‘Let’s keep it this way,’ Hunter said, approaching the door. ‘Have you found her clothes and bag?’
‘Not yet, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the killer took them with him.’
Forty-Five
Hunter closed the door to his apartment behind him, leaned back and shut his eyes. The headache that had started at the house in Malibu had intensified on the way home. It now felt as if a rat had woken up inside his skull, panicked and tried to scratch its way out through his eyes.
The obnoxious smell of burned flesh had managed to bypass his coverall and it’d impregnated his clothes. A bitter tang so strong that it unsettled his stomach, stung at his eyes and constantly made him gag. He needed a shower – urgently.
Hunter undressed quickly. He grabbed a black trash can liner from the kitchen and dumped his clothes into it, knowing that washing them, no matter how much detergent he used, would never fully get rid of the smell.
In the bathroom, he ran the shower as hot as he could tolerate and leaned against the white tiles, letting the water sluice over his head, shoulders and back. Now, away from everyone’s eyes, his chest heaved and he finally threw up. By the time he turned off the water, his skin had gone a dark shade of pink and his fingertips were soft and wrinkled. He’d been through almost an entire bar of soap, but still the smell lingered. It wasn’t on his skin, he knew that. The unsettling odor had clung to the hairs inside his nose and no amount of blowing was getting rid of it. For the time being, the only solution he could come up with was to numb his brain.
The first two shots went down neat and in one single gulp. The third, a double, was poured over a single cube of ice and sipped slowly.
It was late, but Hunter knew sleep would be bordering on impossible. It was already hard enough on a regular, non-eventful day.
He paced the room for a while before stopping by his living room window. He stood there for a moment, staring at the empty street. His mind full of thoughts. Nothing made sense.
The single malt seemed to be doing the trick where the smell of burned flesh was concerned, but his head still felt like a ticking bomb. Headache tablets had never really worked for him, so he discarded the thought as it entered his mind. But pills reminded him of something else, and it made his pulse race – Monica, the girl who’d dropped by the station earlier.
Over the years, he’d seen his fair share of crazy people and charlatans, all of them positive they could lead the police to an unfound body or to an elusive killer, but something told Hunter that wasn’t the case this time.
There was something different about Monica. Hunter saw a conviction in her eyes he’d never seen before in any of the so-called psychics. She wasn’t after a free publicity ride or attention. In fact, she looked scared, as if talking to the police would expose her to something or someone she’d been running away from.
Hunter took a deep breath and ran his hand through his wet hair. Her words still echoed in his ears. Helen… it wasn’t your fault. ‘How could she know?’ he said out loud. ‘No one does.’
He felt the same old destructive guilt creep up on him, and he finished the rest of his Scotch in one large swig. It burned the back of his throat, and that’s when he remembered the last thing she’d said to him.
‘He knew about the fire. He knew what scared her.’
Forty-Six
Hunter was leaning against his car in the empty LACDC parking lot. His hands deep inside his jacket pockets. It was a clear day, but cold according to LA standards. A cup of flavorless machine coffee purchased from a gas station rested on the hood of his old Buick. It was 7:10 a.m. Doctor Winston had called him about half an hour ago saying he’d already concluded the autopsy on the new body.
Hunter had been waiting less than five minutes when Garcia pulled up and parked next to him. As he stepped out of his Honda Civic, Hunter noticed his reddish eyes and pale complexion.
‘I guess I wasn’t the only one who got no sleep last night,’ Hunter said, reaching for his coffee.
Garcia shook his head slowly. ‘I freaked Anna out last night.’
‘What do you mean?’ A slight head shake.
‘I called Anna to let her know I’d be home late yesterday, but she decided to wait for me so we could have dinner together.’
‘That’s nice.’ Hunter sipped his coffee and pulled a bitter face.
‘When I got home, Anna was in the kitchen.’ Garcia buttoned up his coat. ‘As soon as she heard me walk in, she threw two steaks onto the grilling pan. The sizzling noise, together with the smell of cooking meat, hit me like a ton of bricks. I puked right there on the kitchen floor.’
‘Oh shit! That can’t be good.’ They started walking towards the LACDC building.
‘Obviously, I didn’t tell her about the investigation and the real reason why, all of a sudden, a sizzling steak was making me throw up.’ He paused and pulled his longish hair away from his eyes. ‘I was born in Brazil, Robert. I was practically brought up on steak. It’s my favorite food.’
‘What did you tell her?’
Garcia laughed tensely. ‘I came up with some bullshit about a stomach bug going around at the station.’
‘Did she buy that?’ Hunter’s eyebrows arched.
‘Hell no. Anna’s too smart for that kind of crap. But she pretended she did.’
Hunter gave Garcia an understanding smile.
‘That’s not all. I needed to have a shower. That godforsaken smell was all over me like zits on a teenager, and I was sure Anna could smell it too. I passed on dinner and locked myself in the bathroom for about an hour. My skin was red-raw from all the scrubbing, but the smell just won’t go away.’ He brought his right wrist to his nose.
‘It’s not on you, Carlos,’ Hunter said without going into details.
‘And then came the tossing and turning in bed,’ Garcia continued. ‘It was like her melted face and burned body were hiding behind my eyelids. I couldn’t close them. Not only did I get no sleep, but I kept Anna up all night. I know I’m starting to scare her again, Robert. She ain’t exactly over what happened during the Crucifix Killer’s case, you know.’
They reached the main building and were allowed in by the security guard, who told them Doctor Winston was waiting for them in autopsy room 2A. They suited up and Garcia popped two anti-acid tablets in his mouth before making his way to the room on the far end of the corridor. The doctor was sitting at the microscope counter, flipping through some result sheets. His shoulders were hunched forward, his hair in a mess.
‘Did you pull an “all-nighter”, doc?’ Hunter asked, closing the door behind them.
Doctor Winston looked up slowly. ‘Almost.’ He gave them a faint smile before approaching the stainless-steel table where the woman’s body lay. Hunter and Garcia pulled their surgical masks over their noses and mouths and followed.
‘What we have here is-’ Doctor Winston paused and shook his head, as if words weren’t enough to explain ‘-a masterpiece of evil. Whoever this killer is, he must’ve hated this woman with every fiber in his body.’
Forty-Seven
With the woman’s body stretched over the autopsy table, Hunter could see the extent of her injuries more clearly. The blisters on her torso had all burst open, and the edges of the scabs were black and curled up. The exposed flesh had dehydrated from the intense heat, but some of it still kept a deep pink, sunburned-type color. Her lower legs and hands were crusty and charcoaled. Some bone parts were now visible. But still, the injuries to her face mesmerized Hunter. Mike Brindle was right. It looked like the skin had melted into clumps, just like a candle.