Authors: Chris Carter
‘Our graphologist said that though legally he cannot one hundred percent confirm it as a match, by analyzing the curvature of some of the letters, together with the way in which the person
who wrote them connects them to one another, he would stake his professional reputation on the assumption that whoever jotted down that annotation is the same person who wrote both of the notes. In
short, he’s your killer.’
Los Angeles 9-1-1 Emergency Response System operator Talicia Leon removed her curved-frame glasses, placed them on her desk just next to her empty coffee mug and rubbed her
tired eyes with her thumb and forefinger. She was about to tell Justin, the operator sitting in the booth to her right, that she was taking a five-minute coffee break when a brand new call came
onto her monitor.
Talicia quickly reached for her glasses again.
Coffee would have to wait.
‘Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?’ she said as she took the call, adjusting her headset.
‘Yes, I have a problem.’ The voice at the end of the line was female. Though she sounded a little distressed, Talicia got the feeling that the woman was trying hard to keep it all
together. ‘For some reason, my savings accounts seems to have been blocked. I can’t get to my money and I need to transfer funds from one account to the other ASAP.’
Oh great,
Talicia thought.
Another dumbass call.
On average, Talicia answered around ten completely non-related emergency calls a week. Some of them were damn right stupid.
‘Ma’am, you’ve reached nine-one-one emergency,’ she replied calmly. ‘Not your bank.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ the woman replied. ‘It’s not allowing me to do it over the Internet, that’s why I’m calling. I need this problem fixed ASAP,
please.’ This time, the woman emphasized the letters ‘A-S-A-P’ and the word ‘please’ came out a little shaky. ‘Do you think you can help me?’
‘I don’t think so, ma’am. This is nine-one-one emergency, not Bank of America. Do you have an emergency or not?’
‘Of course. I wouldn’t be calling otherwise. My name is Vivian Curtis.’
All of a sudden it dawned on Talicia that this might not be a crank call at all. Her voice became a lot more serious.
‘So, Vivian, you do have an emergency.’ She didn’t phrase it as a question.
‘Yes.’
‘And at the moment you’re unable to talk because there’s someone there with you?’
‘That’s correct, I’ve already keyed in my account number and passcode. The address registered to the account is 13605 South Vermont Avenue, Gardena, 90247.’
‘Got that, Vivian.’ Talicia was already typing as fast as she could, and she was fast. ‘Are you under any physical threat?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you hurt?’
‘Yes. Will this take long? I need to attend to my daughter.’
‘Your daughter is also hurt and under physical threat?’ Talicia pressed ‘enter’ on her keyboard, dispatching the primary emergency message.
‘Yes, that’s right. Of course I authorize it. It’s my money. I would like to transfer the whole amount. How soon will it be before either myself or my partner can withdraw the
money from an ATM?’
‘The threat is your partner?’
‘Um-hum.’
‘OK, Vivian, help is on its way. Just hold tight. They’ll be with you in less than four minutes. Can you stay on the line with me? Calls to banks tend to be lengthy and we can
pretend there’s some sort of minor complication before the funds are able to be released.’
‘OK, I’ll wait.’
‘How old is your daughter, Vivian?’
‘I think that was on the twelfth of this month.’
‘Do you or your daughter have any life-threatening injuries?’
‘No. I haven’t received anything yet.’
The word ‘yet’ worried Talicia.
‘Are there any firearms in the house?’
‘Yes, I have entered it
twice
already.’
Two weapons. ‘Is your partner in possession of any of them?’
‘No, not at the moment. Thank you.’
Talicia quickly typed in some new instructions.
‘Is the front or back door, if you have one, unlocked, Vivian? Help is almost there.’
‘Yes. As I’ve said, transfer
everything’
Both doors unlocked.
‘So, is it OK to just drop by an ATM and withdraw the funds now?’ Vivian’s voice was getting more and more distressed.
‘They’re seconds away, Vivian. Just turning into your street now. Even if you tell him right now that he can go and get the money out, he won’t make it past your front
porch.’
‘OK. Thank you very much for your help.’
The call disconnected.
