymore. He was way beyond that. His decision had been made, and nothing and no one would change his mind. He had only one thing burning inside his eyes, and Hunter felt at that moment that not even God would be able to dissuade him.

No more sugar coating.

‘Brandon, listen to me.’ Hunter took another tentative step toward him. ‘You don’t want to do this. I promise you there’s a better solution for whatever it is that made you believe that this is the only way out. Trust me, I’ve been there. I’ve been as close as you are right now . . . more than once. Give me a chance to talk to you. Give me a chance to show you that there are better choices than this.’

‘Choices?’

If Brandon’s eyes were laser beams, Hunter would’ve been dead.

Hunter nodded, and then said the words he would regret forever.

‘We always have a choice, and right now you don’t want to make the wrong one. Trust me on this.’

Brandon peeked at the distant darkness again. Only this time it wasn’t darkness. Two headlights had appeared, coming fast toward them. Brandon’s demeanor changed slightly – relieved of something that had been worrying him.

Hunter’s eyes checked the headlights for a fraction of a second, and then he understood what Brandon had been waiting for. The oncoming train should’ve been passing under the viaduct at around 01:21 a.m. But a short delay caused by a late driver meant that it would now be at the bridge at 01:23 a.m. – 0123.

Hunter tensed.

Brandon chuckled. ‘People always try to feed others this bullshit about everyone always having a choice.’ He put on a silly, childlike voice. ‘ We are in control of our lives, because no matter what, we always have a choice.’

‘Well,’ Hunter said. ‘You have that choice right now.’ He checked the headlights again. They were almost at the bridge. ‘Please, Brandon, don’t make the wrong one. Come down from there and let’s talk about this. I promise you there’s a better solution.’

‘Really?’ Brandon was sounding angry now. ‘We always have a choice, do we? What about the choices that other people make that end up completely changing your life, not theirs. Where is our choice there, then?’ Brandon paused and swallowed hard as tears came to his eyes. ‘He chose to run that red light, not me. He chose to be drunk and high that night, not me. He chose to not give a shit about what could happen, not me. He chose to be speeding like a maniac, not me.’ Brandon wiped the tears from his face. ‘His choices changed my entire life. They changed my entire future. They changed who I was. Things I knew I could accomplish, I physically can’t anymore. Because of his choices, I have to face the world looking like this . . . for the rest of my life.’ He punctuated the last four words with hand stabs toward his face.

The train was upon the bridge.

‘His choices . . .’ Brandon said, this time with no emotion in his voice whatsoever, ‘led me to mine.’

Time was over.

Hunter saw Brandon’s feet leave the concrete ledge and step onto nothing at all.

‘NO,’ Hunter yelled, taking a step forward and throwing himself at the kid, stretching his body, reaching with everything he had. His fingers brushed against Brandon’s left shoulder as gravity did its job, dragging the kid’s body faster and faster toward the train tracks tens of feet beneath them. Hunter closed his fingers fast and with all the strength he could muster, but all he managed was to pinch a tiny portion of the fabric on Brandon’s shirt.

Hunter almost had him, but he didn’t get there fast enough.

Brandon’s body escaped Hunter’s grasp and plunged downward like a rock.

The next sound Hunter heard was that of Brandon’s body being disintegrated as it met the oncoming train.

The train number shown at the front of the engine car was 678.

Ninety-Eight

The briefing room had been absolutely quiet throughout Hunter’s accounts, and the stunned silence persisted for a few seconds afterward. Everything now starting to slot into place – SSV, 678, 0123.

‘I remember you telling me about it,’ Garcia eventually said, surprise still showing on his face.

Captain Blake nodded. So did she.

‘So the phone call to you at the beginning of all this,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t by chance or because of your reputation, as we once thought.’

‘No,’ Hunter agreed. ‘It was because I was the one on the bridge. Because I wasn’t fast enough. And because I was the one who failed to dissuade Brandon from jumping.’

‘But how do our three victims fit into this?’ Garcia asked.

Hunter nodded, pressing the button on the clicker again. The image on the projection screen was substituted by three low-quality photographs. There was no doubt that the pictures showed the Sixth Street Viaduct on that fateful night. They were slightly out of focus and a little grainy, but on all three of them, though his face was obscured by shadows, everyone could clearly see Brandon Fisher standing on the concrete ledge at the west end of the bridge. In the second and third photographs, Hunter was easy to identify. He was also on the bridge, standing just a few feet away from Brandon, bathed by the yellowish light that came from a bridge lamppost. His demeanor showed signs of tension.

