‘Everything OK in there?’ Garcia called from the door, startling Hunter.
‘Yeah, yeah. Gimme a minute.’
Turning one of the frames over, Hunter slowly lifted the four security clips that held its back in place. All of a sudden he felt cold. As if someone had opened a window in the room, allowing a chilling draft in. He looked up, his eyes and flashlight searching the room – nothing but the putrid smell of death.
‘Carlos, are you still out there,’ he called firmly.
‘Yeah, what’s up?’ He coughed a couple of times before poking his head through the door.
‘Nothing. Just keep an eye out.’
Something in Hunter’s voice worried Garcia and his hand instinctively moved towards his gun. He pointed his flashlight down the eerie corridor and listened attentively for a long moment – nothing.
Hunter returned his attention to the picture frame. Carefully, he pulled the back cover of the first one apart. As it came unattached, his eyes rested on the underside of the photograph.
‘Oh fuck!’
Hunter closed his eyes for a moment as adrenalin rushed through him.
He put the first frame down and quickly reached for the second one and repeated the process of lifting the security clips. Even though he was certain of what he’d find, Hunter held his breath as he slowly pulled the back cover apart.
‘Sonofabitch.’
‘Everything alright in there, Robert?’ Garcia called, concerned. ‘Have you found the pictures?’
Hunter slowly searched the dark room again. A luxurious room, now forever tainted with evil. The sickening smell was starting to burn at his nostrils and cause havoc in his stomach. He needed to get out of there.
‘Did you find anything?’ Garcia asked as Hunter stepped out of the room.
‘Yeah, I’ll show you outside,’ Hunter replied, pulling his shirt from over his nose and mouth. ‘I need to get some fresh air.’
‘Amen to that.’
Outside, Hunter faced Garcia. ‘I found these.’ He handed his partner both photographs. ‘Those are the photos that were in the picture frames Dan Tyler said shouldn’t be here.’
Garcia studied them carefully for a moment. ‘Who are they?’ He shook his head.
Hunter took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘Take a look at the back.’
Garcia turned them over and his pulse surged under the skin of his neck. ‘You’re shitting me.’
‘Apparently not.’
Garcia stared at the photos again. Their faces now taking on a whole new meaning.
It was late by the time they left Malibu. Hunter checked in with Hopkins and told him to meet them at Footsie’s in North Figueroa Street.
Take all the snobbish fakery out of most Los Angeles bars and you might be left with Footsie’s. Just a small, cozy drinking joint with a few pool tables, a comfortable lounge with half-circle red leather booths, a jukebox playing classic rock and a friendly and relaxed atmosphere. Footsie’s was one of Hunter’s favorite drinking spots.
Hopkins was already there, nursing a single shot of Jack Daniel’s when Hunter and Garcia arrived. ‘What can I get you guys?’ he offered.
‘It’s OK.’ Hunter gave him a subtle nod. ‘I’ll get these, Ian.’
‘I’ll have whatever you’re having, as long as it’s single malt,’ Garcia said. ‘I’ll be right back.’ He pointed to the men’s restroom door.
A booth emptied at the back of the bar and Hunter told Hopkins to grab it before someone else did.
He ordered two single shots of Laphroaig with a cube of ice each. The person standing next to him at the bar was reading through a copy of the
LA Daily News
, and as he flipped a page something caught Hunter’s attention. The headline on the small article read
SLASHER CLAIMS SECOND VICTIM
. Hunter craned his neck awkwardly and skimmed through the article before the man flipped the page again. A second prostitute had been found dead inside a squalid room in South Gate. Her hands had been tied together in front of her, her fingers interlaced in a prayer position. Just as the first victim a few days ago, she was found naked, on her knees with her throat cut open. The press had already nicknamed the killer the Slasher. ‘
This city’s out of control
,’ Hunter thought as he took his drinks and joined Garcia and Hopkins at their booth.
‘Are you guys OK?’ Hopkins asked with concern, noticing a heavy air about both detectives.
