Текст книги "I Am Death"

Автор книги: Chris (2) Carter

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Текущая страница: 34 (всего у книги 47 страниц)

Thirty-Six

‘Detective Garcia, Homicide Special,’ Garcia said into the mouthpiece of his cellphone, answering the call after the second ring. He and Hunter had just got back to the Police Administration Building after spending most of their morning and afternoon at the crime scene in Venice.

‘Detective, this is Officer Woods.’

Officer Garry Woods was in charge of the new door-to-door that was being conducted in Hollywood Hills. With the events of that morning, Garcia had forgotten about it.

‘Sir, you asked me to inform you directly if anything came up.’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Well, I think that we might’ve come across some new information for you here.’

‘OK. We’re on our way.’

Through late afternoon stop-and-start traffic, the drive from South Central back to Upper Laurel Canyon in Hollywood Hills took Hunter and Garcia close to an hour and ten minutes. Once they finally got there, they found Officer Woods and his partner waiting for them inside their black and white unit, which was parked directly in front of house number 8420, ten doors away from the Bennetts.

‘Detectives,’ Woods said, stepping out of his car and greeting Hunter and Garcia. He was about forty-five years old, with straight, rust-colored hair, full lips, longish, bushy eyebrows, and deep-brown, almost black eyes. He looked like a pensive wolf in a police uniform. His partner, who looked like he was counting the minutes until the end of his shift, stayed inside the unit.

Hunter and Garcia returned the greeting.

‘OK,’ Woods began. ‘Just as we were instructed to, we knocked on every door from the top of this road, all the way down to Laurel Pass Avenue, including the houses on Carmar Drive.’ He pointed to the street they could see branching out of Allenwood Road on the right. ‘That’s sixty-nine properties in total. We spoke to everyone who was available this time, including minors.’ He allowed his gaze to bounce from Hunter to Garcia, then back to Hunter. ‘I must admit; in this neighborhood, it all sounded like a wild goose chase at first. As expected, just as the previous door-to-door showed, nobody could remember seeing anything or anyone out of the ordinary, mainly because there’s no such thing as ordinary up on these hills, if you know what I mean. But about halfway through the search, we came across something that sounded at least interesting.’ He paused and gave both detectives a shrug. ‘It could also be nothing at all, but that’s not my decision to make. I’m just reporting it as instructed.’

‘OK,’ Garcia said. ‘So what have we got?’

‘Right here,’ Woods said, and he turned and faced house number 8420, a two-storey, redbrick home with a hipped roof, a neatly cropped front lawn and paths edged with orderly flowerbeds. Two cars were parked on the driveway – a white GMC Yukon and a metallic-blue Tesla S.

‘The information came from a kid,’ Woods said, nodding his head in the direction of the house. ‘His name is Marlon Sloan. Thirteen years old. Seems quite intelligent, but he’s as shy as shy can be.’ He reached for his notepad. ‘Would you like me to just relate to you what the kid told me, or talk to him yourself?’

Hunter sensed some hesitation in Officer Woods’ tone. ‘Why? Are you unsure of what he told you?’

As Woods tilted his head slightly to one side, his eyebrows lifted like two hairy caterpillars trying to kiss.

‘Like I said,’ he began. ‘The kid is terribly shy. As he was telling me his story, he barely maintained eye contact. He also seemed a little nervous, almost scared. That could be just the way the kid is, or something else. I’m not sure. But I know you detectives like to read people while you talk to them, that’s why I asked.’

Garcia nodded at Officer Woods before facing Hunter. ‘Well, since we’re here, we might as well talk to the kid.’

A few seconds after Officer Woods rang the doorbell, the door was opened by a five-foot-six woman in her early forties, who was more charming than attractive. She wore a black dress with spaghetti straps, black stockings and low-heel work shoes. Her naturally wavy auburn hair fell down to the top of her shoulders, framing a small, round face.

‘Hello again, Ms. Sloan,’ Woods said.

The woman’s gaze stayed on the officer for just a fraction before moving questioningly to the other two people standing at the door.

As Hunter and Garcia finished introducing themselves, a pale and skinny kid with short blond hair and thin wireframe glasses appeared at the door a few feet behind Ms. Sloan. He was about an inch taller than his mother. He wore blue jeans and a black T-shirt with a sugar skull on it. Underneath the skull, in white letters, was a band name – Aesthetic Perfection.

