Authors: Chris Carter
‘Pentagrams are ancient figures that have been used throughout history to symbolize a number of things,’ Hunter explained, ‘such as strength, unity, power, secrecy. Several
different religions have adopted it in different contexts, including Christianity. In fact, the pentagram has long been believed to be a potent protection
against
evil.’
Both Garcia and Captain Blake looked a little surprised.
‘The symbol that has been associated with evil and devil worshiping,’ Hunter continued, ‘is an inverted or reversed pentagram, with two points projecting upwards, and
that’s because an inverted pentagram symbolizes overturning the proper order of things.’
Hunter paused, giving Captain Blake a few seconds to weigh everything up.
‘In our case,’ he added, ‘there’s no way to tell, Captain. Yes, the victim was positioned in a way that resembles a five-point human star, but we don’t know if that
star is right side up or upside down, because we have no way of telling what the killer’s point of view was. If we consider the standard geographic coordinates – north being up and
south being down – then the victim was not left in an upside down position.’
Captain Blake frowned at Hunter.
‘Her head was pointing north,’ he explained.
‘I’m actually scared to ask how you know all this about pentagrams, Robert,’ Captain Blake said, sitting back on her chair.
Hunter shrugged. ‘I read a lot.’
‘But of course you do.’ Her eyebrows arched sarcastically. ‘OK,’ the captain lifted her right hand, accepting Hunter’s argument, ‘for now, let’s forget
the pentagram shape and focus on the body itself. Doesn’t specific victim positioning suggest some sort of ritual?’
‘Usually, yes,’ Garcia agreed. ‘But as I’ve said before, Captain, right now we don’t have enough evidence to be sure either way. What if this killer positioned the
body that way just to try to make us believe that he really
is
a ritualistic killer, just to send us down the wrong path? He seems to be smart enough to be able to come up with something
like that.’
Captain Blake chewed on that thought for a couple of seconds.
‘How about a cult?’ she asked, getting up from behind her desk and moving around to the front of it. ‘Could we be dealing with some sort of cult here, instead of a single
individual?’
‘No,’ Garcia replied. ‘We’re not dealing with a group or any sort of cult here, Captain. This is a single individual.’
‘You sound very sure.’
Garcia proceeded to tell Captain Blake everything that the autopsy examination had revealed. She listened to his account without interrupting, her expression changing according to the level of
surprise or disgust she was feeling at what was being said.
‘So this note the killer left lodged inside the victim’s throat,’ she said when Garcia was done, ‘it was written in blood?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Whose blood, the victim’s?’
‘We don’t know yet,’ Garcia answered. ‘That’s what we’re expecting it to be. We should hopefully get an answer from the forensics lab sometime this
afternoon.’
‘I’m a little confused,’ the captain said, lifting a hand again. ‘How does that answer my question as to why you sounded so sure that we’re not dealing with a cult
here, Carlos?’
‘The note.’
The penny finally dropped.
‘I Am Death,’ Captain Blake said in a half-whisper. ‘Not
We
Are Death.’
Hunter nodded. ‘This guy’s got an ego, and a big one. This is his work, his “masterpiece”, no one else’s, and he really wants us to know that.’
One didn’t need to be a detective to pick up the look of deep concern on Captain Blake’s face. A concern that clearly went beyond Garcia’s account of the autopsy findings.
‘Captain,’ Hunter asked. ‘What’s going on?’
Captain Blake reached for something on her desk.
‘A fucking hell of a lot.’
Captain Blake picked up a small, see-through plastic bag, which was what she had been looking at when Hunter and Garcia entered her office a few minutes earlier. Inside the bag
sat a 4x6 Polaroid photograph. She handed it to Hunter and Garcia.
‘Here, have a look.’
Garcia took the bag and turned it over so they could see the image. The photograph was of Nicole Wilson.
‘What the hell?’ Garcia’s gaze paused on Hunter for a split second before moving back to his captain. ‘How did you get this?’
‘I didn’t.’ Captain Blake leaned against her desk. ‘The mayor did.’
There was a hesitant moment as both detectives exchanged another concerned look.
‘The mayor?’
