She started to catch on. ‘Not long enough.’
‘Not long enough,’ Hunter agreed. ‘The killer crafted a bomb and that knife from hell himself, not to mention the unique self-activating trigger mechanism. He also took time preparing the location where the victims were left, and then calmly sewed their body parts shut. All that takes a lot of time. Both preparing and executing it.’
‘And that would mean that the killer would’ve had to have been in an altered state of mind for days, maybe weeks,’ Garcia added. ‘Highly unlikely.’
Hunter nodded. ‘And then there’s also the current accepted opinion of modern psychology that Multiple Personality Syndrome doesn’t really exist. It’s a therapist-induced disorder perpetuated by a never-ending barrage of TV talk shows, novels and ill-conceived Hollywood movies.’
‘What?’
‘Basically, modern psychology believes that Multiple Personality Syndrome is complete bullshit.’
Captain Blake leaned against Hunter’s desk and undid both buttons on her suit jacket. ‘So we’re dealing with someone who knows exactly what he’s doing?’
‘I’d say so, yes.’
‘His creativity is proof of that,’ Garcia added.
Hunter nodded. ‘He’s also patient and self-disciplined, a rare virtue nowadays, even in the calmest of individuals. Add that to the level of craftsmanship he’s showed so far, and it wouldn’t surprise me if he were a watchmaker or even an artist himself. Maybe some sort of sculptor or something.’
The captain’s eyes widened. ‘Like a failed sculptor? Someone who was never as successful as his victims? You think this could be payback?’
Hunter shifted his weight to his left foot. ‘No. I don’t think this is born out of revenge.’
‘How can you be sure? Envy is a powerful emotion.’
‘If the killer is a failed artist after revenge because he never made it big, he wouldn’t target other artists. It’d make no sense. They wouldn’t be the reason he never made it.’
Garcia bit his bottom lip and bobbed his head in agreement. ‘The revenge would’ve been against agents, or gallery curators, or art critics and journalists, or all of the above. People who can make or break an artist’s career, not fellow artists.’
Hunter nodded. ‘Also Laura Mitchell and Kelly Jensen’s resemblance to each other isn’t just a coincidence, Captain. His victims mean more to him than just a vehicle for revenge.’
‘The killer also used the same MO, but inserted a different killing device into each of his victims,’ Garcia added. ‘I don’t think that was random. I think there’s a meaning behind it.’
‘What?’ Captain Blake asked. A speck of irritation crept into her tone as she crossed to the window. ‘What kind of relation could a bomb and a knife that didn’t even exist on this earth until a few days ago have with two painters?’
No one replied. The silence that followed held a different meaning for each of them.
‘So this new victim fucks up our lead on the James Smith guy, right?’ the captain blurted. ‘Everything we found in his apartment was about Laura Mitchell, not Kelly Jensen.’
‘Maybe not,’ Garcia argued. He started fidgeting with a paper clip.
‘And how’s that?’
‘Maybe he’s got another room somewhere else. Another apartment maybe,’ Garcia offered.
‘What?’ Captain Blake glared at him.
‘Maybe he’s that smart, Captain. He knows that with two victims, if he gets caught and only one of the rooms is found, he has a good chance of walking.’ He placed the paper clip, now bent out of shape, down on his desk. ‘As we already know, he adopted the name James Smith because he knew if anything happened, his name alone would hide him under a mist of people.’ He showed the captain his right index finger. ‘He pays his rent up front.’ Now the middle finger. ‘He pays his bills up front. If he is our guy, we know for sure he’s got at least one more place somewhere else: the place where he keeps his victims, ’cause we know he didn’t keep them in that apartment. If that’s the case, he could easily have another rented apartment somewhere else. Maybe under a complete different name. That’s why we can’t find him.’
Captain Blake leaned against the windowsill. ‘It’s an unlikely possibility.’
Garcia cracked his knuckles. ‘It’s also unlikely that anyone would create his own bomb, his own crazy knife, his own trigger mechanism and place it inside a victim before stitching her body shut.’ He paused for effect. ‘C’mon, Captain, the evidence says this guy is everything but predictable. He’s smart, very slick and very patient. Would it really surprise you if he did have another collage room somewhere else? It gives him deniability.’
‘Garcia is right, Captain,’ Hunter said, sitting at the edge of his desk. ‘We can’t discard James Smith simply because the room we found didn’t have anything about Kelly Jensen.’
‘And has he been sighted anywhere yet? Have the phone lines produced any useful tips?’
‘Not yet.’
‘That’s just great, isn’t it?’ She pointed to the street outside. ‘Over four million people in this city and no one seems to know who this James Smith really is. The guy has simply vanished.’ She crossed to the door and opened it. ‘We’re chasing a fucking ghost.’
Fifty
When Hunter got back to his office, he found an email from Mike Brindle in Forensics – the lab results from the fibers found on the wall behind the large canvas in Laura Mitchell’s apartment were in. They had been right in their assumption. The fibers had come from a common wool skullcap. That meant that whoever had hid behind that canvas was somewhere between six foot and six four.
The results for the faint footprints were also in, but because they were set on house dust, and therefore smudged, they weren’t 100 per cent accurate. The conclusion was that they’d probably come from size eleven or twelve shoes, which was consistent with the height theory. The interesting fact was that they had found no sole marks. No trademark imprints, or grooves, or anything. A completely flat sole. Mike Brindle’s take on it was that whoever had waited in Laura’s apartment had used some sort of shoe cover. Probably handmade. Probably soft rubber or even synthetic foam. That would have no doubt also muffled the perpetrator’s footsteps.
After analyzing the entire studio floor for any more size eleven or twelve foot imprints, Brindle arrived at the same conclusion as Hunter and Garcia had. After hiding behind the large canvas resting against the back wall, Laura Mitchell’s attacker had somehow diverted her attention and very quickly gotten to her with a strong sedative, probably an intravenous one.
‘I’ve got the personal info on Kelly Jensen from research,’ Garcia said as he walked through the door, carrying a green plastic folder.
‘What do we have?’ Hunter asked looking up from his computer.
Garcia took a seat behind his desk and flipped open the folder. ‘OK, Kelly Jensen, born in Great Falls, Montana, thirty years ago. Her parents haven’t been notified yet.’
Hunter nodded.
Garcia continued. ‘She started painting in high school . . . At the age of twenty, against her parents’ wishes, she relocated here to Los Angeles . . . She spent several years struggling and being rejected by every agent and art gallery in the business . . . blah, blah, blah, your typical LA story, except she was a painter, not an actress.’
‘How did she get noticed?’ Hunter asked.
‘She used to sell her work on the oceanfront – a street stall. Got noticed by none other than Julie Glenn, New York’s top art critic. A week later, Kelly got an art agent, a guy called Lucas Laurent. He was the one who reported her as missing.’ He paused and stretched his arms high above his head. ‘Kelly’s career took off quickly after that. Julie Glenn wrote a piece about her in the New York Times, and within a month, the canvases Kelly couldn’t give away at the beach were selling for thousands.’