Authors: Chris Carter
‘But he didn’t,’ she said, leaning back in her chair.
‘No, he didn’t. I’m sure that he picked the word “become” for a specific reason.’
‘And you think that is because he wants us to understand he wasn’t always a psychopath. That something in the course of his life changed him. And whatever it was that happened to
him, it made him decide to start killing people.’
Hunter nodded.
‘Like what, for example?’
Hunter shrugged. ‘He doesn’t allude to anything in his note, so right now that’s impossible to tell. Every individual reacts differently to different situations, Captain, you
know that. Everybody’s got a different breaking point. For some people, it takes a lot for that switch to flick inside their heads, if it ever does. For others, not so much. Even a physical
disease can potentially turn someone into a murderer.’
‘Wait a second,’ the captain said. ‘Physical disease?’
Garcia also looked at Hunter sceptically.
‘Yes,’ Hunter confirmed. ‘History is littered with different cases. In America, Charles Whitman is probably the most famous example.’
Captain Blake paused for a moment, searching her memory. The name finally came back to her. ‘Charles Whitman? Wasn’t he the Texas Bell Tower sniper?’
‘That’s right,’ Garcia said, now remembering it as well.
Charles Whitman was a former US Marine who became one of the most famous mass murderers in US history. On 1 August 1966, he started his killing spree by murdering his wife and then his mother.
Once they were dead, he drove up to the University of Texas in Austin, where he was studying for a degree in engineering, and, armed with numerous firearms and several hundred rounds of ammunition,
got up on to the highest point on campus, the main building’s clock tower. From there, he indiscriminately shot random passersby for almost two hours until he was finally shot dead by Austin
police officer Houston McCoy. In those two horrible hours, Charles Whitman managed to kill fourteen people and injure thirty-two.
Understandably so, the press quickly branded Whitman a monster – but that was until the police discovered the note Whitman had left behind. A suicide note, or what essentially became a
suicide note because Whitman was certain that he would die that day.
The note shocked everyone. In it, Whitman confessed that he himself found his behavior completely inexplicable. He began his note by stating that he adored his wife and mother, and that he had
no idea why he was doing what he was doing. He went on to explain that in the past few months he had simply been consumed by excruciating headaches, like nothing he had ever experienced before, and
those headaches brought with them overwhelming feelings of rage and destructive impulses which he found harder and harder to resist.
Because he was certain that he would be killed that day, Whitman ended his note by begging the authorities for his brain to be autopsied for signs of physical disease. The authorities complied,
and it was discovered that Charles Whitman had a brain tumor that seemed to be just a few months old. The tumor was located in the hypothalamus, and it was pressing on to his amygdala. The coroner
confirmed that Whitman’s terrible headaches were certainly caused by the tumor. In the USA, Whitman’s case opened a whole new door to the way psychologists and psychiatrists approached
the mental state of a supposedly sociopathic murderer.
‘So you’re saying that our killer could have a brain tumor now?’ Captain Blake asked in a semi-sarcastic tone.
‘He could,’ Hunter admitted. ‘But that’s not what I’m saying, Captain. I’m just trying to reinforce the fact that, with the little we have, it’s
impossible to do anything else other than speculate at this time, and that will lead us nowhere. We all know this.’
‘And you don’t think that you’re reading too much into every word this nut case has written?’ the captain shot back. ‘You don’t think that he could’ve
sent us that note just to fuck with us? As Carlos has suggested – to throw us down the wrong path? We all know that it has happened plenty of times before. After all, the note promised that
we’d have another victim before sunrise today.’ The captain turned toward the large panoramic window and pointed at the sky. ‘Well, the sun has certainly risen, and we’ve
got nothing yet. He could be bluffing for all we know, Robert. That note could be nothing but a gimmick.’
‘That’s not what the note says, Captain,’ Hunter came back.
Captain Blake glared at him. ‘Is it not?’
‘No. The note says that before the sun rises tomorrow, which is today, someone else will
see
it and
feel
it too. He’s talking about the monster that he has become.
