She’d woken up in the middle of the night feeling claustrophobic. Her room was spacious enough, but the air inside felt stale. As she opened her window and allowed the cold and humid Los Angeles winter breeze to caress her face, an uncomfortable feeling made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She felt as if she was being watched. Craning her upper body out of the window, she allowed her eyes to scan the portion of the street she could see from her room. The street was deserted.
Mollie went back to bed, but her mind kept playing tricks on her, keeping her awake for the rest of the night. The sun rose at 6:53 a.m. and finally Mollie was able to relax a little. Nighttime was always harder. For some reason the images came stronger then – more real, more painful.
She finally left her room as the afternoon was coming to an end. Hunger was stinging at her growling stomach. Just down the road, Mollie found a sandwich shop which also sold cakes, sweets and creamed-topped coffees. She ordered a salami and cheese sandwich, a slice of apple pie with ice cream and a hot chocolate before taking a seat at a table close to the shop’s front window.
Hunter had told her that maybe tonight he’d be moving her to another location – a friend’s house, he said, but he still hadn’t called. She finished her pie and was distracted by a short and stout man standing across the road dressed in a Santa Claus outfit. He enthusiastically dangled his oversized golden bell, trying to collect money for some charity. Mollie watched him for at least five minutes. No passerby made a contribution.
‘No one seems to care these days, do they?’ A tall man sitting on the next table commented, noticing Mollie’s attention on Santa Claus.
‘Not really,’ she replied with a sad head shake.
The man was wearing a long black overcoat and a dark, old-fashioned mobster hat. ‘It’s a sad world when people have no heart for charity anymore,’ he said before running his tongue over his cracked lips.
Mollie didn’t know how to reply, so she just smiled and had a sip of her hot chocolate.
‘You’re not from LA, are you?’
She looked at him intrigued.
‘I can spot a Los Angeles smile a mile away. It has a fake edge to it, but not yours. Yours is-’ he paused, searching for the right word ‘-kind, sincere.’
‘Thank you.’ She blushed slightly.
The man noticed her uneasiness and stood up, gathering his things. ‘I hope you enjoy Los Angeles,’ he said, offering his hand.
Mollie shook it with the most delicate of touches. The man’s hand felt strong and powerful.
‘My name’s Ryan, Ryan Turner.’
A new smile blossomed on her lips. ‘I’m Monica.’
‘Enjoy LA, Monica,’ he said again before exiting the shop, approaching Santa Claus and depositing some money into his bucket.
Back at the hotel her bad night’s sleep caught up with her and Mollie kept on dozing off in front of the TV. She wasn’t sure if she was awake or asleep when the vision came, but it hit her like a knuckleduster punch to the face.
When she opened her eyes she was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, naked and bleeding.
Hundred and Fifteen
If any of the twenty-one faces pinned onto the photograph board had any sort of a police record, their fingerprints would’ve been on file and they could’ve compared them to the partial one they had from the house in Malibu, but that wasn’t the case. Hunter, Garcia and Hopkins were staring at twenty-one all-regular, all-American model citizens. No convictions, no problems with the IRS or any government organization. No jury services or appearances in court. The worst they could come up with were two unpaid parking tickets.
Twenty-one people, whose lives on paper were as adventurous as a glass of milk. Their professions ranged from a university professor to a scriptwriter, from medical doctors to temporarily unemployed.
Their first step was to eliminate anyone under or over six foot two. That left them with twelve possible suspects. After checking with the airlines and passport control, five more names were crossed from the list.
‘We can cut Doctor Pedro Ortiz and Doctor Michael Grifton from our list too,’ Garcia said as he got off the phone. ‘They were both on night shift on the night Father Fabian was attacked.’
‘Jason Lowell was on a camping trip with his students during the weekend Debbie Howard was murdered,’ Hopkins said. ‘He’s off the list as well.’
Hunter rubbed his tired eyes. He’d been up for almost forty-eight hours, and he wasn’t sure they’d find much more from phone calls and database searches. They were looking for someone who had certainly been carrying psychological scars hidden in his subconscious for twenty-five years. Hunter had no doubt something had triggered off the killer’s rage. Something fairly recent. The ‘last straw’.
He knew that identifying what might have pushed the subject over the edge would be hard to do from behind a desk. Things like being dumped, pressure at work, losing your job, big financial difficulties would need detailed investigative work.
‘OK,’ he said, massaging his stiff shoulders. ‘We’ve only got four names left on the list. We know James Reed is missing. Let’s find out where the remaining three are.’
‘Maybe you should bring Mollie here and let her have a look at these pictures,’ Garcia suggested. ‘Maybe she’ll be able to sense something.’
Shit! Hunter checked the time. He needed to call her. He wanted to move her to another location tonight.
‘That’s not a bad idea,’ Hopkins agreed.
‘That’s not what she does,’ Hunter said calmly, looking at them both. ‘She can’t control what she sees. And she only senses pain.’
‘Don’t you think it’s worth a shot?’ Garcia insisted. ‘We’re sort of running out of options and time.’
‘No,’ Hunter responded. ‘She’s a seventeen-year-old girl who’s been through more crap than most people would face in a lifetime. She’s alone and she’s scared. And to top it all off, she sees grotesque images of unimaginable suffering.’ His eyes focused on Garcia. ‘You’ve been to three of the five crime scenes. In Malibu you had to leave the room to be sick.’
‘Really?’ Hopkins asked, surprised.
‘Don’t even go there,’ Garcia warned him.
‘We are detectives with the HSS,’ Hunter continued. ‘Special circumstances’ crimes are all we do. We’re the experts, the real tough guys. We’re supposed to be used to it, and it still turns our stomachs inside out. Imagine what being alone and seeing those images – images as real as the ones we saw with our own eyes – could do to a fragile teenage girl. There’s no way in hell I’d bring her here, show her these pictures and ask her to deliberately try to force those visions into her mind.’
The silence that followed indicated that everyone understood Hunter’s position.
His cell phone rang. The caller display showed Mollie’s number. Spooky.
‘Hello, Mollie.’ Hunter moved towards the window. Even through the phone he could feel something wasn’t right. Her breathing was labored, as if she’d been running. ‘What’s wrong?’
Mollie took a deep breath, and Hunter realized she was also crying.
‘Mollie, talk to me. What’s wrong?’
Garcia and Hopkins tensed.
Another deep breath. Hunter heard a car horn. ‘Mollie, are you at the hotel?’
‘No.’ Her voice trembled.
‘Where are you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What? What do you mean?’
‘I left.’
‘You left the hotel?’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘I don’t know. Some time ago.’ Her words dragged, stalled by her tears and the lump in her throat.
‘Calm down, Mollie. Talk to me. What happened? Why did you leave the hotel?’
‘I saw it…’ Her tone was becoming hysterical.
‘Take a deep breath, Mollie. What did you see?’ Hunter stood up and reached for his coat.