Hunter tilted his head to one side to catch the kid’s attention.

‘Hi there,’ he said, with a subtle hand-wave. ‘I’m Detective Robert Hunter of the LAPD, and this is my partner, Detective Carlos Garcia. You must be Marlon, right?’

The kid nodded in silence. Eye contact was established for no more than a second before he looked away.

Woods looked at Hunter and Garcia with a gaze that said: ‘I told you the kid was shy.’

‘Hi, Marlon,’ Woods said, looking over Ms. Sloan’s shoulder. ‘These are the detectives I said might have a few more questions for you. Do you mind telling them again what you told me earlier?’

‘I’m sorry,’ the boy’s mother cut in, sounding a little annoyed, ‘but this seems like a waste of time, ours and yours. He won’t tell them anything that he hasn’t already told you.’ She checked her watch. ‘And we’ve got a therapist’s appointment in less than an hour.’ She turned and faced her son. ‘We need to get going.’

Hunter was observing the boy, and as his mother mentioned the word ‘therapist’ Marlon looked away to his left, pressed his lips against each other and tucked his hands deep into his jean pockets. A negative reaction that indicated he wasn’t so keen on his therapist sessions.

‘We’ll take as little of your time as we possibly can, Ms. Sloan,’ Hunter said calmly, trying to reassure her and the boy. ‘But this really is important.’

Before Ms. Sloan could voice a reply, Hunter addressed the boy directly.

‘Marlon, we would really appreciate your help. If you could give us just a few minutes of your time, please.’

Marlon finally stepped forward, joining his mother at the door.

‘Do you mind if I see your credentials?’ he asked. This time, eye contact was held for a while longer than before.

The question caught everyone by surprise, even the boy’s mother, who looked at him as if he was being rude.

‘Of course,’ Hunter said, reaching for his LAPD identity and handing it to Marlon. Garcia did the same.

The boy studied them carefully and for a long moment, as if he were an expert in telling a forgery from the real thing.

‘Homicide,’ he said, returning the IDs to both detectives.

‘Excuse me?’ Ms. Sloan said, surprised, first looking at her son, then at Hunter and Garcia. She had failed to notice that detail when she first looked at the detectives’ identification. ‘Homicide?’

‘That’s correct, ma’am,’ Hunter said, handing her his credentials one more time. ‘Unfortunately, what started as an abduction from the house just down the road to yours has now sadly escalated to a homicide. The woman’s body was found yesterday morning. That’s why we’re revisiting every house.’

‘Oh my God!’ Ms. Sloan said, returning the credentials to Hunter, her annoyed demeanor completely dissipating. ‘I’m so sorry to hear that. I had no idea.’ She placed her arm around her son’s shoulder in a protective, tight hug.

‘At this time, any information, no matter how trivial it might seem to others, could be very important to us,’ Hunter reinforced.

‘Of course, of course,’ Ms. Sloan replied apologetically, before taking a step to her left. ‘Please, why don’t you come in?’

Thirty-Seven

Hunter, Garcia and Officer Woods followed Ms. Sloan and Marlon through a small anteroom, past a turned staircase and into the living room. Antique furniture decorated the large and very pleasant space. The walls, covered by widely striped wallpaper of deep-green and olive hues, were adorned with several oil paintings, all of them originals. A large, green and white shaggy rug centered the room, together with an impressive set of Victorian carved mahogany sofas and armchairs. Hanging from the center of the ceiling, a very elegant crystal chandelier bathed the room in calming light.

Ms. Sloan guided the group to the seating area. She and her son took one of the sofas. Hunter and Garcia took the other. Officer Woods took one of the framed armchairs. As they sat down, Ms. Sloan placed her arm around her son’s shoulder once again.

Hunter had kept his attention on Marlon. Officer Woods was right, the kid was terribly shy. He felt uncomfortable and awkward around people, especially strangers, and coping came in the form of minimum interaction, a shielded, timid posture, and little or no eye contact. As a result of how he felt, Marlon had built a defensive wall around him, probably subconsciously. In today’s world, not that rare a behavior. His mother’s hug seemed to embarrass him.

Hunter didn’t want to take much of their time, but he also wanted to try to make Marlon feel as at ease as he possibly could.

‘That’s a great band, by the way,’ he said as he and Garcia took their seats, indicating the boy’s shirt.