Hunter had a sip of his Laphroaig and swirled it around in his mouth until its strong alcohol started to burn the edges of his tongue. He placed four evidence bags on the table. The first two containing the disassembled picture frames, the other two the photographs. Hopkins’s brow lifted and Hunter explained about their meeting with Dan Tyler and why they went back to check the misplaced pictures.
‘So who are these two?’ he asked skeptically.
Garcia reached for the evidence bags with the photographs and turned them over. Hopkins’s eyes widened and he let out an excited gasp. On the back of the man’s photograph, written in blood and about six inches long, was the number one. On the back of the smiling woman’s, the number two.
Hopkins kept his eyes on the photographs for a while, his jaw half open. ‘I don’t get it.’ He locked eyes with Hunter. ‘Why would the killer do this? I mean, why would he leave the pictures of the first two victims on the fireplace? Obviously, he knew that sooner or later we’d find them.’
Hunter sat back and ran his fingertips over his whiskey tumbler rim. ‘He wants to make sure we know these two victims are his. He doesn’t want their murders attributed to someone else. He’s a proud killer.’
Hopkins twisted uncomfortably in his seat. The world of the evilly sick was going way over his head.
‘So where are these two victims?’ he asked after a moment’s silence. ‘And if they’d been numbered like Father Fabian and Amanda Reilly, why don’t we know about them?’
Hunter had another long, slow sip of his Scotch. ‘Why do you think?’
Hopkins’s eyes reverted back to the photos on the table. Hunter could almost hear him thinking. ‘Maybe the numbering thing is something the killer only started doing after victim number two,’ Hopkins offered tentatively.
‘Go on,’ Hunter urged him.
‘Of course he couldn’t go back and number the first two bodies. This is the best he could do, given the circumstances.’
‘Why would the killer only start numbering from victim number three on?’ Garcia asked.
‘I’m not sure.’ Hopkins gave him a slight shrug. ‘Maybe he never thought of it at first. Maybe he expected the police to realize the first two victims were killed by the same person, and that never happened.’
‘It’s a good theory,’ Hunter said, giving Hopkins an approving nod.
‘Yeah, but I don’t buy it,’ Garcia said, shaking his head. ‘We know this killer is extremely organized and methodical. He plans his kills to the very last detail, leaving nothing to chance. He’s proven that with Father Fabian and Amanda Reilly.’
‘That’s right.’ Hunter nodded.
‘Such an organized killer wouldn’t change his plan halfway down the line. I’d say he’s been numbering them from the word go.’
‘OK,’ Hunter agreed. ‘So going back to the question, where are these two victims? And why don’t we know about them?’
‘Maybe we just haven’t found them yet,’ Garcia ventured, leaning forward. ‘The order in which they were killed isn’t necessarily the order in which they’ll be found. Maybe they’re still missing, locked inside a car trunk somewhere or in a ditch up in the mountains.’
‘That’s possible,’ Hunter agreed, stretching his neck. ‘There’s just one thing that bothers me about that theory. The killer made no effort to hide the bodies of victims three and four. They were found the day after they were killed. So why would he hide the bodies of victims one and two in a car trunk or up in the mountains somewhere? It doesn’t go with his MO. He wants us to know about them.’
‘That’s why he left the pictures on the fireplace.’ Hopkins half stated it, half questioned.
‘Exactly,’ Hunter confirmed. ‘He wants to be credited with their murder.’
They all went silent for a few seconds.
‘What do you think, Robert?’ Hopkins asked eagerly. ‘Why don’t we have victims one and two yet?’
Hunter watched a long-legged brunette approach the jukebox on the corner, slide a few quarters into it and make a selection. An old Skid Row song started playing.
‘I think you hit on a very good point in your theory,’ Hunter said to Hopkins.
‘Which point was that?’ he asked, intrigued.
‘The fact that the killer couldn’t go back to the bodies. That’s why he used the photos. The bodies have already been found.’
Garcia and Hopkins exchanged a quick, uneasy look. Skid Row was still blasting through the speakers at Footsie’s.
