Written in Blood

by Chris Carter

  ‘I’m not going out,’ Angela had told Shawn in a firm voice. ‘You can forget that idea.’

  ‘OK, so give me some money and I’ll go.’

  As they were leaving for work that morning, Angela’s mother had been very clear in her instructions.

  ‘It looks like we’re going to get a hell of a lot of rain today, Angie,’ she had said, as she frowned at the dark morning sky. ‘So whatever you do, don’t go out.’

  ‘Nope,’ Angela had told her brother. ‘Mom told me not to allow you to go out by yourself.’

  ‘Oh, c’mon, Angie, I’m not going to the skate park or anything. I’m going to the store to get some bread and jelly, that’s it. I’ll be back in ten minutes.’

  ‘You said fifteen a second ago.’

  ‘That was if you were coming. I walk and run faster than you.’

  ‘You wish.’

  ‘For real, Angie, I’ll be back in ten minutes. I just want to go get some food.’

  Angela knew her brother well. She knew that if she didn’t go to the store with him, or allow him to go by himself, he wouldn’t shut up. She would never be able to get to the end of the chapter she was on, and she was getting to the big reveal of the story.

  ‘C’mon, Angie. Please, please, please—’

  ‘Fine,’ Angela had blurted out with irritation. ‘But I’m not going with you. Here’s ten bucks, get some bread and some jelly . . . strawberry . . . and bring me back my change. And you better be back here in ten minutes, Shawn, you hear? Ten minutes.’

  ‘No sweat.’ He took the money before grabbing his coat. ‘Ten minutes and I’ll be back. You can time me.’

  ‘Oh, I will.’

  But Shawn never came back.

  Five weeks later, his mutilated body was found on the out-skirts of the city, by the banks of the Portneuf River.

  Despite all the efforts by the police, the Sheriff’s Department and the FBI, his killer had never been caught.

  Sixteen

  ‘The boy in the photo,’ Hunter asked. ‘He reminds you of your brother, doesn’t he?’

  The UVC Unit research team had added a newspaper clipping about Shawn Wood’s murder to the file they had compiled on Angela. The clipping – a five-year-old article taken from the Idaho State Journal – came with a portrait photograph of an eleven-year-old Shawn. Though the article did report on the discovery and identification of Shawn’s body, the newspaper had chosen not to publish any photos taken at the banks of the Portneuf River, for obvious reasons.

  The Polaroid on the table showed a boy who looked to be around sixteen – the same age that Shawn would’ve been if he were still alive. But the age match was not the only similarity. Both Shawn and the boy in the Polaroid had similar color hair, similar color eyes, similar skin tone and similar face shape.

  Angela’s reply to Hunter’s question was to look away. She found a neutral spot on the cement floor and focused her stare onto it. Her arms were still crossed over her chest.

  Hunter gave her a moment.

  ‘It wasn’t a trick, Angela,’ he finally said. ‘Our intentions really weren’t to bring you in. All we wanted was to talk to you.’

  Angela’s eyes didn’t leave the floor.

  ‘The book is real,’ Hunter informed her.

  That was the game changer. Angela’s frightened stare crawled back to Hunter, but this time it brought something else with it – a question that she didn’t seem to have the strength to ask.

  Hunter picked up on it. ‘Yes,’ he said with a nod. ‘The murders described in those pages . . . they’re all real. The people in those photographs . . .’ His gaze moved to the photo on the table for just an instant before resettling on Angela. ‘They’re all gone.’

  Tears welled up in Angela’s eyes.

  It was time to strike.

  Neither Hunter nor Garcia liked resorting to cheap tricks to get a person to talk, but certain tricks, when done properly, tended to bypass several hurdles at once. Given the head-start that this killer already had on them, both detectives were prepared to do what was necessary.

  ‘The truth is,’ Hunter began, ‘we don’t really believe that you are directly linked to that book, or any of those murders.’

  He saw Angela flinch at his words, which indicated that she had picked up on his slight emphasis of the word ‘directly’. If Hunter got it right, in her mind, that would be translated into – ‘but we still believe that you are somehow linked to it’.

