Текст книги "I Am Death"

Автор книги: Chris (2) Carter

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Текущая страница: 43 (всего у книги 47 страниц)

Seventy-One

Alison coughed and spluttered awake with a jolt as freezing water was splashed on to her face. Her natural reaction was to shake her head, but she immediately regretted it. The pain that the movement awakened inside her skull was so acute she believed her brain was being squeezed by a giant pair of pincers. But the pain she felt inside her head was nothing compared to how her body agonized as the water dripped down from her face and made contact with the tens of open wounds on her torso, arms and legs. One would be forgiven for believing that the animalistic scream she let out belonged to some dying beast.

She coughed again, this time trying to open her eyes, but her eyelids felt heavy and sticky and it required an effort of will to force them open. Water trickled into her gasping mouth and she finally understood why it made everything hurt so much. The water was heavy with a salty, vinegary taste.

A single drop made it past her right eyelid and as it coated her cornea it stung at her eyeball. Immediately, her eyes shot closed once again before she started blinking ferociously, which she did for almost a full minute.

Pain now came at her from all angles and she grunted as her body began shaking, unable to handle the brutality of it all. She braced herself for another bucket full of vinegary water over her head but it never came.

Alison finally blinked her eyes open again. The sting was still there but not as incapacitating as before. The blurriness was now very subtle.

The man was standing directly in front of her. Immobile. Staring.

They finally locked eyes. The feeling of familiarity was still there, but no matter how hard she tried, her brain just couldn’t place him.

The man had lowered the chain that held her arms by a few inches. Alison’s feet could now properly touch the ground, but her legs carried no strength. The bulk of her weight was still being held by her arms and the chain shackled to her wrists – which had now lost their skin. Metal was resting against unprotected raw flesh. Her hands felt like blood-filled balloons and a tiny prick was all that was needed for them to burst spectacularly.

Because Alison kept slipping in and out of consciousness, she had no way of telling the time. No way of knowing how long she had been held captive.

In silence, the man continued to study Alison. Her naked body had been made even more beautiful by all the small cuts and lacerations he had made. At least that was how he saw it. The blood that had flowed from them had recolored her skin in beautiful crimson and that vision filled him with an almost uncontrollable excitement, and his body responded accordingly.

They stared at each other for a long while until, surprisingly, the man was the first to break eye contact. He turned and walked over to the workshop table in the corner.

The action caused panic to erupt inside Alison. She had already been whipped and flogged like an eighteenth-century slave, until she had passed out. She had never experienced pain that deep, that debilitating.

‘Oh, please, no.’ The words stumbled out of her cracked lips, as her eyes were once again filled with tears. ‘No . . . not again.’

Alison had no idea why she was there, why the man had taken her or why he was punishing her in the way he was. Was he connected to her father? He had barely said a word to her. All he did was either watch her or beat her up.

‘Please, talk to me . . .’ she pleaded. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’

Ignoring her, the man picked up something from the workshop table.

Every muscle in Alison’s body tensed up. She wanted to plead again but she couldn’t speak anymore. Her sobs were too intense for that.

The man turned to face her again.

Alison squinted, trying to focus on what he held in his hand, but whatever it was it was too small for her to see.

The man got closer.

Three steps.

Two.

One.

Alison caught a glimpse of something metallic between his fingers.

A knife?

A scalpel?

What?

There was nothing she could do but cry uncont rollably.

She closed her eyes and held her breath, bracing herself. A moment later, she heard the sound of metal scraping against the concrete floor.

Her eyes squeezed tighter.

A few seconds after that, she felt her body swing forward just a little but, surprisingly, it was accompanied by no further pain.

Her first thought was that maybe her body was already so battered that it just hadn’t registered the pain yet.

She waited.

The pain finally came.

And from where else but her arms? So powerful, she felt consciousness slipping away from her again. Her eyes fluttered as she exhaled and, in her mind, her body began a slow descent into a dark and cold abyss.