Talicia immediately checked the history for calls related to Vivian’s address. There had been six in the past eight months. All of them for domestic violence.
Before Talicia could even breathe out, a new call lit up her screen.
‘Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?’ She pushed her glasses up on to the bridge of her nose.
‘She’s dead.’ This time, the voice at the other end of the line was male. The serenity with which he delivered those words made Talicia feel a little uncomfortable.
‘Are you reporting a murder, sir?’ Talicia’s fingers were already cruising over her keyboard once again.
‘There’s so much blood. Her screams were so full of pain and fear. It was beautiful.’
Every inch of skin on Talicia’s body turned cold. She coughed to clear her throat.
‘I’m sorry, sir. Who did you say is dead?’
‘Number three.’
Talicia halted her typing for just a moment.
‘Are you saying that there are three people who are dead?’
‘You are not listening to me, are you?’ the man said calmly, but didn’t give Talicia a chance to reply. ‘Number three is dead. Her name is Alison. Number four will soon
follow. A lot sooner than you think . . . for I am death.’
This time, the thought that came to Talicia’s mind was the opposite of what she had thought about the previous call. What had started seriously was now beginning to sound bogus.
‘Did you get that? Alison. Her name is Alison. Make sure you have it. Make sure they know it.’
Talicia couldn’t risk it.
‘Alison. Yes, I got it, sir. Do you have a last name for her?’
‘Good. Now write this down. Are you ready?’
‘Yes, sir, I’m ready.’
‘I. Am. Death. Tell that to the cops when you dispatch them.’
‘I got it,’ Talicia said. ‘What address shall I dispatch them to?’
‘Run your trace. Find this phone and you’ll find her.’
‘Sir? Hello? Sir?
The line didn’t disconnect but the caller was gone.
Lopez Canyon Road, in Lake View Terrace, stretches out from Foothill Freeway all the way into the small western tip of the Angeles National Forest, before sharply bending right
and reaching Kagel Canyon Road, where it finally ends. Less than a mile after the sharp right bend, a disused and uneven road forks out and to the right of it, going up a small hill. The call that
Talicia had taken had come from there; more specifically, from inside an abandoned wooden building right at the top of that road.
It was past two in the afternoon when Hunter and Garcia received a second call from Doctor Snyder. He had just arrived at the crime scene and, as he entered the building, the first thing he did
was reach for his phone and call the UV detectives.
Even with the sirens on, the twenty-five-mile drive that saw Hunter and Garcia cutting through South Central before hooking on to Glendale Boulevard, and finally to the western tip of the
Angeles National Forest, took them an hour.
Thanks to the isolated location, and the fact that the whole of the disused road was flanked by nothing more than rough terrain and dense, impassable shrubs, the LAPD could set a perimeter right
at the road’s entrance. No reporter or press van was able to get within a mile of the building.
Garcia flashed his credentials at the officers by the outer crime-scene tape, took a right and drove up the bouncy road.
‘Is this place secluded and out of the way enough for you, or what?’ Garcia asked as he parked by a forensic-van at the top of the road.
Hunter had just checked his cellphone – still no news about Mathew Hade.
As they exited Garcia’s car, Hunter took a moment to study the building.
It was a relatively small, rectangular, wooden structure, with an old-style gable roof. Entrance was through large double doors at the eastern end of it. Both Hunter and Garcia’s first
impression was that the building very closely resembled a barn, with the exception that its roof wasn’t as high as one would expect it to be. The outside had once been painted white but,
after years of being battered by sun and rain, only small patches of color remained. Also, as a result of their harsh contact with the elements, a few planks of wood from the south wall, the one
that they were facing, were either partially missing or broken.
Three police officers stood to the right of the double doors. All three of them looked like they’d just been sick.
As Hunter and Garcia approached the yellow crimescene tape that further restricted the entrance to the building, they were greeted by a peculiar smell that came from inside – a mixture of
rotten food and a sweet, metallic odor. Both detectives recognized the smell immediately because they’d been around it too many times.
Blood.
And lots of it.
