‘And he goes back to what he considers to be the root of everything bad. The bullying when he was a kid,’ Garcia said, following Hunter’s line of thought.
Hunter nodded. ‘Whatever that “last straw” was, it’s awakened a monster.’
‘I can see that.’ Captain Blake nodded at the picture board.
‘In one of his journals,’ Hunter continued, returning to his desk, ‘Father Fabian mentions a group of street kids he used to hang out with, and from what we gathered those kids were bad news.’
‘And you think maybe Amanda Reilly, Debbie Howard and Peter Elder were part of that group,’ the captain commented.
‘It’s very possible.’
‘So we aren’t talking about school bullying,’ the captain concluded. ‘We’re talking about street bullying.’
‘Most students live close to the school they attend,’ Hunter said evenly.
‘Shit!’ Captain Blake closed her eyes as she realized what Hunter meant. ‘Double bullying. In and out of school. Double the possibility of a severe psychological trauma.’
‘Bullies have favorite targets,’ Hunter continued. ‘Maybe, if I’m persuasive enough, I can get Peter Elder to identify them.’
‘Why would he cooperate?’ she challenged.
‘Because he’s got nothing to lose.’
Captain Blake let out a deep breath, but she was convinced. ‘I’ll put in a CCI prisoner interview request straight away and contact Clayton on the rehabilitations board. If we’re lucky, we might get you in tomorrow.’
‘That works.’ Hunter nodded. ‘I can drive. Tehachapi is less than two hours away.’
The captain retrieved Debbie Howard’s file from Garcia’s desk and read through the little information they had. ‘How about Jonathan Hale, Debbie’s husband?’
‘I can’t interview him without having read the case files. We don’t even know exactly how she died.’
‘I’ll call Lancaster again,’ the captain said resolutely, ‘check where the hell these files are. They should’ve been here by now.’
The phone on Hunter’s desk rang.
‘Detective Hunter.’ He listened for a few seconds before putting the phone down and facing everyone in the room. Even before he said a word, they all knew.
Ninety-Six
This time, Captain Blake wanted to see for herself the brutality the Executioner was capable of. They arrived at the derelict construction site in Marina Del Rey thirty-five minutes later. Several police vehicles were already at the scene. Hunter recognized Doctor Winston’s silver convertible BMW parked next to the crime-lab van. A tall black female police officer was leaning against a black and white unit, being attended to by a paramedic.
‘What have we got?’ Hunter asked, approaching the officer who was standing by the yellow crime-scene tape at the building’s entry point.
‘I know very little, sir,’ he replied, worried, and proceeded to explain about the APB put out on the black Cadillac the day before. ‘Officer Williams-’ he nodded in the direction of the tall officer with the paramedics ‘-located the vehicle about two hours ago. No occupants, so she decided to check in here.’ He lifted his thumb over his shoulder. His gaze met Hunter’s and he shook his head. ‘God only knows what’s in there.’ He crossed himself.
Garcia popped a couple of anti-acids in his mouth, and Captain Blake frowned at him. They put on their Tyvek coveralls in silence. The expectation of what this new murder scene would bring seemed to electrify the air.
They stepped into the first room clattered with debris. The air was cold and pungent, laden with the sharp smell of urine and feces. The captain screwed up her face and cupped a hand over her nose. Moving through the plastic door drape at the far end of the squared structure, they delved deeper into the building. The uncomfortable cold intensified and the light got weaker the further they went. After clearing the fourth room, they saw the powerful brilliance of the forensic lights shining through the dirty plastic curtains at the door to a new area. A crime-lab agent was standing outside the door frame, his eyes gazing at a distant nothing. He didn’t register the three new arrivals.
Hunter, Garcia and Captain Blake stepped into the brightly lit room together. The cold that’d accompanied them throughout the building evaporated from Hunter’s body. Not because of the heat produced by the powerlights, but because of the extra blood his heart was pumping into his veins. It was beating twice as fast as moments ago. All three pairs of eyes stared at what occupied the center of the room.
‘Sweet Jesus!’ the captain whispered, bringing a trembling hand to her mouth.
Ninety-Seven
A naked black man was sitting in a high-back metal chair. His skin was a dull shade of gray. His head was slightly tilted back. Protruding from his open mouth was a thin, clear plastic tube. But what was causing Captain Blake to shiver wasn’t the tube shoved deep down the man’s throat. It was the two hundred and fifty ten-milliliter syringes filled with blood that had been plunged all over the man’s body. From his eyes to his ears, head, torso, genitals, legs and feet.
Doctor Winston was standing to the right of the victim. He slowly approached both detectives and the RHD captain. Hunter had never seen him look so distressed. All four of them stood in silence. Captain Blake was the first to speak. Her usually calm and authoritative voice had a nervous quiver to it.
‘The killer made the victim into a blood-filled pincushion?’
‘In a way.’ A small pause. ‘Those syringes contain about fifty percent of all his blood.’
The captain’s questioning stare moved from the doctor to Hunter.
‘Without help, human beings won’t survive if they lose over forty percent of their blood,’ Hunter stated.
Garcia let out a constricted sigh.
‘Are you telling me that the killer literally sucked the life out of the victim?’ the captain asked.
‘Ten milliliters at a time,’ the doctor confirmed.
The scene was as abhorrent as it was hypnotic. Disgusting, but they couldn’t peel their eyes away from it.
Gingerly, they approached the victim.
The sight of the two blood-filled syringes plunged into the man’s open eyes were starting to churn Captain Blake’s stomach. She forced herself to look away.
‘The number?’ Hunter asked.
In silence, Doctor Winston directed their attention to the victim’s back. Centered between his shoulder blades and six inches long, the number five had been drawn in blood.
Hunter walked around to the front of the chair. ‘What do we know of the victim?’
‘His name was Darnell Douglas. Forty-one years old. Lived in West Hollywood with his wife of seven years.’
Hunter looked up.
‘She hasn’t been told yet,’ the doctor confirmed with a sad head shake. ‘He was a car salesman for Princeton Cars, also located in West Hollywood. You probably already heard how he disappeared yesterday after taking one of the vehicles from his shop out for a test drive.’
Hunter nodded.
‘My team is dusting the entire car as we speak. If the killer left anything behind, we’ll find it.’