But before she hit its bottom, something, or someone, caught her. Right at that moment, her legs turned to jelly and she slumped down on to something hard and uncomfortable. She breathed in a full mouth of hot, humid air, and that was when she realized that she wasn’t imagining it. She wasn’t falling down into an abyss, she was simply falling down.

The man had grabbed a set of padlock keys and freed her from her shackles. The metal scraping sound she’d heard earlier was a fold-up chair he had dragged and placed under her legs.

As she collapsed into the chair, her arms dropped down to her sides and the sensation that followed was a mixture of total relief together with immeasurable pain. Blood began to freely flow through them for the first time in who knew how long. The feeling was so intense that her body couldn’t take it. She curved forward and vomited on to the floor.

Surprisingly, that did not upset her captor. When she was done, he grabbed her by her hair and pulled her back up into a sitting position.

Slobs of vomit dripped down from her lips on to her naked torso and legs. She started breathing deeply, her chest rising and falling in a broken rhythm. Her arms now began to feel like they were on fire. One million pins and needles found their way into her hands and fingers.

Alison’s head slumped forward again, her chin coming into contact with her chest. The man, realizing that she was about to pass out, grabbed her by the hair and pulled her head back.

‘No, no, no. Stay with me, Alison. I need you awake. I need you to feel everything.’

Her jaw fell open and he spat inside her mouth.

‘Are you listening to me?’

She half coughed, half gagged on his spit. It tasted like sour milk and rotten eggs, but it had the desired effect. It brought Alison back to consciousness.

‘That’s my girl,’ the man said, letting go of her hair and taking a step back.

This time Alison was able to hold her head in place by herself, but something made her doubt that she was one hundred percent conscious. As the man moved toward the workshop table once again, she caught a glimpse of something that froze her soul. In one of the corners of the basement, hidden in the shadows, she could swear that she saw a little boy. He was staring straight at her. The terror in his eyes easily matched the fear in hers.

Seventy-Two

‘I’m not sure why,’ Hunter said. ‘Maybe it was because I was so tired when I reread the note again in the early hours of this morning, but for some reason my brain mixed up the letters in a strange way and for a split second, I saw it . . . Then it was gone.’

Garcia was still staring at the board.

‘I thought I was imagining things, but I kept on blinking, looking away, then looking back at it again.’ Hunter paused, following his partner’s gaze. ‘And then, as if it were a dream, the letters just moved around right in front of my eyes.’ He tapped the board one more time. ‘And I saw this.’

From the letters in ‘I Am Death’ Hunter had created three new words: ‘I Mat Hade’.

‘No fucking way,’ Garcia said again, his eyes finally leaving the board. He faced Hunter.

‘I also found it hard to believe, but it’s there.’

‘I know this killer is fucking bold,’ Garcia said. ‘He’s daring and all, but this is ridiculous, Robert.’ He pointed at the board. ‘It’s unprecedented. He’s not giving us a clue. He’s giving us his name. Why would he do that?’

‘Because he doesn’t know we know,’ Hunter said. ‘He doesn’t know we know about Fresno, about Sacramento, or about his place in East LA. He has no idea that we have a suspect on the books and that suspect is Mathew Hade – Mat Hade. In fact, when he delivered the note to my door we didn’t have a suspect. We didn’t know who Mat Hade was, remember? That came later.’

Garcia began making all the connections.

‘So,’ he said. ‘Even if we had figured out then that the clues he was referring to in his note were in the form of an anagram, we didn’t know what to look for – a word, a couple of words, a phrase, a name, what? We had no way of knowing that what he was giving us was his actual name. With that in mind, how many possible words or combinations of words could we make from those letters?’

‘Exactly.’

Garcia looked back at the sentence: ‘I Am Death’.

‘And of those,’ Hunter added, ‘how many do you think could form some sort of a name, or a contraction of a name, like “Mat”, or “Ted”, or whatever? And remember, this is Los Angeles. This place is an international hub. This name we’re talking about doesn’t necessarily need to be an American name.’

