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

Автор книги: Chris (2) Carter

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‘Over fifteen thousand people watched this poor woman die?’ Captain Blake asked with a tone of disbelief.

‘It looks that way,’ Michelle replied.

‘Ms. Kelly,’ Hunter took over. ‘Can we meet? If necessary I’ll put in an official request for a joint effort between the LAPD and the FBI, but I’d like to start on it as soon as possible.’

‘Absolutely. Even with no official request, I want in. This goes way beyond department politics. My entire team and I will do all we can to help. I’ll be in our office until late tonight, if you’d like to come by.’

‘I will, thanks, and thanks for your help today.’

They disconnected.

‘Over fifteen thousand people?’ Captain Blake repeated it, still half shocked. ‘This thing is already out there, Robert. There’s no way we can contain it. We better get ready for the mother of all shitstorms.’

Hunter’s cellphone rang. The caller display window showed unknown number.

‘That might already be the bloodsucking reporters,’ the captain said.

‘Detective Hunter, Homicide Special,’ he said into the mouthpiece.

‘I told you it would be fun,’ the caller said in a serene voice.

Hunter had to take a deep breath before pressing the loudspeaker button.

‘And with almost two whole minutes to spare.’ The caller chuckled. ‘Oh boy. That was something else, wasn’t it? OK, OK, she wasn’t actually eatenalive, but, believe me, those stings are so painful it feels like your body is being ripped apart by sharp teeth.’

Captain Blake looked at Garcia. ‘Is that the sick fuck?’ she whispered.

Garcia nodded.

The captain’s nostrils flared. She was ready to let go of a barrage of abuse.

Hunter saw it first and lifted his hand, signaling her to stay calm.

‘Do you know how many people watched that online, Detective?’ The caller sounded amused. ‘Over fifteen thousand. Isn’t society sick?’ He paused and snorted. ‘Of course you know society is sick. You chase sickos for a living, don’t you, Detective Hunter? Sickos just like me.’

Hunter said nothing.

‘The problem is,’ the caller continued. ‘When is somebody considered a sicko, Detective Hunter? How about all the people who watched? How about all the people who voted? Are they sickos? Regular, everyday people, Detective: social workers, teachers, students, cab drivers, waitresses, doctors, nurses, even police officers. They all wanted to see her die.’ He rethought his words. ‘No . . . worse. They didn’t only want to see her die. They wanted to helpkill her. They wanted to press the button. They wanted to choose how she would die.’ He paused, allowing the gravity of his words to resonate. ‘Does that make them all accessory to murder, or does it all fall under “human morbid curiosity”? You should know, Detective Hunter. You’re both a cop and a criminal behavior psychologist, aren’t you?’

Hunter didn’t reply.

‘Are you still there, Detective?’

‘You know I’m going to catch you, don’t you?’ The conviction in Hunter’s words was absolute.

The caller laughed. ‘Is that so?’

‘Yes. I will find you. And you will pay.’

‘I do like your attitude, Detective.’

‘It’s not attitude. It’s a fact. Your days are numbered.’

The caller hesitated for a fraction of a second. ‘I guess we’ll see about that. But since you’re so confident in your abilities, Detective, I’ll make a trade with you.’

Hunter said nothing.

‘I had no doubt ten minutes was more than enough time for me to get at least a thousand votes on one of the two death methods. I had no doubt, because society is too predictable. You know that, don’t you?’

Silence.

‘But I also knew that EATEN would come out on top.’

A long pause.

‘So this is the trade, Detective Hunter,’ the caller carried on. ‘You tell me how I knew they would pick EATEN over BURIED, and you’ll find her body soon enough. You don’t. Her body vanishes. Since you’re so confident in your abilities, let’s see how good you are.’

Hunter’s stare settled on Captain Blake.

‘Tell him something,’ she urged. ‘We need that body.’

‘C’mon, Detective,’ the caller urged him. ‘It’s simple psychology. You should get this easy.’

Several seconds went by before Hunter spoke.

‘Because EATEN appealed to “human curiosity”, BURIED didn’t.’ His voice was calm and collected.

The captain frowned.

‘I like it,’ the caller said. ‘Please explain.’

Hunter scratched his forehead. He knew that, for now, he had to play the caller’s game.

‘Everyone knows what to expect from BURIED. EATEN is the unknown. What would you use? How would it be done? What could possibly eat a human being alive? Natural human curiosity would tip the scale toward the unknown.’

