Mr. Richards told Hunter that in the two years Mr. Smith had been renting his apartment, he’d been a great tenant, the best he’d ever had.
‘He never causes any trouble,’ Mr. Richards told Hunter. ‘He’s also never requested anything else, unlike most of my previous tenants. They were always calling and asking me for a new fridge, or stove, or mattress, or electric shower, or whatever. They were always complaining that there was something wrong with the apartment, but not James. He never complained.’
‘Did you check any documentation when Mr. Smith rented your apartment?’ Hunter asked. ‘You know, background checks, references or anything like that?’
Mr. Richards shook his head. ‘There was no need. He paid cash and the full year in advance, which means he could never default on a payment.’
Hunter was more than aware that Los Angeles was definitely the city for if you’ve got the cash, you get the goods, no questions asked.
‘Did Mr. Smith ever tell you what he did for a living?’
Another shake of the head from Richards.
The snapshot Hunter had of James Smith was quickly released to the press. The picture was by no means perfect. His face was at least 30 per cent obscured, but it was the best they had. With a little luck, someone out there would know who he was. A dedicated phone line was created to receive calls. So far they’d got a mountain of dead ends and people claiming to be James Smith himself, challenging the police to come and get them.
They’d also found the painting Smith had purchased nine months ago along with several DVDs in his apartment. All of them homemade. All of them of Laura Mitchell. Apparently, all of them shot by Smith himself. Hours and hours of footage of Laura at exhibitions, dinner parties, arriving at and leaving her art studio, walking into her gym, browsing in shopping malls, and so on. There were no time-stamps on any of the footage, but judging by her different hairstyles and slight differences in weight, they had been shot over a period of years. They could be seen as surveillance in preparation for an abduction, or plain obsessive stalking. Hunter didn’t want to jump to any conclusions until he had more evidence.
‘OK,’ Captain Blake said, putting the ten-page report she was reading down on her desk. ‘What’s confusing me is . . . if this James Smith is our killer, and he’s obviously been collecting intel on Laura Mitchell for a few years, how come he only decided to strike now?’
‘That’s not unusual, Captain,’ Hunter said, walking over to the window in the captain’s office. ‘Very few people have the mental strength to become a killer overnight. The vast majority of serial killers, or people who have shown tendency to becoming one, have fantasized about their actions for months, years, sometimes decades. For most, the fantasy alone is enough to satisfy them. Some will go as far as doing all the preparation, the research, the stalking, the surveillance, collecting intel, maybe even capturing the victim, but bottle out right at the last minute. Maybe it took James all these years to gather the courage to finally act out his fantasy.’
‘And we know our killer doesn’t mind waiting,’ Garcia said.
The phone on Captain Blake’s desk rang. She answered it on the third bell.
‘What?’ she barked.
As she listened her eyes darted towards Hunter.
‘Shit! Seal the entire place and keep everyone else away from that building, do you hear me? And I mean everyone. We’re on our way.’
Forty-One
The abandoned preschool was located in Glassell Park, Northeast Los Angeles. Cracked walls, broken windows, subsiding floors, cobwebs, and crumbling wooden doorframes was all that was left of the once bustling single-story building. Instead of cartoon characters, gang graffiti now decorated the walls both outside and inside. Several police vehicles and a forensic crime-scene van took over the parking lot to the right of the school. The press had parked all over the place. Reporters and photographers, together with an ever growing crowd of onlookers were being held back at the twenty-five-yard perimeter line created by yellow crime-scene tape and numerous officers.
Hunter, Garcia and Captain Blake got out of the car, sidestepped the crowd and quickly stooped under the tape, approaching the two police officers standing by the main building’s entrance. They were both silent.
‘Sorry, sir, but I got orders from high up not to let anyone in there for now,’ the most senior of the two officers said, acknowledging both detectives’ badges.
‘I gave that order,’ Captain Blake replied firmly, displaying her credentials.
Both officers immediately stood to attention.
‘Captain,’ a short, overweight male reporter with thick glasses and a terribly disguised bald patch called from the pack. ‘What’s going on? Who is the victim? Why are you here? Care to give the people of Los Angeles some information?’ His questions ignited an onslaught of frantic shouts from everyone.
All Los Angeles crime beat reporters knew that LAPD captains didn’t usually attend crime scenes, no matter what division or bureau they were from. When they did, there was always a reason. And it was never good news. When the captain of the LAPD Robbery Homicide Division turned up at a crime scene, something was definitely wrong.
Captain Blake ignored the questions and returned her attention to the officer. ‘Were you first response?’
He nodded but avoided her eyes.
‘C’mon, Captain, give us something. Why are you here? What’s going on in there?’ The bald reporter insisted.
Captain Blake still paid no attention. ‘Who else other than Forensics has seen the body?’
‘Only me and my partner, ma’am, Officer Gutierrez.’ He tilted his head in the direction of the building behind him. ‘He’s inside, guarding the entrance to the basement.’
‘No one else?’ she pressed.
‘No one else, ma’am. We got a call from dispatch earlier to come down here and investigate a 911 call – someone claiming to have found a body. We radioed Homicide and Forensics as soon as we walked into that room. We got our orders back almost immediately – not to let anyone else in. Forensics are the only ones we’ve allowed through.’
‘The body is in the basement?’ Hunter asked.
‘Yes, at the end of the corridor turn left and you’ll be in the old kitchen. At the back of it you’ll see a few steps that’ll take you down to a storage room. The body is in there.’ His next words came out no louder than a whisper. ‘What in God’s earth . . . ?’
Minutes later, Hunter, Garcia and Captain Blake found Officer Gutierrez at the back of the old kitchen, guarding the steps to the storage room just like his partner had said. His youthful face couldn’t hide the shock of what he’d seen down in that room.
The cement staircase going down to the basement was worn out, narrow and steep, illuminated by a single light bulb that hung from the water-infiltrated ceiling above the landing at the top. With each step they took, the smell of disinfectant grew stronger. Brilliant forensic light seeped through the rusty metal door at the bottom. As they approached it, Hunter felt his blood rush and warm his skin as if he’d just stepped out into the baking sun. He opened the door, and all he saw was blood.