‘And even if we did come up with the phrase “I Mat Hade”,’ Garcia said, ‘we would’ve probably discarded it because, in all truth, we would’ve had no idea that it was an actual name. Family names can come in all shapes and forms . . . and spellings.’

‘Precisely. It would’ve been unrealistic for us to verify every possible anagram. What would we have done, run background checks on every combination that spelled out a name or part of one? Not likely.’

Garcia chuckled at the cleverness of it all.

‘So he created the anagram because he was never expecting us to find out about him, about Mathew Hade,’ Garcia theorized. ‘Why would we? The odds of us finding out about him were bordering on zero. He was never arrested. Never charged with anything. He was just a person of interest in three different abduction investigations, two in Fresno and one in Sacramento, but never here in LA. And all that happened years ago. Not in a million years was he expecting us to find out about any of that.’

‘Probably not,’ Hunter accepted it. ‘All we need is for that phone to ring now.’

As if on cue, Hunter’s cellphone rang loudly, rattling against his desktop.

Garcia’s eyes widened.

‘You’ve got to be kidding.’

Seventy-Three

Hunter couldn’t remember ever taking a call so quickly. He dashed toward his desk, his feet almost scuffing against the floor, his hand shooting out in the direction of his cellphone.

‘Detective Hunter, Robbery Homicide Division.’

‘Detective,’ the male voice at the other end of the line said. ‘It’s Brian.’

In his excitement, it took Hunter a second to match the name to the voice, and then both of them to a face.

‘Doctor Brian Snyder, with SID,’ the doctor clarified, picking up on Hunter’s hesitation.

Maybe it had taken Hunter more than just a second.

Garcia looked at Hunter, the question practically written in his eyes.

‘Doctor,’ Hunter said, shaking his head at Garcia. ‘Of course. I’m sorry.’ He paddled back fast. ‘It’s been an eventful morning so far.’

‘Have you found your suspect?’ he asked, his voice shifting from calm to half-excited.

‘No, not yet, but we’re hopeful. Have you got something for us?’

‘I do,’ he confirmed. ‘The results of the handwriting analysis.’

‘OK. Just a sec, Doc. Let me put you on speakerphone.’ Hunter keyed in the necessary command and placed the phone back on his desk.

Garcia stepped closer.

‘All right,’ Doctor Snyder began. ‘Graphologists will need on average thirteen to fifteen different letters out of the twenty-six we have in the English alphabet to achieve a “one hundred percent” positive match. As I’m sure you’re aware, the annotation inside the book of matches you gave me – Midazolam, 2.5 mg – contains only eight different letters, and two numbers.’

Garcia glanced at Hunter.

‘So for us to achieve that indisputable positive match, you’d need to find something else with his handwriting on it.’

‘Well,’ Garcia said, before Doctor Snyder was able to continue. ‘For now, that’s pretty much out of the question, Doc. Any sort of partial confirmation?’

‘I was just about to get to that.’

‘Oh sorry,’ Garcia said, lifting his hands and quickly using Hunter’s ‘paddle back’ excuse. ‘Eventful morning.’

‘Our graphologist said that though legally he cannot one hundred percent confirm it as a match, by analyzing the curvature of some of the letters, together with the way in which the person who wrote them connects them to one another, he would stake his professional reputation on the assumption that whoever jotted down that annotation is the same person who wrote both of the notes. In short, he’s your killer.’

Seventy-Four

Los Angeles 9-1-1 Emergency Response System operator Talicia Leon removed her curved-frame glasses, placed them on her desk just next to her empty coffee mug and rubbed her tired eyes with her thumb and forefinger. She was about to tell Justin, the operator sitting in the booth to her right, that she was taking a five-minute coffee break when a brand new call came onto her monitor.

Talicia quickly reached for her glasses again.

Coffee would have to wait.