A pause was followed by a loud laugh and then handclaps. ‘Very good, Detective. As I said, society as a whole is quite predictable, isn’t it? It was a done deal from the start.’

Hunter said nothing.

‘It must eat you up inside, mustn’t it, Detective?’

‘What must?’

‘The knowledge that the vast majority of people who watched that online show enjoyed it. They probably even cheered every sting. They loved watching her die.’

No reply.

‘And you know what? I bet that they are dying with anticipation for the next show.’

Captain Blake shivered with anger.

‘Well, I must bid you all farewell. I’ve got things to do.’

The line disconnected.

Thirty

The next show.

Those words seemed to echo inside Hunter’s office forever. They all knew exactly what that meant, and it filled everyone with dread.

The first thing Hunter did was to ask his research team to come up with a list of possible meanings for SSV, the three letters that had appeared in the top left-hand corner of the screen at the beginning of the broadcast. He had also asked them to prepare a report on tarantula hawks. Was the species found in California? Can anyone breed them in their back garden, or do they require special environment, conditions, etc.?

Garcia contacted the Missing Persons Unit again and emailed them a snapshot of the woman’s face. They needed to identify her as soon as possible.

Operations called Hunter as soon as he had disconnected from the call with the killer. This time he hadn’t bounced the call all over Los Angeles. He had used a prepaid cellphone. No GPS. But the call didn’t last long enough for them to be able to accurately triangulate it. The call had originated from somewhere in Studio City.

The broadcast and Hunter’s telephone conversation with the killer had left everyone shaken, but Hunter knew he had to keep his focus. He and Garcia left the PAB and drove to the bus depot in Athens, south Los Angeles. They needed to determine if Kevin Lee Parker, the first victim, had boarded any bus on route 207 on that Monday evening. With that, they could establish if the victim had been abducted in the stretch between the bus stop and his house in Jefferson Park or during the short walk from the Next-Gen Games Shop and the bus stop in Hyde Park.

Four out of the six drivers who had driven route 207 on Monday evening were on duty tonight. Hunter and Garcia struck it lucky with the third driver they interviewed. After showing him a portrait photograph of Kevin Lee Parker, the tall and skinny man nodded and told both detectives that he remembered Kevin because he was a regular – always took the bus from the stop at Hyde Park Boulevard and 10th Avenue, and usually around 7:00 p.m. The driver said that Kevin was a polite man, always said ‘hello’ as he boarded the bus. He couldn’t one hundred percent remember if Kevin was alone or not, but he believed he was. The driver also couldn’t remember if Kevin had gotten off at the stop at Crenshaw and West Jefferson Boulevard, his usual stop.

After leaving the bus depot, Hunter and Garcia drove to the intersection between Crenshaw and West Jefferson Boulevard. Kevin Lee Parker’s house was a ten-minute walk from the bus stop there. They parked the car and walked the route twice. If Kevin had stuck to West Jefferson Boulevard, and then turned right into South Victoria Avenue, the whole trajectory from the bus stop to his house would’ve taken him down well-lit and busy roads, but cost him an extra three minutes. The fastest route would’ve been to cut through the West Angeles Church’s car park, just past the Chevron Gas Station on the corner of Crenshaw and West Jefferson, and then carry on through the back alleys, behind South Victoria Avenue.

The West Angeles Church had no security cameras outside, and its car park was located at the back of the building, well hidden from any roads. According to the schedule posted at the front of the church, there were no services on Monday evenings. The car park would’ve been empty and concealed in the shadows of three not-so-bright lampposts. Snatching Kevin from there, or any of the back alleys on the way to his house, would’ve been child’s play: no one would’ve witnessed it at all.

Thirty-One

The Los Angeles FBI headquarters in Wilshire Boulevard was a seventeen-story-high concrete and glass box-structure that looked more like a prison than a federal law-enforcement building. With small, one-way, special dark glass windows pigeonholed between long and thin cement pillars, all that was missing were thick metal bars and guard towers around the perimeter. In short, it looked like every FBI building around the country – nondescript and enigmatic.

It was coming up to eight in the evening when Garcia parked his car in the parking lot directly behind the FBI building. The lot was far from empty. Garcia picked a spot next to a shiny black Cadillac with tinted windows and chromed wheels.

‘Wow,’ he said as he turned off his engine. ‘I’m surprised his license plate isn’t “IMFBI”.’

Before getting to the main entrance doors, both detectives had to go up a set of concrete stairs, across an open-roof green garden and down a CCTV-monitored corridor. They pushed open the heavy, thick glass doors and stepped into a well-lit and pleasantly air-conditioned reception lobby.