  ‘The problem is,’ Garcia said, taking over, ‘what we believe doesn’t really matter. What matters is what can be proved and right now, the only thing that we can prove is that the fingerprints found on this photo belong to you.’ He paused for effect. ‘The other fact that really isn’t helping your case here is that you ran. Guilty people tend to run.’ Another pause. This one, a little longer. ‘But we’re not unreasonable people. We’ve heard you when you told us that you weren’t the one who took this picture, nor were you present at the time. We want to believe you, Angela, we really do, but you need to help us get there. You need to give us something.’

  ‘If what you’re saying is true,’ Hunter jumped in, ‘then it can only mean that at some point, probably very recently, you came into contact with the owner of that book, and if you did, you need to tell us.’

  It didn’t take an expert to see the mental turmoil that Angela was going through.

  Garcia was the one who delivered the final blow.

  ‘Is he, or was he, your boyfriend? Is that the connection you have with him?’

  ‘What? No,’ Angela cried out, her voice unsteady. ‘I don’t have a connection with him.’

  ‘But you know who he is.’ Garcia phrased it as a statement rather than a question.

  ‘No, I have no idea who he is.’ Her voice was rough with unshed tears. ‘I don’t. That’s the truth.’

  Angie, both Angelas whispered in her ear. For the love of Christ, stop talking right now. Ask for your phone call, call a lawyer and don’t say another word until they get here.

  Angela took a moment to compose herself. ‘I think I really need to call a lawyer now, if you don’t mind.’

  Hunter had been observing Angela all along. Once he had read her file, he began piecing together a possible scenario of what might’ve happened – how her prints got onto that one photo but none of the others. Now, after watching her reactions to what they were throwing at her, that scenario began making a lot of sense. All he needed was to fill in a few blanks.

  ‘Is that because you need to take the Fifth?’ Hunter asked.

  The Fifth Amendment to the constitution of the United States of America contained several provisions relating to criminal law, including the one made famous by so many celebrities and Hollywood films, which was the right to refuse to answer any questions in order to avoid incriminating oneself.

  Angela locked eyes with Hunter once again. ‘Not for the reasons that you’re probably thinking.’

  ‘Would you like me to tell you what I’m thinking?’

  No reply.

  Time to put the theory to the test, Hunter thought.

  ‘The reason why we were able to match your fingerprints to the ones lifted from this photo,’ he began, his tone of voice non-aggressive and nonjudgmental, ‘is because your prints are on file. The reason why they are on file, is because you’ve been arrested before.’ He lifted the dossier he had in his hands to emphasize his point. ‘Pickpocketing. That was three years ago.’ It was Hunter’s turn to pause and fix Angela down with a firm stare. ‘Sure, you might’ve gone straight since then, but the one thousand dollars in cash that we found inside your backpack, together with your attempt to run when we knocked at your door, and now your desire to take the fifth – according to you, not for the most obvious reasons – tells me that pickpocketing still plays a pretty big part in your life.’

  Angela looked away from Hunter’s stare.

  ‘So this is my theory,’ Hunter continued. ‘The reason why you came across that
book and this photo is because without really knowing what you were doing, you stole it from the owner, didn’t you?’

  Angela stayed silent, but Hunter knew that he was on the right path.

  ‘The reason why we’ve got that book now,’ he carried on. ‘It’s because the boy in this photo reminded you of Shawn, didn’t he? And that prompted you to do the right thing and get it to the authorities.’ He gave her a couple of seconds. ‘So how am I doing so far?’

  Angela didn’t look up, but Hunter saw a muscle tighten around her jaw. He could tell that he was starting to win her over. He reached for his credentials and placed them on the table.

  ‘Detective Garcia and I are with Homicide Special. We’re part of a specialized unit called the Ultra Violent Crimes Unit.’ He indicated his credentials. ‘What I’m trying to tell you here, Angela, is that we don’t care about the “stealing” part. We’re not here to arrest you for pickpocketing. You have my word on that.’