Marlon’s eyes slowly moved from the floor back to Hunter. Doubt and surprise were written all over the boy’s face. This time, he didn’t break eye contact.

‘You know Aesthetic Perfection?’ His tone, unlike his expression, carried a lot more doubt than surprise.

Hunter nodded. ‘I’ve seen them live a couple of times.’

Marlon adjusted his glasses on his nose and regarded the detective for an instant.

Hunter could tell that he was being studied.

‘Really?’ Marlon finally said. The doubt in his tone had turned into scepticism. ‘Do you have a favorite song?’

The kid is clever, Hunter thought. And very guarded. He had taken Hunter’s friendly comment and turned it into a test.

‘I wouldn’t say I have a favorite song,’ Hunter replied. ‘I like most of their stuff, especially the last two albums, but if I had to pick, maybe “Antibody”, or “Pale”, or “Lights Out”. How about you, do you have a favorite song at all?’

The kid hesitated again, visibly taken aback by a response that he wasn’t expecting. In consequence, his tense posture and expression finally relaxed. Unintentionally, his lips spread into a ghost of a smile.

‘ ‘‘Antibody” is a great song,’ he admitted. ‘I like “Inhuman” a lot too. But I agree, most of their stuff is awesome.’ He studied Hunter a moment longer. ‘Do you know a band called God Module?’

Hunter looked deep in thought for a couple of seconds. ‘No, I don’t think I do.’

‘If you like Aesthetic Perfection, you’ll like them. You should check them out.’

‘God Module.’ Hunter nodded. ‘Thanks. I will do.’

Ms. Sloan followed their quick conversation with a half surprised, half intrigued look on her face. Very rarely had she seen her son deliberately engage a stranger in conversation.

‘I’m sorry.’ Hunter addressed Ms. Sloan. ‘I know that you’re pressed for time.’

‘Umm . . . yes, we are a little.’ She looked at her son.

‘Marlon,’ Hunter began. ‘Could you just run us through what you told Officer Woods earlier?’

The boy nodded. ‘Sure. I was asked if I remembered seeing either a vehicle or maybe someone hanging out in the street in the past weeks. Like a non-resident, or a car that I hadn’t seen before.’

‘That’s right,’ Hunter confirmed.

‘I’d like to point out that Marlon doesn’t really like to leave the house, you see,’ Ms. Sloan intervened. ‘He doesn’t feel so comfortable outside.’

‘Mom,’ Marlon stopped her, sounding annoyed and embarrassed at the same time. ‘So what if I like to stay in the house? I still have eyes, don’t I? And my room has a large window, which I like to look out of.’ He subtly wiggled his shoulder, freeing himself from his mother’s embrace.

‘So you saw something from your window?’ Hunter asked in a calm and steady voice, bringing Marlon’s attention back to him and to the reason why they were all there.

‘Yes, I did,’ the kid replied, now scooting a couple of inches away from his mother. ‘I have a pretty good view of most of the street from my bedroom window.’

While outside, Hunter had already noticed the very strategic position of the Sloans’ house in relation to the street and the Bennetts’ home.

‘OK, so what was it that you saw?’

‘Well, let me give you a little bit of background first,’ Marlon began. ‘About four weeks ago there was some sort of problem with one of the telephone poles out on the street. The one just outside number eight-four-five-six, to be precise.’ He pointed north. ‘All the phones around here were dead.’

‘Yes, I remember that,’ Ms. Sloan interrupted again.

Before continuing, Marlon looked at her as if to say: Just let me speak, Mom.

‘OK,’ he carried on, ‘late that afternoon, a couple of AT&T engineers came by and fixed everything. I saw them working on the cables up at the top of the post.’

Hunter nodded but said nothing, allowing the kid to continue at his own pace.

‘What to me seemed strange,’ Marlon continued, ‘was that two days later another engineer was back here, working on the same telephone pole.’

Garcia frowned. ‘Why did you find that strange?

Marlon readjusted his glasses one more time. ‘Well, first, because there was no problem with the phone lines anymore. The problem had been fixed two days earlier. Second, because this engineer was by himself, using a telescopic ladder to get to the cables at the top of the post. It’s a pretty high post. The AT&T engineers that were here before him had a basket-crane truck.’

Garcia peeked at Hunter, who kept his eyes on the kid.