Two attractive and conservatively dressed receptionists, who were sitting behind a black-granite reception counter, smiled as they entered the building. Only one stood up.

Hunter and Garcia identified themselves, handing her their credentials. The receptionist quickly typed something into her computer terminal and waited for the application to reply. It did so in less than five seconds, confirming their names and ranks with the LAPD. It also displayed an identifying photograph of each detective. Satisfied, the receptionist returned their identifications to them together with two blue and white visitors’ badges.

‘An agent will escort you inside,’ she said.

A minute later a tall man in a dark suit approached them. ‘LAPD Detectives Hunter and Garcia.’ He nodded his greeting. No handshakes. ‘Please follow me.’

They were escorted through two sets of security doors, down a long hallway, then through a third set of security doors and into an elevator, which descended one floor to the FBI Cybercrime Division. The elevator opened onto a shiny, hardwood corridor, where hanging brass fixtures with several portraits in gilded frames lined the walls. Neither Hunter nor Garcia recognized any of the people in the photographs.

The glass double doors at the end of the hallway were pulled open before they got to them.

‘I’ll take it from here, thanks,’ the woman said.

The escort nodded at her, then at Hunter and Garcia again, before turning on the balls of his feet and heading back toward the elevator.

Both detectives recognized Michelle Kelly’s voice from the conference call earlier, but she was nothing like either of them had pictured her.

Michelle Kelly looked to be around twenty-eight years old. She was five foot eight, with long, raven-black dyed hair. Her fringe was spiked, falling over her forehead in a skate-punk way. Her deep green eyes were heavily framed by black eyeliner and pale green eye shadow. Her full lips were delicately accented by red lipstick. She had a thin, silver-loop nose-ring through her left nostril, and a second loop ring through the right edge of her bottom lip. She was wearing black Doc Martens over tight black jeans. Her T-shirt was black and red, with a flying skull design. It read ‘Avenged Sevenfold’.

‘Detective Hunter,’ she said, offering her hand. Both of her arms were completely covered in tattoos, all the way to her wrists, which in turn were lined with different bracelets. Her fingernails were manicured and done in black nail varnish. She looked completely at ease and entirely self-confident.

The first thought that crossed Hunter’s mind was that Michelle Kelly hadn’t become an FBI agent out of choice. Hunter had been to the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia, more than once. He had dealt with agents and their section chiefs. He had read their rulebook. The Federal Bureau of Investigation was still run under a classical approach – old school. Dress codes, hairstyles and rules of conduct were strictly enforced, especially when inside an official building. Facial piercings and clearly visible tattoos were simply not allowed. Of course, exceptions were made for deep-cover agents who had to infiltrate gangs, cults, criminal organizations, etc., but a regular person applying for a place at the academy with his or her arms covered in ink would’ve been turned away at the gates. Hunter’s conclusion was that Michelle Kelly probably owed the federal government a debt. Maybe she had been a master hacker in her former life. Someone with cyber skills the FBI didn’t have and couldn’t ignore. They had finally caught up with her, and a deal was placed on the table – a very long spell inside or a position with the Cybercrime Division. She took the job.

Hunter took her hand. ‘Ms. Kelly, thanks for seeing us.’ She had soft hands but a very firm grip. ‘This is my partner, Detective Carlos Garcia.’

They shook hands.

‘Please call me Michelle,’ she said, showing them inside a large room that was chilled to a few degrees below comfortable.

Unlike the LAPD Computer Crimes Unit, which resembled a large open-plan high-tech newsroom, the FBI Cybercrime Division looked to be in a league of its own. First impressions were that the inside of the room looked like the bridge of the starship Enterprise.Lights were blinking on and off just about everywhere they looked. The east wall was taken by six massive monitors, each one showing maps, images or lines of data neither Hunter nor Garcia understood. Sixteen spacious desks, covered with monitors and high-tech computer equipment, were scattered around the room. There was no separate enclosure. No office. No visible hierarchy. Inside that room, everyone was equal.

Michelle guided them to the desk closest to the north wall. ‘Dennis Baxter gave me very few details. He said that it would be better if you ran me through the whole story.’ She dragged two chairs from the nearby desks and positioned them in front of her own.

A man in his mid twenties approached them. He had wavy, rust-colored hair, thin lips, longish eyebrows and large and round, almost black eyes. He looked like a pensive owl – the spitting image of what most people imagine a geek would look like, without the thick glasses.