  Angela slowly shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

  ‘Earlier,’ Hunter said, ‘you mentioned the fact that there was no move from either of us to record this interview. That’s because the truth is, we’ve never believed you were a suspect.’ He shook his head. ‘It takes a special kind of person, a special kind of evil, to be able to do any of the things described in that book. And you’re not it, Angela. Trust me. We’ve met those kinds of people before.’

  Angela finally sat back down, reached for the water on the table and took a healthy sip. Just like back at her apartment, she sensed sincerity in the words coming from the detective in front of her.

  ‘I’m not sure how much of that journal you read before you decided to place it in Dr. Slater’s mailbox,’ Hunter pushed. ‘But whoever wrote those entries won’t stop just because he had his diary stolen. That’s not how his brain works.’

  Angela fidgeted. She was getting jittery, a clear sign that her defenses had been breached. With that, Garcia decided that it was time to appeal to the emotional and painful memories that he was sure Angela carried with her like heavy luggage.

  ‘This guy is going to keep on killing, Angela,’ he said. ‘He’s going to keep on abducting people . . . some of them young boys, just like your brother, Shawn.’

  Angela closed her eyes, as tears began running down her cheeks.

  ‘He’s going to carry on doing whatever he pleases with them, before murdering them and dumping their bodies somewhere isolated. And that’s why we need your help, Angela . . . because you’ve met him. You know who he is.’

  Angela’s eyes shot open again.

  ‘No, I don’t.’ The words flew out of her lips. ‘I have no idea who he is.’ She turned and addressed Hunter. ‘Whatever I tell you here, you promise that it won’t be used to incriminate me?’

  ‘I promise.’ Hunter replied. ‘You have my word.’

  Visibly more nervous now, Angela breathed in deeply. ‘Your theory is pretty much on the money,’ she told Hunter. ‘Yes, I stole a bag from someone, which contained that book. I didn’t know what I was stealing, and the worst of it all is that I didn’t even steal it for profit. I did it to teach the guy a lesson.’

  Both Hunter and Garcia frowned at that comment, but neither interrupted her.

  ‘And yes,’ she continued, ‘the boy in this photo resembles my brother, but you’re wrong if you think that I needed this to remind me of Shawn.’ She nodded at the photo on the table. ‘I think about him every – single – day.’

  Tears returned to her eyes.

  ‘You stole the bag to teach the guy a lesson?’ Garcia finally asked. ‘How so?’

  Angela wiped the tears from her eyes before finishing her glass of water.

  ‘Well, now that you’ve started,’ the Angelas whispered in her ear. ‘You might as well tell them everything.’

  Seventeen

  Angela gave Hunter and Garcia a short description of the events that had taken place that Saturday evening. The emphasis, of course, was on what had happened inside the Rendition Room cocktail bar and how she came to be in possession of that diary.

  Hunter and Garcia listened without interrupting. When she was done, Hunter was the first to put a question forward.

  ‘So you never got to see his face?’

  ‘Not really,’ Angela replied. ‘His back was toward me and he had a hood pulled over his head. Even as he was being a dick . . .’ She paused and lifted her hand, indicating that she was sorry for her choice of words. ‘Even as he was being rude toward the older man, he didn’t lift his head or break eye contact with his phone. He spoke sort of sideways and over his shoulder, like this.’ Angela demonstrated by slightly turning her head to the right. ‘From where I was, there was no way I could see his face.’

  ‘How about height, or body shape? Age bracket? Anything distinctive?’

  ‘He was about your height,’ Angela said, nodding at Hunter. ‘And just as strong too. Maybe even a little more.’

  ‘By “as strong”,’ Garcia jumped in, ‘do you mean well built or big?’

  ‘He definitely wasn’t fat, if that’s what you’re asking,’ Angela said. ‘Even from the back and with a hoodie on I could tell that he was in good shape . . . muscly, not fat. Age wise . . .’ She shrugged as she thought about it. ‘I would say that he was in his late thirties or very early forties, no older.’