‘Yes. He received it earlier this morning, via FedEx.’ She reached for plastic bag number two and handed it to Garcia again. ‘As you can see, it was marked as
‘‘urgent – private and confidential”.’
Hunter and Garcia checked the FedEx wrapper.
‘Tyler Jordan?’
‘Bogus name, as expected,’ the captain replied. ‘Bogus address as well. Apparently it’s a boarded-up shop – everything else still needs to be checked.’
‘Did the mayor know Nicole Wilson?’ Hunter asked.
Captain Blake shook her head. ‘According to him, he’s never seen her before. But we all know that public safety has always been at the forefront of Mayor Bailey’s campaign, so
once he saw that picture he immediately got on the phone to Chief Bracco. Bracco left this office about five minutes before you got here. That’s how I have these. He wanted them to go to
forensics ASAP, but I wanted you to see them first.’
‘Does the chief know that Nicole Wilson’s body was found in the early hours of this morning?’ Hunter asked.
‘He does now.’ Captain Blake paused and drew in a deep breath. ‘But that’s not all.’
Hunter and Garcia’s attention moved from the photo and the FedEx wrapper back to her. Once again, she reached for something that was on her desk – a third see-through plastic
bag.
‘The photo came with a note,’ she said, handing the bag to Hunter.
The white piece of paper that sat inside the plastic bag had a crease down its center where it had been folded in half. Like the note found in Nicole Wilson’s throat, the words had been
handwritten, but this time not in blood. The killer had used a red ballpoint pen.
People in this city put their trust in law enforcement agencies like the LAPD, and sometimes even the FBI, to keep them safe, to help those who can’t help themselves,
to right them when they’re wronged, to protect them, and to seek justice no matter what.
Those agencies are supposed to be the best of the best. The experts when it comes to reading people and discerning good from evil. But the truth is that they only see what they want to see.
And the problem with that is that when they play at being blind men, people suffer . . . people get tortured . . . and people die.
So now I have a question. If any of these so-called experts stood face to face with someone like me, if they looked straight into my eyes, would they see the truth inside me? Would they see
what I have become, or would they falter?
The woman in the picture certainly saw it. She felt it on her flesh.
And before the sun rises tomorrow, someone else will see it and feel it too. And trust me, what she’s been through is nothing compared to what is still to come, unless these so-called
experts are able to stop me.
Well, are they?
FOR I AM DEATH.
‘Jesus,’ Garcia said after reading the note a couple of times over.
‘And from what you’ve told me so far,’ the captain said, ‘I guess we can confidently say that he’s not bluffing.’
Silence filled the room for several seconds. Garcia was the first to break it.
‘What I don’t get is, why the mayor? This note refers to law enforcement agencies like the FBI, and ourselves, nothing really to do with the mayor’s office. If Mayor Bailey
didn’t know Nicole Wilson, why send the picture and the note to his office? Why not send it directly here to the PAB or to Chief Bracco’s office?’
‘I’ve been asking myself that same question,’ Captain Blake said. ‘And with today’s technology, why post it instead of emailing it?’
‘Two reasons,’ Hunter replied, his full attention still on the note. ‘If the killer had emailed it, there’d be no guarantees that the mayor would’ve gotten it.
Something like this could’ve easily been automatically flagged as spam or junk mail by some sort of firewall program, and have been completely discarded without anyone actually opening it. No
way this killer would’ve run that risk.’
Captain Blake accepted it with a head nod. ‘And the second reason?’
‘The shock effect. The credibility. Seeing a handwritten, original note, and a Polaroid photograph, two tangible items, something that the mayor could actually handle, packs a much bigger
punch then something the mayor could only see through his computer screen. It makes the threat a lot more real. That’s also the reason why the killer used a Polaroid, instead of a regular
photo.’
Garcia nodded. ‘An attached photo could’ve been Photoshopped to the last pixel. A Polaroid is practically impossible to touch. As Robert said, it gives the killer
credibility.’
‘OK,’ the captain agreed. ‘But why send it to the mayor?’
‘Urgency,’ Hunter replied. ‘If this package had come straight here to the PAB and to your office, would you have informed Chief Bracco, or the mayor?’