‘This is Harry Mills,’ Michelle said, making the necessary introductions. ‘He’s part of our unit, and a computer genius, with the diplomas to prove it.’

More handshakes.

Harry took a seat and Hunter ran them through everything that had happened so far. Michelle and Harry listened without interrupting.

‘And you managed to record most of the broadcast from the first murder?’ Michelle asked when Hunter was done.

He retrieved a pen drive from his pocket and handed it to her. ‘It’s all in there.’

She quickly connected it to a USB port on the computer on her desk, and for the next seventeen minutes no one said a word.

Thirty-Two

When the footage ended, Michelle pressed the ‘esc’ key on her keyboard. Hunter noticed her hands were not as steady as they were before.

Harry let go of a breath that seemed to have been stuck in his throat for the past seventeen minutes.

‘Jesus!’ he said. ‘Until late this afternoon I had never seen anyone die. I’ve seen pictures of dead bodies . . . I was present during an autopsy, but never actually seen anyone die, never mind being tortured and murdered. Now I’ve seen two.’

Hunter explained the details of his first telephone conversation with the killer, and how the alkali bath came to be.

‘And you believe he tricked you?’ Michelle asked.

Hunter nodded. ‘He knew beforehand that I would choose water. It was all part of the show.’

Michelle finally blinked. ‘Can I get you guys some coffee or something? Icertainly need a drink. My throat feels like the Nevada desert.’

‘Coffee would be great, thanks,’ Hunter said.

‘Yeah, for me too,’ Garcia added.

‘I’ll get it,’ Harry said, already getting up.

‘You said that he used an IP address for this transmission, not a web address like the one today?’ Michelle asked.

‘That’s right,’ Hunter said. ‘According to Dennis, it was probably a hijacked IP address.’

Michelle nodded. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me at all, but that’s strange.’

‘What is?’ Hunter asked.

Harry came back with four coffees, a small jug of milk, a container with cubes of brown and white sugar and sachets of sweetener.

‘The fact that the first murder was practically a for-your-eyes-onlybroadcast,’ Michelle explained, ‘but the second one was let loose over the World Wide Web.’

Hunter tilted his head to one side. ‘Well, according to the caller, the reason why he made the second broadcast a more public affair was because I was no fun the first time around. I didn’t play his game the way he wanted me to.’

‘But you don’t believe that,’ Harry said, handing both detectives a cup of coffee.

Hunter shook his head. ‘He was too well prepared.’

‘He was,’ Michelle agreed. ‘And that’s exactly why it’s strange he didn’t go for a public broadcast the first time around. He already had everything in place. We’ve checked. The domain www.pickadeath.com was registered twenty-nine days ago with a server in Taiwan. I don’t think he did that just in case. He knew he would go public, and that gives us a second huge problem.’

‘Which is?’ Garcia asked.

‘Today’s broadcast was live for exactly twenty-one minutes and eighteen seconds. It received over fifteen thousand hits while it was online. But we’re now living in the social network era. Everyone shares everything.’

‘The footage was cloned,’ Hunter said, anticipating what Michelle was leading to.

‘It was,’ Michelle admitted. ‘Two minutes after the transmission ended, snippets of it were uploaded to several video and social network sites such as YouTube, Dailymotion and Facebook.’

Hunter and Garcia said nothing.

‘Unfortunately that was inevitable,’ Harry added. ‘Once something this weird hits the World Wide Web, it has the potential to go viral. Luckily for us, that potential didn’t materialize. The video has spread a little over the net, but nothing close to going viral. Because we were able to go to work as soon as the transmission ended, we were also able to limit its spread.’

‘We monitor thousands of video and social network websites around the world,’ Michelle explained. ‘As soon as a snippet springs up in one of those, we ask the site webmasters to take it down. So far, they are all cooperating.’

‘The killer knew very well this would happen,’ Garcia said. ‘I mean, snippets, or even the entire original broadcast, spreading over the Internet. I’m sure he was counting on it. He’s having fun torturing and killing his victims. And the more people who watch it, the better.’

No one said anything.

Michelle clicked a few icons on her computer and the image of the woman lying inside the glass coffin filled the large monitor to her right. The first victim, sitting inside the glass tank, was on the monitor to her left.

‘We automatically record any Internet transmission that we deem suspicious,’ she said. ‘We obviously started recording this as soon as we came across it. I think we managed to get it all the way from the beginning.’ She hit the ‘play’ button.

Hunter nodded, looking at the images. ‘You did.’