‘And then,’ Marlon continued, ‘about a week or so ago, that same lone engineer was back working up on the same telephone pole. Again, with a telescopic ladder, not a basket-crane truck, but this time I saw him leaving.’ Marlon paused, maybe for effect, maybe to take a breath. ‘He wasn’t driving an AT&T van, or any company van. He was driving a Yukon that was parked on the other side of the road. It was just like Mom’s, but his was black. He placed the ladder on the roof rack and took off.’

‘About a week or so ago?’ Hunter asked.

‘Yes,’ Marlon confirmed. ‘I think it was about two or three days before the police came knocking the first time.’

This time Hunter and Garcia exchanged a semi-concerned look.

A loud crackling noise came from the radio attached to Officer Woods’ belt. He quickly reached for it, while getting up.

‘Please excuse me, ma’am.’ He turned toward the detectives. ‘I’ve been waiting for some information to come in. This will be it. I’ll wait for you outside.’ He addressed Ms. Sloan again, who was about to get to her feet. ‘It’s OK, ma’am, I can see myself out.’ He turned and left the room.

Hunter resumed his questioning. ‘Did you manage to get a good look at this engineer?’

‘I only saw him from the back, while he was up on the post,’ the boy answered with a disappointed look. ‘He was tall, like the two of you. And he wasn’t fat, like the two AT&T engineers.’

‘Was he skinny, muscular?’ Garcia this time.

‘I couldn’t tell. He was wearing a jacket.’

‘An AT&T work jacket?’

‘I can’t remember, but I don’t think so.’

‘How about hair color?’

Once again, the kid shook his head, disheartened. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t really see it. He was wearing a baseball cap. I wasn’t really paying much attention to him or anything. It didn’t really look like he was doing anything wrong. I only thought of it because the officer who just left came asking. The only non-residents I’ve seen around the street in the past weeks were the AT&T engineers, this third engineer I told you about, and the police. That’s it.’

Everyone understood where the kid was coming from.

‘How about his vehicle?’ Hunter asked. ‘You said it was a black GMC Yukon?’

‘Yeah, it was.’

Hunter saw Ms. Sloan consulting her watch one more time.

‘And you said it had roof racks,’ he asked.

‘Yeah, it did.’

‘Did you notice anything else about the car at all? Like . . . were there any big bumps or scratches on the bodywork? Bumper or window stickers? Anything you can remember, really.’

Marlon looked down at his hands. ‘No, sorry. Only that it was a black Yukon.’

Hunter and Garcia exchanged one more look. There was nothing else they needed from Marlon or his mother, who was now looking rather impatient again.

Both detectives got up, thanked Marlon and Ms. Sloan, and made their way to the door. As Ms. Sloan saw them out, Hunter turned to face her.

‘The therapist session you’re taking Marlon to now, is that for his social anxiety and panic disorder?’

Ms. Sloan frowned at Hunter, mainly because she was surprised by his accurate diagnosis. Her next few words were a lot more guarded than before.

‘Yes . . . it is.’

Hunter glanced at Marlon, who was standing just behind his mother. He had heard the question and now looked a little embarrassed.

‘How long now?’ Hunter asked. ‘How long has he been going to therapy?’

A deeper frown from Ms. Sloan this time.

‘I’m sorry, but I fail to see how that is any of your concern, Detective?’

‘It hasn’t helped a great deal, has it?’

Ms. Sloan looked offended.

‘You should stop with the therapist,’ Hunter said.

Behind his mother, Marlon came close to a smile.

‘Excuse me?’ Ms. Sloan said.

‘You should stop with the therapist,’ Hunter repeated.

‘And why on earth would I want to do that?’

Hunter’s gaze found Marlon before returning to the boy’s mother. ‘The sad truth is that therapy and shrink visits are mainly hogwash. It’s in their financial interest to keep their patients coming back. Marlon’s condition is a lot more common than you might think, Ms. Sloan. And though you might think you’re helping by being overly protective of your son, you’re not.’

Ms. Sloan glared at Hunter. Anger crept into her eyes.

He ignored her look and addressed Marlon. ‘Every week, just try to walk a block outside your comfort zone, Marlon, however far that might be. If you can’t manage a block, try half a block. Find a park bench and have a seat. When your breathing calms down, ask a passing stranger for the time. Next week, ask two. The week after that, three. Next month, walk another block outside your new-found comfort zone, and repeat what you did before. Before you know it, you’ll be making new friends and the whole anxiety thing will be behind you.’

