SLAP.
‘The Monster’ hit him across the face so hard it sent Squirm flying off the sofa and on to the floor. The boy’s vision was immediately flooded by sparkles of light.
‘The Monster’ pressed the ‘pause’ button.
The boy brought a hand to his tender cheek. Tears began rolling down his face. Blood began dripping from the corner of his mouth.
‘Open your eyes, and sit back here, Squirm. If you even think about closing them again, or looking away, then you’ll really understand how painful an electric sander can be because I will sand all the skin off your back. Do you understand?’
Squirm sucked in a ragged breath. ‘Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.’ On weak legs, the boy got back to his feet and returned to the sofa.
‘Good boy.’
His captor pressed ‘play’ again. On the screen, Sharon had stopped moving. Her fear was so intense it had paralyzed her. It seemed like all she could do was hope for a miracle, but that miracle didn’t come.
As the machine touched her face, blood and skin began spitting from the sander in all directions, creating a rain of red mist. The scream she let out was so guttural and full of pain, it blocked out the bone-chilling grinding noise from the machine.
Squirm could feel he was about to be sick, but he knew that if he looked away or closed his eyes, ‘The Monster’ would hurt him like he’d never been hurt before. Out of options, the boy did the only thing he could think of so he wouldn’t close his eyes — he brought his hands to his face and, using both of his thumbs and index fingers, he forced his eyelids open and continued to stare at the screen.
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.’