He’s telling us that before the sun came up today, someone else would have suffered and died by his hands. The note says nothing about the victim being delivered to us. If he decides to do
the same thing he did with Nicole Wilson and call it in via the switchboard, that call could come in this afternoon, tomorrow, next week, or any time after that. We’re dancing to his tune
here, Captain, and he can change the beat any time he likes.’
Mulling those words, Captain Blake reached for her cup of coffee and had a sip.
‘And no,’ Hunter added, ‘I don’t believe that he sent the mayor that note with the intention of fucking with us. The Polaroid and the victim’s mutilated body are
proof that he’s more than serious.’
Captain Blake was about to say something else when the phone on her desk rang.
‘Give me a sec,’ she said as she took the call.
No words were needed. The look in her eyes as she stared back at her detectives told them all they needed to know.
The killer wasn’t bluffing.
The house was in a pleasant-looking
cul de sac
down a small private road in Venice, just a couple of blocks away from Venice Beach. It was painted white, with
blue-framed windows, a hipped roof, and a small front yard that seemed to be in urgent need of some attention. A knee-high, white wooden fence surrounded the property, which was set back from the
road, isolating it even more from its neighbors. But the fence was there simply for decoration, not security. It wouldn’t stop anyone from getting to the house, or moving around toward its
backyard. Access to every door and window was kid’s play.
There was a single garage to the right of the house, but the only cars on the driveway were a police vehicle and a forensics van. Despite the house being tucked away at the end of a private and
very quiet road, the crowd of curious onlookers that had gathered outside the police perimeter was already substantial and seemed to be growing fast.
Garcia pulled up by one of the three black and white units that were parked on the street, just outside the house. The press was also there, crowding up the area even more.
A couple of reporters recognized the UV Unit detectives as they stepped out of Garcia’s car and immediately started shouting questions from across the road.
They fell on deaf ears. Without even turning to acknowledge them, Hunter and Garcia simply flashed their credentials at the two policemen guarding the perimeter’s edge and stooped under
the yellow crime-scene tape.
A third police officer who was standing to the left of the house’s front porch saw the two new arrivals and began making his way toward them.
‘You guys from the UV Unit?’ he asked as he got closer.
The officer was in his early forties, with natural suntanned skin, a cleft chin and a thick, black horseshoe mustache, which he clearly dedicated a lot of upkeep time to. His eyes were as dark
as night, but the look in them was hesitant, scared even.
‘Yes, that’s us,’ Garcia replied, indicating the badge clipped to his belt. Hunter did the same.
‘I’m Sergeant Perez, with West Bureau,’ he said, extending his hand.
Both detectives shook it and introduced themselves.
‘West Bureau took the nine-one-one call earlier today,’ the sergeant informed them. ‘I was first response. First through the door.’
They began moving toward the house.
‘OK, so what do we have in there?’ Garcia asked.
Sergeant Perez stopped walking and allowed his worried expression to shift from Garcia to Hunter.
‘I’m not actually sure I know how or what to call it.’ His tone of voice was cautious. His gaze settled on the house before him and he gave both detectives a subtle,
disbelieving headshake. ‘I’ve been an officer for over twenty years, all of them with the LAPD. God knows I’ve attended crime scenes words wouldn’t be able to describe, and
nothing can erase them from my memory. But in there –’ he nodded his head again in the direction of the house – ‘nothing I’ve ever seen comes close. Inhumane is the
only word I can think of. Way beyond sadistic.’
That explains the heavy press presence,
Hunter thought. Word of the sort of violence used by the perpetrator had obviously been leaked to the media, which wasn’t surprising. Not
only did they scan police radio frequencies 24/7, but they also paid informers inside the force for that sort of intelligence, and they paid well.
They reached the front porch, where a couple of forensic agents were hard at work. The first was checking the wooden floorboards for footprints or any sort of residues that could’ve been
left behind. The second one was dusting the door handle and frame. A couple of bloody handprints were clearly noticeable against the door’s light-blue color.
‘Anonymous nine-one-one call?’ Hunter asked.
To their surprise, Sergeant Perez shook his head.
‘Nope. The victim’s housemate found the body,’ he said, tilting his head toward the black and white unit parked in the driveway. The unit’s passenger door was open.