Ms. Sloan’s glare morphed into an intrigued stare.

‘You don’t need a therapist’s mumbo-jumbo to crack this thing, Marlon. You can do it yourself. One small victory at a time.’

Thirty-Eight

Cautiously, Squirm raised his left hand and brought it to his face, but the tips of his fingers touched nothing. They paused less than half an inch from the swollen flesh that now surrounded his left eye.

Back in the projection room earlier that day, his trick had worked. By using both of his thumbs and index fingers, he had managed to force his eyes open and keep them that way while those horrific images played on the large screen before him. ‘The Monster’ didn’t seem to mind it. In fact, he had laughed out loud, telling Squirm it was an ingenious move.

‘I like that, Squirm,’ he said as he used his dirty fingernail to pick something from between his teeth. ‘You were faced with a problem, and you came up with a smart alternative. That’s clever. I like clever.’

Without noticing, Squirm’s breathing had become labored. He’d never seen so much blood. He’d never heard screams like the ones coming from that woman – guttural and overwhelmed with pain, drowning in terror, and completely void of hope.

Sharon, that was her name. The man had made him repeat it a number of times while the film played on. Squirm would never forget that name for as long as he lived.

On the screen, Sharon had finally passed out. Somehow she had managed to endure the pain for a lot longer than anyone would’ve imagined. Several minutes, in fact. Squirm actually thought that she’d finally let go of the desire to live and accepted the inevitable. That the film and her suffering would finally be over. But he couldn’t have been more wrong.

The images played on, and Squirm watched as ‘The Monster’ turned off the sander, placed it on the floor and walked over to where the camera was. Once he got to it, he zoomed in on the grotesque mess that her face was turning into. Lumps of skin and flesh hung loosely from her forehead and brow. Blood surged from her wounds in sheets. It ran down on to what was still left of her face, moving past her chin and down to her naked torso, but Squirm could see that Sharon was still breathing.

The ordeal was far from over.

‘Keep your eyes open, Squirm,’ ‘The Monster’ had said, excitement coating his words. ‘It’s just about to get really good.’

Squirm felt like something had gained life inside his stomach and had begun crawling its way up the inside of his chest. Shock had forced the boy’s mouth to fall half open. His hands were shaking and he had to keep readjusting his fingers so as not to let go of his eyelids. Cold sweat had begun trickling down his face and back.

The screen flicked to black for a moment, then it started again.

‘I had to stop filming.’ For some reason, the man sitting beside him had decided to explain. ‘It took me the best part of twenty minutes to wake her up again. But I’ll tell you something, Squirm, she was one tough bitch.’ He let out a croaked, over-enthusiastic laugh that made the boy’s skin crawl.

The new segment started from where the previous one had left off. More blood and tiny chunks of skin began flying up, propelled by the sander’s rotating disk, before cascading back down over everything like rain.

‘Next time, maybe you can watch it live, Squirm, what do you say? Wouldn’t you like to be in that room with us?’

Whatever had begun crawling its way through Squirm’s insides gained momentum. All of a sudden, it rushed up through his throat with incredible speed.

Squirm hadn’t thought it possible, but Sharon’s screams had gotten even louder, assaulting the boy’s ears with the effect of piercing needles. He was still doing his best to hold his eyes open, but there was no stopping the crawling creature from his stomach which had burst into the kid’s mouth in avalanche style.

Squirm’s body jerked forward violently and he projectile-vomited the little that he had in his gut all over the dark-gray linoleum floor. Some of it reached the screen.

‘You ungrateful sonofabitch,’ ‘The Monster’ had barked, jumping up from his seat. He was careful not to step on the mess Squirm had made on the floor.

The boy looked up at the man with total panic in his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I’ll clean it. I’m sorry.’ He fell to his knees and used his hands to try to collect what he had regurgitated on to the floor.

POW.

The man’s opened hand connected with the side of the kid’s face, just by his left eye, with such force it sent the boy tumbling across the floor. He only stopped when his head smashed against the wall. Squirm’s eyes rolled back into his head a fraction of a second before he collapsed on to the ground like an empty sack of potatoes.

Without caring, ‘The Monster’ grabbed the unconscious boy by the hair, dragged him downstairs and threw him back in his cell.