‘If the bodies have been found, what happened to the numbers?’ Garcia tapped the evidence bags with his index finger.
Hunter pointed to the picture of the first victim and the number one on its back. ‘Have a look at the way the killer wrote this number. Anything peculiar?’
Garcia and Hopkins studied it for a moment.
‘It’s very simplistic,’ Garcia admitted. ‘There’s no horizontal base line or anything. This is really nothing more than a single vertical line.’
‘Holy shit!’ Hopkins exclaimed. ‘He’s right. On a body this would’ve looked like a simple splash of blood. Anyone could’ve missed it.’
‘OK, that might explain number one,’ Garcia said, dragging the next picture to the center of the table. ‘How about number two?’
Hunter shook his head as if anything was possible. ‘Maybe the number washed off.’
‘What?’ Garcia and Hopkins asked in unison.
The brunette returned to the jukebox and this time her stare lingered on Hunter for several seconds before she followed it with a sparkling smile. Bon Jovi started playing.
‘The killer doesn’t carve the numbers onto the victims; he uses blood to draw them.’ Hunter explained, leaning forward. ‘What if victim two was left in a humid or unsheltered place, like the woods? What if something happened after he left the body that smudged the number?’
Garcia and Hopkins looked thoughtful.
‘Rain would’ve easily washed the number off, or at least enough for it to be unrecognizable,’ Hopkins admitted.
‘And it’s been raining a hell of a lot lately,’ Garcia noted.
Hunter checked his watch. ‘I’ll get this to forensics and get you digital copies of the photos,’ he said to Hopkins. ‘I want you to run a search against the Missing Persons and the Homicide databases.’
‘Damn!’ Hopkins slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. ‘That reminds me. You were right on the money when you suggested starting the missing person’s search for the Monica girl with Pennsylvania.’ He handed Hunter a black and white photograph printout. ‘This is what I got from the Pennsylvania Missing Persons archive.’
Hunter and Garcia analyzed the photo for just a few seconds.
‘Wow,’ Garcia said. ‘With the exception of her hair and that scar on her lips, she hasn’t changed much at all. Unless she’s got an identical twin.’
‘Not the case here,’ Hopkins confirmed, handing them a new sheet of paper.
The girl on the photo was Mollie Woods, born on Christmas Day, seventeen years ago in Huntingdon County, Pennsylvania. She’s been missing for almost four years. Her father, John Woods, reported her missing two days after her mother was run over by a drunk driver. She died instantly. John Woods moved from Huntingdon County to York, still in Pennsylvania, shortly after his wife’s death.
‘I haven’t tried to contact her father yet,’ Hopkins said as Hunter finished reading the report.
‘Don’t. At least not yet,’ he agreed.
Garcia looked concerned. ‘Don’t you think we should? He’s probably worried sick about his daughter. It’s been almost four years.’
‘There’s a reason why she ran away from home.’ Hunter gave Garcia a quick head shake. ‘She’s seventeen. If she wanted to get in touch with her father, she would’ve done it herself. In the interrogation room, I got a feeling she was really scared of something. And it wasn’t just her visions.’
The LACDC’s official public opening time is 8:00 a.m. Monday to Friday, but Hunter had no intention of waiting until then. Knowing that he was an early riser, Hunter rang Mike Brindle at around a quarter to seven. The forensics agent was already on his way to the coroner’s, and Hunter met him by the staff entry door at 7:00 a.m. Brindle was surprised by Hunter’s discovery of the two photographs, but he couldn’t hide his disappointment for his team not having found them.
Brindle told Hunter they’d already had a few results from the house in Malibu. The partial print they’d found in one of the rooms upstairs had yielded no matches against the National Fingerprint Database so far. The fibers retrieved from the vacuum cleaner found in the mansion’s utility room were too common to really give them any sort of lead. Dental records confirmed that the skull found in the fireplace belonged to Father Fabian, but the blood used to draw the number four on Amanda Reilly’s back, unlike the blood used on the priest, didn’t come from a pregnant woman.