Hunter had always been different. Even as a child he could solve puzzles and work out problems faster than most adults. It was like his brain was able to fast-track just about anything. In school, his teachers had no doubt he wasn’t like most students. At the age of twelve, after being put through a series of exams and tests suggested by Doctor Tilby, Hunter’s school psychologist, he was accepted into the Mirman School for the Gifted as an eighth-grader, two years ahead of the usual age of fourteen.
Mirman’s special curriculum didn’t slow Hunter down. Before the age of fifteen, he had glided through their entire program, condensing four years of high school into two. With recommendations from all his teachers, and a special mention from Mirman’s principal, he was accepted as a ‘special circumstances’ student at Stanford University. Hunter decided to study psychology. By then his insomnia and nightmares were relatively under control.
In college, his grades were just as impressive, and Hunter received his PhD in Criminal Behavior Analysis and Biopsychology just before his twenty-third birthday. The head of the psychology department at Stanford University, Doctor Timothy Healy, made it clear that if Hunter ever showed interest in a teaching position, there would always be a place on his staff for him. Hunter respectfully declined, but said that he would keep it in mind. Doctor Healy was also the one who forwarded Hunter’s PhD thesis paper entitled
An Advanced Psychological Study in Criminal Conduct
to the head of the FBI National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime. To this day, Hunter’s paper was still mandatory reading at the NCAVC and at its Behavioral Analysis Unit.
Two weeks after receiving his PhD, Hunter’s world was rocked for the second time. His father, who at the time was working as a security guard for a branch of the Bank of America in downtown Los Angeles, was gunned down during a robbery that had escalated into a Wild West shoot-out. Hunter’s nightmares and insomnia came back with a vengeance, and they had never left him since.
Hunter finished his coffee and placed the cup down on the window ledge.
It didn’t matter how tightly he closed his eyes or ground his fists against them, he couldn’t shut down the images that had been eating away at him since yesterday afternoon. It was like he’d memorized every second of the footage, and someone had turned on the
endless loop
switch inside his head. Questions were being lobbed at him from every corner of his mind, and so far he hadn’t come up with a single answer. Some of them bothered him more than others.
‘Why the torture?’ he whispered to himself now. He understood very well that it took a certain type of individual to be able to torture another human being before killing him or her. It might sound simple but, when the time comes, very few were ever able to go through with it. One needed a level of detachment from regular human emotions that few can achieve. The ones who can are referred to by psychologists and psychiatrists as
psychopaths.
Psychopaths show no empathy, or remorse, or love, or any other emotion associated with caring for someone else. Sometimes their lack of feelings can be so severe that they will display none toward even themselves.
The second fact that was digging around in Hunter’s mind like a bulldozer was the
choice game.
Why did the killer go through the tremendous trouble of creating a torture chamber capable of two horrific deaths – either by fire or water? And why call him on the phone, or anyone else for that matter, and ask them to make that choice?
It wasn’t uncommon for a murderer, even a psychopath, to doubt his decision to kill someone right at the last minute, but that didn’t seem to have been an issue with this killer. He had no doubt the victim would die; he just couldn’t make up his mind on which was worse – burned to death or drowned. Two opposites of sorts. Two of the most feared ways a person could die. But the more Hunter thought about it, the more stupid he felt. He was sure he had been tricked.
He knew that there was no way the caller had that amount of sodium hydroxide sitting around for no reason at all. It had all been part of the game. He had said so himself. He was expecting Hunter to pick water instead of fire, for all the exact reasons he had mentioned over the phone – it was a kinder, less sadistic and faster way of ending the victim’s suffering. But water would’ve also preserved the state of the body, and in case they came across it anytime soon, a forensics team would have a much better chance of finding a clue, if one was to be found. Fire, on the other hand, would’ve simply destroyed everything.
Hunter ground his teeth in anger and tried in vain to fight the guilt that was nibbling away at his brain. There was no doubt in his mind that the caller had played him. And Hunter hated himself for not foreseeing it.