‘Judging by the devices he created,’ Harry said, pointing to the glass tank and the see-through coffin on Michelle’s screens, ‘this guy is a pretty good handyman, with a decent understanding of engineering.’

‘I have no doubt,’ Garcia agreed.

‘Any luck tracing his call?’ Harry asked.

Garcia shook his head and explained that the first time around the killer had bounced his call to the LAPD all over Los Angeles.

‘But not the second time?’

‘No. This time he used a prepaid cellphone. No GPS. The call originated from Studio City, but it didn’t last long enough for it to be properly triangulated.’

Harry looked pensive for a moment.

‘Do you have an ID for her yet?’ Michelle asked, indicating the woman victim.

‘We’re working on it,’ Garcia replied.

‘How about the first victim?’

Garcia nodded and gave her a very quick résumé of Kevin Lee Parker.

Michelle’s attention returned to the images playing on the monitor to her right – the woman lying inside the glass coffin. ‘These were only on the screen for exactly sixty seconds.’ She pointed to the letters and numbers in the top left– and right-hand corners of the picture – SSV and 678. ‘Do you know what they mean?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Clues to who the victim might be?’ Harry suggested.

Garcia shrugged. ‘So that’s not a technical acronym? Something computer related?’

‘Nothing that I can see having any relevance in this context,’ Michelle replied, looking at Harry.

He agreed with a head gesture. ‘From the top of my head – Storage Server, Systems Software Verification, Static Signature Verification, Smart Security Vector . . . None of that makes any sense here.’ He paused and looked at the monitor to Michelle’s left – Kevin Lee Parker bound and gagged inside the glass tank. ‘Did the same happen during the first broadcast? I can see you didn’t start recording the footage from the beginning. Did the same, or a different combination of letters and numbers, appear?’

‘No, nothing,’ Hunter replied. ‘The only letters that appeared were the ones that formed the chemical formula for sodium hydroxide.’

‘So “SSV 678” must be something directly related to the woman,’ Harry concluded.

‘Possibly,’ Hunter said. ‘We’ll know more when we identify her.’

‘Can you leave this with us?’ Michelle asked, referring to the footage of the first victim. ‘I’d like to analyze it better. Compare it to today’s broadcast.’

‘No problem.’

Michelle watched the images on both monitors play for a few more seconds before pausing them. The look on her face was a combination of anger, frustration and disgust. Her lips started to part as if she was about to say something, but she hesitated, weighing her words for a moment.

‘Whoever this guy is,’ she finally said. ‘He’s a gifted programmer with great knowledge of cyberspace. He covered every angle – TTL, exploited servers, hideware, registering the site in Taiwan, bouncing his telephone calls around and so on. When the broadcast was over, his website vanished, as if it were never there. No trace. He’s expertly hiding under several electronic layers of protection. For us to get to him, we need to peel them back, one by one. There’s no circumventing it. The problem is, each layer also works as an intruder’s alert . . . a warning to him. As soon as we manage to peel one back, he’ll know, giving him more than enough time to react, to create more layers if necessary.’

Hunter took a deep breath. It was very clear that their investigation would have to concentrate on computer programmers with great knowledge of cyberspace, but in Los Angeles they were everywhere: public and private organizations, schools, universities, their own garages . . . Just about everywhere you looked, you were bound to find someone with Internet expertise. They needed something more to guide them.

Michelle looked Hunter in the eye. ‘The reason why this killer is so confident is because he knows that as far as cyberspace is concerned, he’s untraceable. He’s a cyber ghost. As long as he stays there, we can’t get to him.’

Thirty-Three

Early the next morning Captain Blake was standing in front of the large pictures board set up against the south wall inside Hunter’s office when he arrived. Garcia was standing just behind her.

New snapshots of the second victim lying inside the glass coffin had already been pinned to the board. Some showed her terrified face in varied stages of desperation. Some showed tarantula hawks freeze-framed as they entered the coffin, and then again as they covered her entire body, stinging almost every inch of it.

Garcia had already run Captain Blake through what had happened in their meeting with Michelle Kelly and Harry Mills at the FBI CCD the night before.

‘Nothing from Missing Persons yet,’ Garcia announced as Hunter took off his jacket and powered up his computer. ‘This time the killer didn’t gag the victim, so their facial recognition software should have no problems matching key points, but I was on the phone to them just moments ago. No matches so far.’

Hunter nodded.

‘The research team delivered the report on tarantula hawks last night,’ Garcia said, walking back to his desk.

Hunter and Captain Blake turned to face him.