‘These pictures were taken by the passerby who called 911 that night, using a cellphone camera,’ Hunter clarified. ‘As we all know, central dispatch general police radio calls are usually scanned by crime reporters looking for a scoop. The crime desk at the LA Timeswas scanning that night. I’m not sure if the passerby was persuaded to, or if he sold them of his own accord, but the pictures he captured on the bridge ended up with the LA Timescrime reporter who came to the scene.’

Hunter paused and pressed the clicker button again. A new portrait photograph took over the screen. One that was now very familiar to Hunter, Garcia, Captain Blake and Michelle Kelly.

‘The name of the passerby who made the call and took the pictures,’ Hunter said, looking at the portrait. ‘Kevin Lee Parker. Our first victim.’

Garcia filled his cheeks with air and blew it out slowly. ‘Let me guess. Christina Stevenson, the killer’s second victim, was the LA Timesreporter who showed up to cover the story.’

‘The one and the same,’ Hunter confirmed. ‘She was with the crime desk back then. She not only used the three photographs taken by Kevin Lee Parker that night but she also added this picture to her article, obviously looking for the “shocking” factor.’

Another click.

The same close-up photograph of Brandon Fisher’s scarred face Hunter had shown them just minutes before, taken about twelve months after his accident, returned to the screen.

‘Shit!’ Michelle said. ‘She exposed the kid’s face and with it his entire internal struggle to everyone.’

Hunter nodded. ‘Christina’s article made sure that Brandon’s injuries became public domain. Now anyone could pull pitiful, shocked or disgusted faces. Anyone could make comments, jokes or whatever about the “disfigured” kid who jumped from the bridge.’ Hunter took a moment and had a sip of water. ‘Maybe because Christina was in a hurry to finish the article, which came out a day after Brandon’s suicide, it would be fair to say that her efforts into researching the story properly weren’t her best.’

A new picture took over the projection screen – Christina Stevenson’s article.

‘I got this from her editor at the LA Timeslate last night,’ Hunter said.

‘I’ll be damned,’ Captain Blake exclaimed, before reading the title of the article out loud. ‘The Devil Inside.’

‘What the killer left us on the glass door inside Christina Stevenson’s bedroom,’ Hunter reminded everyone, ‘was the title of the article she wrote. The piece goes on to suggest that a bullied, rejected, cast-aside and troubled Brandon Fisher was unable to cope with the devil insidehim. The devil of his injuries. A devil that had slowly but surely worked its way through Brandon’s sanity, finally driving him to suicide.’ Hunter paused for a beat. ‘Christina also used words such as—’ he pointed them out as he spoke ‘—“ anotherteenager’s suicide”, which implies triviality, something unimportant, something that happens too often for anyone to really care. And “ disturbingthe quiet night”, which suggests Brandon’s death was nothing more than a simple burden that the city of Los Angeles could do without, like pickpockets or muggers.

‘Unfortunately,’ Hunter added, ‘Christina’s poor choice of words trivialized what happened that night. Just another sad story to be forgotten seconds after it’s been read.’

No comment was made, so Hunter proceeded.

‘And then we have this.’

One more click and once again the images on the screen changed, but this time they weren’t static. They weren’t pictures. They had a video.

The surprised expression was uniform across everyone’s face.

The video showed the final fifteen seconds of Brandon’s life. He was standing on the ledge facing south. Hunter was standing a few feet from him, his back to the camera. Brandon was saying something to Hunter the camera’s microphone wasn’t able to pick up. All they could hear was the loud sound of a train approaching. Then it all happened very fast. Brandon turned around quickly, but didn’t jump as such. He simply stepped away from the ledge and onto thin air, as if stepping into a room, or out of a house. Gravity did the rest. At that exact moment, Hunter sprang to life, taking a step forward and launching himself in Brandon’s direction, stretching his body like Superman in mid-flight. Then the camera panned fast downward, just quick enough to catch the moment of impact as the train rushed past beneath the bridge and struck the kid’s small body with all its force.

The room was filled with curse words and anxious murmurs. Hunter saw everyone in the room cringe, including the SWAT captain.