They flashed their credentials at the lone officer with the crime-scene log book, who handed them a Tyvek coverall and a pair of latex gloves each.
Hunter and Garcia suited up, stooped under the yellow tape and pushed open the doors. They’d taken only two steps inside before the force of the image that met their eyes sucked all the
air from their lungs, and held them fast.
They now understood why the officers outside looked like they’d been sick.
But the savagery of what stood before them wasn’t what had driven Hunter and Garcia to a stunned silence, or made their hearts skip a beat.
It was the fact that they both knew who the victim was.
Hunter and Garcia stood at the entrance to a large open area. Just like the impression they’d got from the outside, the inside also reminded them of a ranch barn, only to
a smaller scale. The harsh sun in the sky outside, beating down on the building’s old wood walls and black gable roof, made its interior feel like an oven. They had been inside for less than
ten seconds and beads of sweat were already starting to form on their foreheads and on the back of their necks.
Doctor Snyder was standing toward the back of the room, talking something over with one of his forensics agents. As he saw the detectives come through the doors, he made his way over to greet
them. He had to travel around the edge of the room to avoid all the blood.
‘Robert. Carlos,’ he said with a small nod. His coverall was zipped up to the base of his neck but the hood was down, resting against the back of his shoulders. Once again, he had no
nose mask.
Both detectives returned the gesture but kept their attention focused solely on the female victim before them. Her head was slumped forward, with her chin touching her chest, but her face was
still visible. And that was what Hunter and Garcia seemed so transfixed by.
Doctor Snyder narrowed his eyes at them. Something wasn’t adding up. Despite the brutality of the entire scene and the amount of blood splashed around the place, their gaze was cemented
firmly on the victim’s face. Why? The doctor spoke again.
‘Her name is—’
‘Alison,’ Hunter said almost robotically. ‘I don’t know her last name.’
Intrigue turned to surprise in Doctor Snyder’s eyes. ‘You know her?’
‘We both do,’ Garcia said. ‘She’s a waitress at Donny’s.’ He paused, closed his eyes, subtly shook his head and corrected himself.
‘Was
a
waitress at Donny’s, a diner two blocks away from the PAB. We sometimes eat there.’
Doctor Snyder processed that information in silence before adding, ‘Atkins. Her name was Alison Atkins. She was twenty-eight years old.’ He read the way Garcia looked at him and
added, before he could ask the question, ‘The killer used her cellphone to make the nine-one-one call. Once he was done, he put the phone down by the door but never disconnected. He wanted it
traced so we could find her.’
Hunter immediately made a mental note to get a copy of the 911 call as soon as they got back to the Police Administration Building.
‘She was a very sweet woman,’ Hunter said. ‘Always smiling. Always very polite. The type who loved life.’
There was a new emotion in Hunter’s voice that Doctor Snyder failed to properly identify. Sadness? Anger? He couldn’t tell.
‘Do you think that she became a victim because you knew her?’ he asked.
Hunter’s focus hadn’t yet diverted from Alison’s face. He gave Doctor Snyder the slightest of shrugs. Right at that moment, he really didn’t know the answer to that
question.
The doctor looked again at the victim.
Alison had been stripped naked. Her arms had been shackled together at the wrists by a long metal chain, which in turn had been looped around the thickest of the three wood beams that ran across
the ceiling. The loop was kept in place by a small padlock. Alison’s arms were fully extended above her head. Her feet grazed the floor beneath them just enough to stop her body from moving
around.
There was so much blood on the floor directly under her body that, at first guess, Hunter would have said that she had bled to death. But what Hunter and Garcia knew had made the police officers
outside lose their lunch by the side of the building was the way in which she had bled out.
A horizontal incision, which crossed her body from side to side, had been made across her lower abdominal area. Once the incision had been made, her lower gastrointestinal tract, or small and
large intestines, had been removed from her abdominal cavity and left on the floor in front of her. But neither her small nor her large intestine had been completely severed from her body. They
were still attached at the highest point – the stomach.
‘The killer disemboweled her?’ Garcia asked disbelievingly, his eyes now moving to the large pool of blood on the floor.