‘If the victim was already dead,’ Doctor Snyder said, realizing what he’d missed, ‘what was the point in changing the disks and carrying on with the torture?’
Hunter stayed silent.
‘But that still could’ve happened under, or just over, five minutes?’ Snyder insisted. ‘Five minutes would feel like an eternity of pain when you have a high-power sander pressed against your face, don’t you think?’
Hunter, who had been checking the trashcan, returned to the kitchen counter and grabbed hold of one of the evidence bags containing a discarded sanding disk. ‘Are you familiar with sanding machines at all?’ he asked. ‘Do you do a lot of DIY?’
‘Not particularly, no. Why?’
‘These disks are fiber based, not aluminum oxide, or ceramic,’ Hunter explained. ‘That makes them a little lighter than most. The grit size is CAMI one thousand, which means it’s a microgrit. In this case — ultra fine. The higher the grit size, the less abrasive the sanding action. In the US, CAMI one thousand is the finest sand disk grit you can get. These are only good for the final sanding and polishing of thick finishes, not for stripping wood, metal, plastic, or anything else, really.’
Again, Hunter allowed his words to sink in for a couple of seconds.
‘If the killer had used a lower grit disk,’ Hunter continued, ‘the damage to her skin, muscle and bones would’ve happened to a much higher extent, and a lot faster.’
Doctor Snyder breathed out slowly while looking back at the victim. ‘So, by picking the right type of disk, he would’ve kept her alive for longer and, by doing so, prolonged her suffering.’
Hunter nodded. ‘Theoretically, yes.’
‘Like I said,’ Garcia commented after a silent pause. ‘Welcome to Los Angeles, Doctor, where the “freaks” come out to play.’
‘So are you a DIY kind of guy then?’ the doctor asked Hunter.
‘No, not really.’
‘So how come you know so much about handheld sanders?’
‘He reads a lot,’ Garcia offered, anticipating his partner’s usual answer.
Hunter shrugged. ‘I do, but that’s not the reason.’
Garcia paused and looked at him, intrigued.
‘About a year ago,’ Hunter explained, ‘I helped a friend of mine redecorate her living room. I had to use a machine very similar to that one.’
Garcia went back to studying the footprint pattern on the carpet. A couple of minutes later, something caught his eye. He squatted down to get a better look at it.
‘Robert,’ he called out moments later. ‘Come have a look at this.’
Hunter and the doctor joined him.
Garcia drew their attention to a spot on the carpet about five feet slightly to the left of the victim’s chair, just by a cluster of footprints.
Hunter and Doctor Snyder squatted down next to Garcia, and he indicated a specific blood splatter among the hundreds on that side. Not the smallest, but not the largest one of them either.
Hunter and the doctor looked at it, frowned, then bent down further, bringing their faces just inches from the carpet.
‘Wait a second,’ Doctor Snyder said, getting up, walking over to his forensics bag in the corner and retrieving a large magnifying lens. ‘This might help.’ He handed it to Hunter.
With the help of the lens, Hunter considered the bloodstain for a long moment. From a few feet up, looking down, it looked just like all the other splatters, but once he and Doctor Snyder got closer, they noticed its odd shape.
A splatter is a drop of liquid that travels through the air and splashes against a surface or object, creating an irregular shape as it does. And that was the problem. The shape of this specific splatter wasn’t irregular. It looked almost like a perfect half moon.
Hunter’s gaze alternated between the splatter and the victim a couple of times, and he was obviously weighing up something in his mind. Then, just as Garcia had done a couple of minutes earlier, he placed his pinky finger at the center of the splatter and pressed down on the carpet. A few seconds later, his attention moved to the hundreds of other splatters that surrounded the half-moon one.
‘What are you looking for?’ the doctor asked.
‘A second splatter, similar in shape to that one.’
Garcia had already been looking for the same thing. He found it first.
‘Right here,’ he said, now calling their attention to a spot in the carpet that was about a foot and a half from where the first splatter was. It wasn’t quite the same. This one was a lot rounder than the first one. Nearly a full circle, in fact, but it was hollow. There was no center to it. All that could be seen was its round edge. The second splatter also seemed to fall in an almost direct line with the first one.
Hunter checked it, once again pressing his finger against the carpet at the center of it. Across from it, also in a direct line, there were no splatters but a puddle of blood. Hunter calculated something in his head, then used his finger again, this time as though he was searching for something somewhere inside that puddle.
‘So what do you think those are?’ Doctor Snyder asked.
Hunter and Garcia had both seen similar splatters and carpet depressions before.
‘Foot marks,’ Hunter replied, standing up again and indicating one of the forensic lights. ‘From a tripod. Similar to that one, but a little smaller. It was set right here. Its weight left slight indentations on the carpet where each foot would’ve been. The third leg sat on that puddle of blood, that’s what I was prodding for.’
The doctor’s eyes narrowed.
‘The killer filmed it.’
Thirty-five
Squirm woke up in fright as the heavy door to his dark cell was hastily thrown open by his captor. It slammed against the inside concrete wall with purpose, shaking the entire room and sending a thunderous blast reverberating through the air.
Like a startled rat, the boy’s skinny legs kicked out wildly as he desperately scrambled his way to the corner where his dirty mattress met the damp wall. When he got there, he immediately curled himself into a ball, bringing his thin arms up to protect his already scarred head.
He hadn’t done anything wrong. Or at least he thought he hadn’t. He had cleaned the kitchen, the living room and his captor’s bedroom, just like he had to every day. He had scrubbed the floor, the shower tray, the plughole and the toilet bowl in the bathroom to as clean as it would get, and to prove it, he had licked around the toilet rim and drunk from its water. He never made any noise. He spoke only when spoken to, stayed as far away from the basement as he could, and he only ate the scraps of what was left from his captor’s breakfast and dinner — never lunch.
Every day, after breakfast and cleaning duties, Squirm was locked back into his cell and left there until the evening, when his captor would come in and either beat him up, sodomize him, or both. After that, Squirm was usually allowed to feed on leftovers. Usually, not always.
But it wasn’t nighttime yet. It couldn’t be. Squirm was sure of it. He had no watch, and no way of telling the time, but something told him that, at a stretch, it was early afternoon. Then again, his captor needed no excuse to storm into Squirm’s cell whenever he felt like it and allow his anger and sexual deviance to rain over the small boy like a meteor shower.
With a mixture of anger and limb-trembling fear, Squirm’s whole body tensed as he ground his teeth and waited for the first blow. Hand, belt, or whip. He never knew. But this time that first blow never came.
‘C’mon, get on your feet, Squirm,’ ‘The Monster’ said from the door.
In his head, Squirm called him ‘The Monster’ because, whoever he was, that man was no human being.