Hunter paused the footage.

‘This was captured by the driver of the next vehicle that came along onto the bridge, several seconds after I blocked the traffic. He so happened to have a camcorder with him. His name . . .’

Click.

A new portrait photograph appeared on the screen. The same one Hunter and Garcia had on the pictures board inside their office.

‘Ethan Walsh,’ Hunter said. ‘The killer’s third victim.’

A few seconds of stunned silence.

‘So that explains why the killer left us a camcorder in the park’s trashcan right after Ethan Walsh’s death,’ Garcia said. ‘Because he used one to capture Brandon’s suicide that night.’

‘Precisely,’ Hunter agreed. ‘Mr. Walsh was already facing serious financial problems then. He had put everything he had into his company, and had nothing left. I guess that Ethan Walsh saw an opportunity to maybe make some cash, because he sold his footage to Christina Stevenson at the LA Times, and that’s why he had her number in his phone book. But she wasn’t the only one. Mr. Walsh also sold his footage to a cable TV show called A Mystery in 60 Minutes.He probably tried others, but no major network would buy it because they just wouldn’t show a teenager’s suicide video on national television. The cable TV station, on the other hand, couldn’t care less and used the footage a few days later as part of a special Teenage Suicideprogram. That particular cable TV station is only available in California.So no one else outside this state was able to watch it.’

Hunter returned to the podium.

‘The problem is that the tragedy of a suicide never ends there,’ he explained. ‘Family and loved ones are left to deal not only with the loss of someone dear, but with the inevitable depression and psychological guilt that take over. How come they didn’t see it coming? Could they have done more?But what really eats them inside is knowing that all that would’ve taken to save them was a listening ear, maybe a few comforting words and the reassurance that they weren’t alone, that they mattered, that they were loved.’

No one said a word.

‘But with today’s technology and the Internet, that internal guilt and pain can be increased exponentially,’ Hunter added. ‘For some reason that I can’t explain, Ethan Walsh wasn’t content with just selling his video to Christina Stevenson at the LA Timesand the cable TV channel. Using the Internet handle, DarkXX1000, he uploaded the footage to a specialized, shock-video website called thiscrazyworld.com. From then on it became a free-for-all, and the worst pain a family could endure became public domain, a joke, just a video snippet for millions of people to watch and laugh at, gossip about, comment on and criticize. And people did.’

Hunter quickly clicked through a few slides of screen prints showing pages and pages of comments that had been placed on the website. A few showed support, but most of them were terribly offensive.

‘So who exactly are we after, then?’ the SWAT captain asked.

‘I was just getting to that,’ Hunter said.

Click.

Ninety-Nine

The new photograph that took over the screen was of a woman who was probably in her forties but looked at least ten years older. She had straight auburn hair and a milky-white complexion. Not actually bad looking, except for a pair of deeply recessed eyes that gave her a slightly cadaverous appearance.

‘Brandon Fisher didn’t come from a large family,’ Hunter explained. ‘In fact, he was the only child of Graham and Margaret Fisher. His mother—’ he indicated the photograph on the screen ‘—was a frail woman, who had developed multiple sclerosis just a few months after giving birth to Brandon. His death hit her hard. The shock-video website where Brandon’s suicide footage appeared, coupled with the devastating comments made online, hit her even harder. Her son, together with all his pain and struggle, were now exposed to the entire world, ready to be judged by anyone with an Internet connection. She was unable to sleep and started rejecting food. Soon she developed anorexia nervosa, and quickly became addicted to sedatives, among other drugs. She wouldn’t leave the house and was subsequently also diagnosed with major depression and severe anxiety disorder, all brought on by her son’s suicide and how abusive some people remained, even after his death.’

Hunter moved around to the front of the podium before continuing.

‘Her already delicate health deteriorated faster than was predicted based on her long-term illness. About ten months after Brandon’s suicide, due to how little she ate, she had to start being fed via an IV drip. She passed away twelve months ago.’

The room remained quiet.

‘And that brings us to Brandon’s father, Graham Fisher,’ Hunter said, moving on. ‘At the time of his son’s suicide, Mr. Fisher was a professor at UCLA. He taught advanced programming as part of the university’s computer science degree. He holds a PhD in Engineering and Computer Science from Harvard University. One of his many areas of expertise is in Internet security. In the past he has even worked as a consultant for the US government.