‘Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?’ she said as she took the call, adjusting her headset.

‘Yes, I have a problem.’ The voice at the end of the line was female. Though she sounded a little distressed, Talicia got the feeling that the woman was trying hard to keep it all together. ‘For some reason, my savings accounts seems to have been blocked. I can’t get to my money and I need to transfer funds from one account to the other ASAP.’

Oh great, Talicia thought. Another dumbass call.

On average, Talicia answered around ten completely non-related emergency calls a week. Some of them were damn right stupid.

‘Ma’am, you’ve reached nine-one-one emergency,’ she replied calmly. ‘Not your bank.’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ the woman replied. ‘It’s not allowing me to do it over the Internet, that’s why I’m calling. I need this problem fixed ASAP, please.’ This time, the woman emphasized the letters ‘A-S-A-P’ and the word ‘please’ came out a little shaky. ‘Do you think you can help me?’

‘I don’t think so, ma’am. This is nine-one-one emergency, not Bank of America. Do you have an emergency or not?’

‘Of course. I wouldn’t be calling otherwise. My name is Vivian Curtis.’

All of a sudden it dawned on Talicia that this might not be a crank call at all. Her voice became a lot more serious.

‘So, Vivian, you do have an emergency.’ She didn’t phrase it as a question.

‘Yes.’

‘And at the moment you’re unable to talk because there’s someone there with you?’

‘That’s correct, I’ve already keyed in my account number and passcode. The address registered to the account is 13605 South Vermont Avenue, Gardena, 90247.’

‘Got that, Vivian.’ Talicia was already typing as fast as she could, and she was fast. ‘Are you under any physical threat?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you hurt?’

‘Yes. Will this take long? I need to attend to my daughter.’

‘Your daughter is also hurt and under physical threat?’ Talicia pressed ‘enter’ on her keyboard, dispatching the primary emergency message.

‘Yes, that’s right. Of course I authorize it. It’s my money. I would like to transfer the whole amount. How soon will it be before either myself or my partner can withdraw the money from an ATM?’

‘The threat is your partner?’

‘Um-hum.’

‘OK, Vivian, help is on its way. Just hold tight. They’ll be with you in less than four minutes. Can you stay on the line with me? Calls to banks tend to be lengthy and we can pretend there’s some sort of minor complication before the funds are able to be released.’

‘OK, I’ll wait.’

‘How old is your daughter, Vivian?’

‘I think that was on the twelfth of this month.’

‘Do you or your daughter have any life-threatening injuries?’

‘No. I haven’t received anything yet.’

The word ‘yet’ worried Talicia.

‘Are there any firearms in the house?’

‘Yes, I have entered it twice already.’

Two weapons. ‘Is your partner in possession of any of them?’

‘No, not at the moment. Thank you.’

Talicia quickly typed in some new instructions.

‘Is the front or back door, if you have one, unlocked, Vivian? Help is almost there.’

‘Yes. As I’ve said, transfer everything’

Both doors unlocked.

‘So, is it OK to just drop by an ATM and withdraw the funds now?’ Vivian’s voice was getting more and more distressed.

‘They’re seconds away, Vivian. Just turning into your street now. Even if you tell him right now that he can go and get the money out, he won’t make it past your front porch.’

‘OK. Thank you very much for your help.’

The call disconnected.

Talicia immediately checked the history for calls related to Vivian’s address. There had been six in the past eight months. All of them for domestic violence.

Before Talicia could even breathe out, a new call lit up her screen.

‘Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?’ She pushed her glasses up on to the bridge of her nose.

‘She’s dead.’ This time, the voice at the other end of the line was male. The serenity with which he delivered those words made Talicia feel a little uncomfortable.

‘Are you reporting a murder, sir?’ Talicia’s fingers were already cruising over her keyboard once again.

‘There’s so much blood. Her screams were so full of pain and fear. It was beautiful.’

Every inch of skin on Talicia’s body turned cold. She coughed to clear her throat.