The ringtone from Hunter’s cellphone dragged him away from his thoughts. He blinked a couple of times as if waking up from a bad dream and looked around the dark room. The cellphone was on the old and scratched wooden dining table that doubled up as a desk. It rattled against the table-top one more time before Hunter got to it. The call display window told him it was Garcia. Reflexively Hunter checked his watch before answering it – 5:04 a.m. Whatever it was, Hunter knew it wouldn’t be good news.
‘Carlos, what’s up?’
‘We’ve got the body.’
Eleven
At five forty-three in the morning the back alley in Mission Hills, San Fernando Valley, would’ve still been cloaked in darkness, if not for the flashing blue lights of three squad cars and a pedestal-mounted power light from the forensics team.
Hunter parked his old Buick LeSabre by the single lamppost at the entrance to the alleyway. He stepped out of the car and stretched his six-foot frame against the morning wind. Garcia’s metallic-blue Honda Civic was parked across the road. Hunter took a moment to look around before entering the back alley. The lamppost’s old bulb was yellow and weak. At night, if you weren’t looking for it, it would’ve been very easy to miss the alleyway. It was located behind a quiet road of small shops, away from the main streets.
Hunter zipped up his leather jacket and slowly started down the alleyway. He flashed his badge at the young officer standing by the yellow crime-scene tape before ducking under it. He saw light fixtures above some of the shops’ back doors, but none was on. There were a few plastic and paper bags scattered around, a few empty beer and soda cans, but other than that the back street was tidier than most he’d seen in downtown LA. The second half of the alleyway was lined with big metal dumpsters, four in total. Garcia, two forensics agents and three uniformed officers were gathered just past the third dumpster. At the end of the alleyway a bedraggled, dirt-strewn black man of indistinct age, whose wiry hair seemed to explode from his head in all directions, was sitting on a concrete step. He seemed to be mumbling something to himself. Another police officer was standing a few feet to his right, one hand cupped over his nose, as if protecting himself from a violating smell. There were no CCTV cameras anywhere.
‘Robert,’ Garcia said as he spotted his partner walking toward him.
‘What time did you get here?’ Hunter said, noticing his partner’s strawberry-pink-rimmed eyes.
‘Less than ten minutes ago, but I was awake when I got the call anyway.’
Hunter’s eyebrows arched.
‘I had zero sleep,’ Garcia explained and pointed to his head. ‘It’s like I’ve got a cinema in here. Now, guess which movie has been playing on my screen all night.’
Hunter said nothing. He was already looking past Garcia’s shoulder to the commotion around the third dumpster.
‘It’s our victim,’ Garcia said. ‘No doubt about it.’
Hunter stepped closer. The three officers nodded ‘good morning’, but no one said a word.
Mike Brindle, the forensics agent in charge, was kneeling down by the dumpster, collecting something from the ground with a tiny pair of tweezers. He paused and stood up when he saw Hunter.
‘Robert,’ he said with a nod. They’d worked together on more cases than they could remember.
Hunter returned the gesture, but his focus was on the naked male body on the ground. He was lying on his back, between the third and fourth dumpsters. His legs were stretched out. His right arm was by the side of the body, bent at the elbow. The left one was resting casually on his stomach.
Hunter felt his throat constrict a little as he looked at the man’s face.
There was none – no nose, no lips, no eyes. Even his teeth seemed to have rotted and corroded away. The eyeballs were still in their sockets, but they looked like punctured, half-f, silicone bags. In fact, the skin around his whole body seemed to have been sandpapered away. But the exposed flesh didn’t look red-raw. It had a pink-gray tone to it. Though shocking, it didn’t surprise Hunter that much. The alkaline bath had, in a way, cooked his flesh.
Hunter stepped a little closer.
The body had no fingernails or toenails left.
Despite the total disfigurement, Hunter had little doubt it was the same man they’d seen yesterday on their computer screens. When the man had finally died, his lifeless head fell forward, submerging his face into the alkaline mixture, but not his entire head. His short brown hair was almost intact.
‘He’s been dead for several hours,’ Brindle said. ‘The body is in full rigor mortis.’
‘Three twenty-six yesterday afternoon,’ Hunter said.
Brindle frowned at him.
‘He died at three twenty-six yesterday afternoon,’ Hunter repeated.
‘Do you know him?’