‘No, of course not.’
Hunter nodded once. ‘And if it had gone straight to Chief Bracco’s office, do you think he would’ve informed the mayor?’
Captain Blake caught up with Hunter’s logic.
‘No,’ she agreed. ‘There’d be no need to worry the mayor. But send it directly to the mayor a couple of weeks before an election, and you start a hierarchical panic chain
reaction – the mayor, who’s obsessed with citizen safety, takes it straight to the chief of police, who brings it straight to me.’
‘As I’ve said,’ Hunter added. ‘This guy’s got a big ego, and he wants to play, but he wants to make sure he’s playing against the right opponents. As he wrote
on his note –
the best of the best
– because in his mind, he deserves nothing less. Getting the mayor involved would guarantee he got what he wanted.’
‘Well, so, he’s in luck,’ the captain said, walking back behind her desk. ‘Because you two are supposed to be the best I have.’
Night had already recolored the sky by the time Sharon Barnard opened the door to the house she shared with Tom Hobbs in Venice, in the Westside region of Los Angeles. Today
she had worked a return flight from LAX to Kansas City, where for three and a half hours each way, she had endured a battery of cheesy pick-up lines and humorless anecdotes, all of them from
overweight businessmen who smelled of cheap cologne and did a piss-poor job of hiding their wedding bands.
She smiled in relief as she finally closed the door behind her, put her cabin crew suitcase on the floor and began rubbing the back of her neck with both hands. Her neck and shoulder muscles
felt a little stiff, but it was nothing that a long shower followed by a nice bottle of wine and some relaxing music couldn’t fix. And tonight she had the house to herself. Tom had flown to
San Francisco that morning, where he’d spend the night, probably partying somewhere in the Castro, the largest gay neighborhood in the USA, before flying back tomorrow afternoon.
Both Sharon and Tom had been away for a day and a half. The house had been locked, all the windows shut and the curtains drawn. With the early August heat, the place felt like a sauna. Sharon
opened one of the living room windows before crossing over to the kitchen and grabbing a cold bottle of beer from the fridge to cool her down.
In spite of it not being a career choice she had ever really considered until just a year earlier, Sharon loved her job as a stewardess.
Ever since she was a young girl, Sharon had always dreamed of becoming a nurse, and that was due in part to her obsession with the television series
ER.
She had the
entire collection on DVD. She had watched every episode at least ten times, but still she just couldn’t get enough of it. But
ER
was not the only reason. Sharon had always had a kind
heart, and helping people in need satisfied her in a way that very little else ever did. The interesting thing was that she had never even considered being a doctor, and that was indeed
ER
and Nurse Carol’s fault – Carol Hathaway had always been her favorite character and she wanted to be just like her. But Sharon was a very down-to-earth person. She fully understood that
a nurse’s reality would certainly be very different from the half-glamorous life she saw on the little screen.
With that in mind, Sharon decided to follow the advice of her school counselor and the school nurse, and straight after high school she enrolled herself into the Licensed Practical Nurse program
where she showed tremendous talent and aptitude, graduating top of her class twelve months later. Though LPN gave her the initial skills she needed, dealing with real patients would prove to be a
whole different ballgame.
Her plan was to try to gain practical experience as a working nurse for at least one year before going back to school and enrolling into the Associate Degree in Nursing program, which would then
allow her to become a registered nurse.
Upon graduating from the LPN program, and with the help of two of her tutors, Sharon was immediately offered a nursing position at the Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, ranked among the top three
medical centers and hospitals in California. She jumped at the chance, and was assigned to the neurological ward, commonly known as the coma ward. And that was when everything went sour.
Only six days after she first started working on the ward, Sharon saw the arrival of a nine-year-old black girl named Joan Howard. Joan had been playing alone on the sidewalk right in front of
her house when she was practically run over by an eighteen-year-old kid who, just for the fun of it, had decided to see how fast he could go on a bicycle. The bicycle collided with Joan with such
force that she was projected forward and through the air several yards. She landed on the road, hitting her tiny head against the asphalt and fracturing her cranium in two places, causing her brain
to hemorrhage. The kid on the bicycle was never caught.