A millisecond later, Garcia’s memory spat out images of the note the killer had sent Mayor Bailey, and the one that had been slid under Hunter’s door. Both had been written on crisp white sheets of printer paper, and forensics had identified the pen used as a red, BIC Cristal, large ballpoint pen.
Garcia reached for the pen inside the drawer and for a quick instant he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. On the body of the pen, in tiny white letters, he saw the BIC logo, followed by the words ‘Cristal 1.6 mm’.
In his hand, he was holding a red, BIC Cristal, large ballpoint pen.
Garcia curbed his excitement and retrieved a plastic evidence bag from his pocket. He dropped the pen inside it, sealing the bag.
Squatting down, Garcia looked inside the jammed drawer. It seemed empty. He stuck his hand inside it and felt around. Nothing. He closed the drawer and reopened the top one. From the paper pile inside it he retrieved the topmost sheet, before lifting it up to the window to study it against the light.
He was looking for impressions that could’ve been left behind. Depending on the pressure a person applies to a pen when writing, if a second sheet of paper is used as a base for the one that is being written on, partial and sometimes even full indentations might be left behind.
The sheet of paper was completely clear. No impressions of any kind.
Garcia reached for the sheet at the bottom of the pile and repeated the process, just in case he had returned the pile to the drawer the wrong way around after fanning through them.
Nothing.
Still, together with the red BIC Cristal, they would all be taken back to the forensics lab for further analysis.
Garcia left the living room and entered the kitchen. It was even more barren than the living room. There was a fridge-freezer at one end of the short kitchen worktop, a sink at the center of it and a small stove at the other end. Just under the worktop, Garcia saw two drawers together with three cupboards. Three other cupboards were mounted on to the wall above the sink. The only item on the chrome-plated dish rack to the left of the sink was a sponge. An electric kettle was to the left of the stove. There was no dishwasher, no washing machine and no microwave oven. Just like the rest of the apartment, a faint smell of bleach and disinfectant with a hint of orange lingered in the kitchen.
Garcia started by checking the fridge. There was nothing inside it except two small and unopened bottles of water. The inside of the fridge was sparkling clean. The freezer was completely empty.
Next he checked the three cupboards on the wall.
First one on the left.
Empty.
Middle one.
Empty.
Last cupboard.
Garcia found a can of tomato soup, a jar of coffee and a small pack of sugar, nothing else.
He moved on to the cupboards under the sink.
First one on the left.
He found a bottle of bleach, one of washing-up liquid, one trigger spray bottle of Orange Plus, two large sponges and a pack of cleaning cloths.
Middle one.
There were two plates, two tumblers and one coffee mug, all of them plastic.
Last cupboard.
Empty.
Garcia closed them all and reached for the sponge and the dish rack. Both were completely dry. No one had used either in a while.
He placed the sponge back on the rack and opened the drawer by the fridge.
Empty.
He walked to the other end of the kitchen worktop and opened the final drawer. All he found was one fork, one knife and a teaspoon — again, all of them plastic — together with a plain black book of matches with no logo on the front or back cover. He picked it up and flipped it open. The matches were also black with a bright red head. Five of them were missing. The inside of the book of matches differed from the outside because it was white instead of black.
Garcia stared at it for a couple of seconds before he finally realized what he was looking at.
Goosebumps rose on the back of his neck again. ‘Fuck!’
Sixty-six
With his back flat against the wall, Squirm sat alone in the darkness of his cell. His knees were pulled up against his chest and his arms hugged his legs so tightly they were starting to go pale. The tips of his toes were moving up and down robotically, as if tapping to the beat of a slow song only he could hear. Despite the darkness, the boy kept his one good eye open, staring at nothing at all. The pain in his left eye was still there but Squirm simply didn’t care anymore.
‘The Monster’ had left soon after he had told Squirm how much money he’d been paid by the boy’s father to take him away.
‘Do you know what your father said to me?’ the man had asked Squirm back in the kitchen. ‘He told me that once I had taken “that plague” away from his life, I could do with you whatever I wished — kill you in whichever manner pleasured me most — as long as your body was never found. Now, what sort of father says something like that about his own child?’
Squirm had trembled at those words. Not because of the threat of death — in his own way he had already accepted that that was what was going to happen to him — but because he then knew that the story ‘The Monster’ had told him was true. That was exactly what his father used to call him — ‘plague’.
Immediately, an avalanche of memories came crashing down inside the boy’s mind.
All of them bad.
You’re like a fucking disease, you hear? A goddamn plague that torments my life.
You are the reason your mother left, did you know that? You are a plague. No wonder you have no friends. Nobody likes you. Nobody wants you.
Get the hell out of my face, you fucking plague, or I will tear you a new asshole.
‘I would’ve done it for nothing, you know?’ ‘The Monster’ had said, bringing the boy back to reality. His next words, though delivered in a chillingly cold voice, were overflowing with what could only be described as a morbid passion.
‘What can I say? I like killing people. I like looking into their eyes as life leaves them. I like to savor every drop of their fear. I like how they beg me for mercy... not God... me. I like how they cry. How they promise to do whatever I want. Yes, I like it all, Squirm, but most of all I like the way it makes me feel.’
The man had paused for a moment. Just talking about it had filled him with such exhilaration he was practically shaking.
‘Do you know how killing someone makes you feel, Squirm? Powerful... strong... special. No one can ever again tell you that you don’t matter because right at that moment you know that you matter more than God.’ ‘The Monster’ moved his head from left to right and as he did so he shivered in a creepy sort of way. ‘You are their God.’
‘The Monster’ had laughed at how spooked Squirm looked.
After that, ‘The Monster’ had locked Squirm back in his cell, telling him that he would see him later that night. That had been hours ago. Squirm had then sat down on his dirty mattress, hugged his legs and not moved from that position since.
The boy’s rational mind didn’t want to believe it but the more he thought about it, the more it all made sense.
Due to his father’s inability to hold down a job, brought on by his struggle with alcohol, they had moved five times in the past three years. Eight times in the past five years, which made making friends a very difficult task and keeping them damn right impossible. That fact alone placed Squirm in a not very desirable category — the category of ‘loner’. He had no friends and, since his mother left them, no family either, with the exception of his father. No one really knew who he was because he’d learned to play the ‘loner’ part terribly well. He kept himself to himself as much as he could, especially in school. He was, in everyone’s eyes, the proverbial ‘invisible boy’ and that fitted his father’s plan like a glove. All he had to do was drop by Squirm’s school to let them know that they had to move again. That was it. Problem solved.