He reached for the blue folder by his keyboard and flipped it open. ‘As we suspected, this killer knew exactly what he was doing, and how to deliver incredible pain. Unlike bees, that can sting their victims only once, wasps can sting theirs multiple times, delivering the same amount of venom and ferocity with every single sting. And like I’d said, their sting isferocious. In the Schmidt Sting Pain Index the tarantula hawk sits right at the top.’

‘The what?’ The captain interrupted him.

‘It’s a pain scale, Captain,’ Hunter clarified. ‘It rates the pain caused by the sting of large insects.’

‘That’s correct,’ Garcia said with a nod. ‘The scale ranges from zero to four, four being the most painful. Only two insects rate at four – the tarantula hawk and the bullet ant.’

‘How common are they?’ Captain Blake asked.

‘In America, fairly.’ Garcia flipped a page on the report and pulled a face. ‘Actually, the tarantula hawk is the official state insect of New Mexico.’

The captain looked at him blankly. ‘Do American states have official insects?’

‘Apparently.’

‘What’s the official insect of California, then?’

Garcia shrugged.

‘The dog-face butterfly,’ Hunter said, and with a hand movement urged Garcia to continue.

He did.

‘In California only a small number of species can be found, mainly around the Mojave Desert area and parts of southern California. Among those species, according to the entomologist we’ve spoken with, is one of the most intriguing ones – the Pepsis menechma.’ He pointed to the pictures board. ‘The one used by the killer.’

‘What’s so intriguing about them?’ Hunter asked.

Garcia closed the folder and returned it to his desk. ‘In essence, tarantula hawks are lonewasps,’ he explained. ‘They don’t live in nests, or hives, or any sort of community. They don’t move in groups either.’ His shoulders moved up and down ever so slightly, in a what-do-you-knowkind of shrug. ‘With the exception of a handful of species.’

‘The one the killer used is one of them,’ the captain concluded. She didn’t even attempt to use the scientific name Garcia had read out moments earlier.

‘Exactly,’ Garcia confirmed. ‘That particular species is very similar to the Brazilian one that put me in hospital when I was a kid. They live in large hives, they hunt and attack in groups and they have one of the most powerful, painful and venomous stings out of all tarantula hawks. They are also diurnal creatures, which means that they don’t like darkness very much. If they are forced to move around in it, they get very angry. And that’s when things get ugly in a hurry.’

Everyone’s eyes moved back to the pictures board. At the center of it was a large, zoomed-in photograph of a tarantula hawk in mid-flight.

‘So there’s no way we can know where he got them.’

‘According to the entomologist,’ Garcia explained, ‘if we find her body before it decomposes, we might be able to trace their location of origin by chemically analyzing the venom they left in her bloodstream. How much help that can prove to be, no one knows.’

Thirty-Four

Garcia gave everyone a moment for his words to sink in, before reaching for two copies of a new printout that was on his desk.

‘As far as the media is concerned, we’ve been a little lucky,’ he said, handing the printouts to Hunter and Captain Blake. ‘Nothing was actually picked up by the major press, but there’s been a little speculation on the Internet. As you know, the broadcast was cloned and uploaded to several video network sites.’

The printout was of a current affairs web page. In the bottom left-hand corner there was a small snapshot of the woman lying inside the glass coffin. Tarantula hawks were all over her. The caption underneath the picture read: “Reality or Hoax?”

‘It’s a small article,’ Garcia continued. ‘It just talks about the on-screen voting process, and summarizes what happened next.’ He gave Hunter and Captain Blake a brief smile. ‘In this particular case, Hollywood came to our rescue.’

‘How so?’ the captain asked.

‘At the moment everyone’s best guess is that that broadcast was part of a publicity stunt for a new horror/reality-style movie. It’s been done before. The trick is to start a buzz by trying to make the public believe it’s a real documentary rather than a Hollywood production.’

The captain returned the printout to Garcia. ‘That suits us just fine. Let them believe the Hollywood bullshit.’ She turned and faced the pictures board again. ‘But they do have a point. This doeslook like the storyboard for a horror movie. Stung to death by giant wasps, almost dissolved in a caustic soda solution. What the hell?’

‘Most feared deaths,’ Hunter said.

‘What?’

‘The options this killer gave us,’ Hunter followed up. ‘With the first victim – burned to death or drowned. With the second one – buried alive or eaten alive. Why these particular methods?’ He walked up to his computer, brought up his browser and called a web page. ‘Well, I found out that those particular methods are among the ten worst ways to die as voted by the public.’