‘I’m sorry, sir. Who did you say is dead?’

‘Number three.’

Talicia halted her typing for just a moment.

‘Are you saying that there are three people who are dead?’

‘You are not listening to me, are you?’ the man said calmly, but didn’t give Talicia a chance to reply. ‘Number three is dead. Her name is Alison. Number four will soon follow. A lot sooner than you think . . . for I am death.’

This time, the thought that came to Talicia’s mind was the opposite of what she had thought about the previous call. What had started seriously was now beginning to sound bogus.

‘Did you get that? Alison. Her name is Alison. Make sure you have it. Make sure they know it.’

Talicia couldn’t risk it.

‘Alison. Yes, I got it, sir. Do you have a last name for her?’

‘Good. Now write this down. Are you ready?’

‘Yes, sir, I’m ready.’

‘I. Am. Death. Tell that to the cops when you dispatch them.’

‘I got it,’ Talicia said. ‘What address shall I dispatch them to?’

‘Run your trace. Find this phone and you’ll find her.’

‘Sir? Hello? Sir?

The line didn’t disconnect but the caller was gone.

Seventy-Five

Lopez Canyon Road, in Lake View Terrace, stretches out from Foothill Freeway all the way into the small western tip of the Angeles National Forest, before sharply bending right and reaching Kagel Canyon Road, where it finally ends. Less than a mile after the sharp right bend, a disused and uneven road forks out and to the right of it, going up a small hill. The call that Talicia had taken had come from there; more specifically, from inside an abandoned wooden building right at the top of that road.

It was past two in the afternoon when Hunter and Garcia received a second call from Doctor Snyder. He had just arrived at the crime scene and, as he entered the building, the first thing he did was reach for his phone and call the UV detectives.

Even with the sirens on, the twenty-five-mile drive that saw Hunter and Garcia cutting through South Central before hooking on to Glendale Boulevard, and finally to the western tip of the Angeles National Forest, took them an hour.

Thanks to the isolated location, and the fact that the whole of the disused road was flanked by nothing more than rough terrain and dense, impassable shrubs, the LAPD could set a perimeter right at the road’s entrance. No reporter or press van was able to get within a mile of the building.

Garcia flashed his credentials at the officers by the outer crime-scene tape, took a right and drove up the bouncy road.

‘Is this place secluded and out of the way enough for you, or what?’ Garcia asked as he parked by a forensic-van at the top of the road.

Hunter had just checked his cellphone – still no news about Mathew Hade.

As they exited Garcia’s car, Hunter took a moment to study the building.

It was a relatively small, rectangular, wooden structure, with an old-style gable roof. Entrance was through large double doors at the eastern end of it. Both Hunter and Garcia’s first impression was that the building very closely resembled a barn, with the exception that its roof wasn’t as high as one would expect it to be. The outside had once been painted white but, after years of being battered by sun and rain, only small patches of color remained. Also, as a result of their harsh contact with the elements, a few planks of wood from the south wall, the one that they were facing, were either partially missing or broken.

Three police officers stood to the right of the double doors. All three of them looked like they’d just been sick.

As Hunter and Garcia approached the yellow crimescene tape that further restricted the entrance to the building, they were greeted by a peculiar smell that came from inside – a mixture of rotten food and a sweet, metallic odor. Both detectives recognized the smell immediately because they’d been around it too many times.

Blood.

And lots of it.

They flashed their credentials at the lone officer with the crime-scene log book, who handed them a Tyvek coverall and a pair of latex gloves each.

Hunter and Garcia suited up, stooped under the yellow tape and pushed open the doors. They’d taken only two steps inside before the force of the image that met their eyes sucked all the air from their lungs, and held them fast.

They now understood why the officers outside looked like they’d been sick.

But the savagery of what stood before them wasn’t what had driven Hunter and Garcia to a stunned silence, or made their hearts skip a beat.

It was the fact that they both knew who the victim was.