Sitting on the passenger seat with his feet on the ground, his elbows resting on his knees and his face buried in the palms of his hands was a tall, thin man who looked to be in his late twenties
or early thirties. His short, dark-brown hair was completely disheveled, and he was wearing what was undoubtedly an air steward’s uniform. Part of his white shirt and the front of his
dark-blue jacket seemed to be covered in blood.
‘His name is Thomas Hobbs,’ Sergeant Perez continued, reading from the notepad he’d retrieved from his police belt. ‘Twenty-three years of age. Born and raised here in
Los Angeles, Pomona Valley. He shares this house with one other person, Sharon Barnard, who, according to Mr. Hobbs, and he had to base this conclusion purely on the jewelry she wore, appears to be
the victim. They both work for US Airways.’
‘Wait a second,’ Garcia interrupted. ‘Appears to be the victim?’
Garcia was six-foot two. Perez was five-foot six. The sergeant had to look up to meet the detective’s stare.
‘I guess you’ll understand when you walk in there.’
Garcia shot a worried glance at Hunter.
‘Mr. Hobbs had been away for a day and a half,’ Sergeant Perez explained. ‘This morning he was head steward on a flight from San Francisco back to LA. He wasn’t feeling
too well, so after he landed he decided to leave his car at LAX and take a cab home. He found the victim as soon as he opened his front door.’
The sergeant shifted his weight from foot to foot.
‘Unsurprisingly, the sight was way too much for him and he collapsed. That was before he made the nine-one-one call.’ Perez flipped a page on the notepad. ‘As he passed out, he
fell forward and into his living room. That explains the blood on his clothes. He’s still in shock so getting any coherent information out of him at the moment is a monstrous task, but
you’re welcome to try it if you like. It took me half an hour to get these few details.’ He wiggled the notepad he was holding.
‘Any information on the “possible” victim?’ Hunter asked.
‘Very little,’ Perez replied, consulting his notepad again. ‘Name is Sharon Barnard. Twenty-two years old. Also born and raised here in LA. We did a quick check with US
Airways. She finished her last shift – a return flight to Kansas City – yesterday afternoon. She landed at LAX at seventeen twenty-five. We have no indication that she went anywhere
else once she left the airport, so we’re assuming that she came straight home. With rush-hour traffic and without stopping anywhere for groceries or anything, she would probably have got home
some time between eighteen thirty hours and nineteen hundred hours.’
Hunter and Garcia nodded their understanding.
‘Any signs of a break-in?’ Hunter’s question was directed more at the forensic agent checking the front door.
The agent stopped dusting the doorframe, looked back at the detective and shook his head.
‘Nothing here. The frame isn’t broken or cracked. The lock hasn’t been picked or tampered with. We’ve got a couple of fingerprints from the door handle. Judging by size
alone, one of them is definitely female. The bloody hand-prints –’ he indicated the one just above the doorknob, and the one on the outside frame – ‘belong to the guy who
found the body.’ He nodded toward the police unit on the drive-way. ‘He used the door and the frame to steady himself as he got up from the floor after fainting.’
‘Have you found a breaching point?’ Hunter asked. ‘Any idea of how the perpetrator got in?’
‘No, nothing yet. Apparently the front door was unlocked when the housemate got home,’ the agent revealed. ‘All the windows are unbroken, and they were all closed and shut from
the inside. The back door was also locked.’
‘Here,’ Sergeant Perez said, handing Hunter and Garcia two brand new Tyvek coveralls inside sealed plastic bags.
Both detectives took the bags, ripped them open and started suiting up. When they were done, they pulled the hoods over their heads and each slipped on a pair of latex gloves.
‘I would sincerely suggest that you go for the nose masks too,’ Sergeant Perez commented.
Nose masks in place, they stepped up to the front door. The forensic agent who had been dusting the door handle and frame took a step to his right and pulled the door open.
‘Mind the blood,’ Sergeant Perez said as he turned and walked away.
At last Hunter and Garcia stepped into the living room and immediately paused. Their eyes tried to take everything in, but their brains struggled to comprehend the scene in front of them.