‘Not exactly.’ Hunter looked up. The three police officers nearby had moved back to the crime-scene tape. Hunter quickly gave Brindle a summary of what had happened the day before.
‘Jesus,’ Brindle said when Hunter was done. ‘That would explain the grotesque disfigurement to the body, and the odd change of color to his flesh.’ He shook his head, still shocked by what Hunter had just told him. ‘So you were not only made to watch, but he forced you to choose the death method as well?’
Hunter nodded in silence.
‘And you have the whole thing digitally recorded?’
‘Yes.’
With heavy eyes, Brindle looked down at the tortured body again. ‘I don’t understand this city, or the people in it anymore, Robert.’
‘I don’t think any of us do,’ Hunter replied.
‘How can anyone make sense of something like this?’
Hunter kneeled down to better examine the body. With the strong forensic light, every detail was visible. The smell was already crossing the line into putrid meat territory. Hunter used his left hand to cover his nose. He noticed little dents on the man’s feet, legs and arms. ‘What are these?’
‘Rat bites,’ Brindle said. ‘We had to scare a few off the body when we got here. There’s quite a bit of food in these dumpsters. This back alley services a bakery, a butcher’s shop and a small coffee shop stroke diner.’
Hunter nodded.
‘We’re going to sieve through most of the trash inside all four dumpsters in case the killer decided to discard something around here,’ Brindle said. ‘But after the story you told me, he doesn’t sound like he would be that careless.’
Hunter nodded again. His gaze moved over to the black man at the end of the alley. He was dressed in ripped and stained clothes, and wearing an old, colorless long coat that looked to have survived an attack from a pack of hungry wolves.
‘His name is Keon Lewis,’ Brindle offered. ‘He’s the one who found the body.’
Hunter stood up, ready to go ask some questions.
‘Good luck with that,’ Brindle said. ‘You know how homeless people love talking to the cops.’
Twelve
Keon Lewis was still sitting on the concrete step at the far end of the alleyway. He was about six foot four and stick-thin. His raggedy black beard seemed to be irritating his face no end. He would scratch it vigorously every few seconds. He had grimy, broken fingernails packed with dirt. His hands were scarred and blistered. One of them had a cut that seemed infected, the skin tender and swollen around a deep maroon scab. His eyes would gaze back at the scene every so often, but he would quickly pull them away and stare down at the ground or at his hands.
Hunter approached Keon and the officer standing by his side. Keon looked up, but again quickly averted his gaze. He rubbed his hands together like a cook seasoning a dish.
His lips were dry and cracked, and he kept on blinking as if he were wearing old, dry contact lenses. The physical signs all pointed to crystal meth addiction. He could’ve been in his thirties, forties, fifties or early twenties. Hunter doubted Keon knew himself.
‘Keon?’ Hunter said. ‘I’m Detective Robert Hunter with the Homicide Division.’
Keon gave him a tense nod but still kept his eyes low.
The officer stepped away, giving Hunter and Keon some privacy.
‘Listen,’ Hunter said in a calm, non-patronizing voice. ‘There’s no need for you to be nervous. No one is here to hassle you, I promise. Unfortunately you were unlucky enough to find the body of a homicide victim. My job is to ask you a few questions, that’s all. After that, you’re free to go.’
Keon scratched his beard again.
Hunter could tell that his face had once been kind and attractive, but drug abuse, alcohol and a life lived well below the poverty line had transformed it into something very different.
‘OK if I sit down?’
Keon scooted over to the edge of the step. His clothes stank of stale sweat and garbage.
Hunter sat down and let out a deep breath. ‘This is some messed-up stuff, isn’t it?’
‘Shiiit, man, that is real fucked up.’ His voice croaked as if he had a sore throat. ‘What the fuck happen to him, man? Someone skinned him?’
‘You really don’t want to know,’ Hunter said.
Keon picked at the loose skin at the back of his hand, twisting it painfully, as if trying to tear it off before going quiet for a moment. ‘Say, man, you don’t have a smoke, do you? I’m shaking like a bitch.’
‘I’ll get you one.’ Hunter motioned the officer to come closer and whispered something in his ear. The officer nodded and took off toward the other end of the alleyway.