  ‘How about his voice?’ Hunter again. ‘Anything that stood out, like an accent or something?’

  ‘I didn’t pick up on one, but then again, there was music playing and I wasn’t paying full attention to it, but his tone was powerful . . . strong, you know? As if he was used to talking to people that way, like giving them orders or something.’

  ‘I’d like to go back to something you mentioned earlier,’ Garcia said. ‘You said that you went into the Rendition Room because you wanted to check the wallets you had picked that night, is that right?’

  Angela nodded, defiantly. ‘I don’t get greedy anymore. I boost two, maybe three wallets max before checking them for cash and credit cards. If I’ve made enough, I call it a day. If not, I’ll dispose of the wallets before going back for a second round. If the wallet contains only cash and credit cards, I keep those and throw the wallet in the trash. If the wallet contains any personal documents, like driver’s license, work credentials, ID cards, whatever, I mail them back to their owners.’

  That made both detectives frown.

  ‘You mail them back?’ Hunter asked.

  Angela scratched the back of her head. ‘Look, I know the kind of headache that replacing personal documents can be. Most replacements will cost money too. I’ve already taken that person’s money and credit cards. There’s no need for me to also kick them while they’re down, right?’

  Garcia chuckled while looking at Hunter. ‘What do you know? A thief with morals.’

  ‘I’m assuming there were no personal documents inside this bag you mentioned,’ Hunter said.

  ‘No, nothing, just that book.’

  ‘Please tell me that you still have the bag,’ Garcia said, leaning forward and placing his elbows on the table.

  Angela looked away.

  ‘Really? What did you do with it?’

  ‘I threw it away.’

  ‘You’ve got to be joking.’ Garcia’s hand moved to his forehead. ‘That bag probably contained fingerprints, DNA, fibers . . . everything.’

  Angela glared at Garcia. ‘What did you want me to do with it, keep it? It’s not like I was expecting you guys to come knocking on my door looking for evidence. Do you think that I left my prints on this photo on purpose? You’re lucky that I even decided to post that book. I could’ve very easily thrown everything away and be done with it.’

  ‘Oh yes, I forgot,’ Garcia came back. ‘A thief with morals.’

  ‘Was there anything else inside the bag?’ Hunter asked, interrupting the argument.

  ‘No, nothing else. Just the book.’

  ‘Maybe we can still retrieve the bag,’ Garcia
said, not wanting to give up. ‘When and where did you throw it away?’

  ‘You can’t,’ Angela replied. ‘It’s gone.’

  ‘Why? What did you really do with it?’

  ‘I threw it away, but garbage collection day on my street is Monday morning – yesterday. I watched as they emptied the building dumpsters into the garbage truck and crushed everything. The bag is gone, trust me.’

  Garcia didn’t look too convinced by Angela’s story.

  ‘Wait a second,’ he said. ‘You told us that you mail the wallets back to their owners, right? But the journal wasn’t mailed to Dr. Slater.’ He looked at Hunter as if he had figured out the flaw in Angela’s story. ‘It was hand-delivered.’

  ‘Yeah, so?’

  ‘So, question one – how did you know where she lived or who she was? Two – why deliver it to a forensics doctor when you could’ve sent it directly to the LAPD?’

  Angela went quiet again.

  ‘You’re lying, aren’t you?’ Garcia challenged. ‘Your entire story is one huge pile of bullshit.’

  Angela looked like she was trying to figure out what to say.

  ‘Do you know what I think?’ Garcia continued, his voice calm. ‘I think that you know very well who the owner of that diary is. I think that you used to be his girlfriend, or lover, or whatever you want to call it. I think that he got tired of you and probably left you high and dry . . . maybe swapped you for someone else and that really pissed you off, so as an act of revenge, you stole his diary and came up with this bogus story.’

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ Angela said in disbelief.

  ‘Oh, I’m very serious. And I wouldn’t be surprised if you helped him with some, if not all of the murders in that journal.’

  ‘Are you crazy?’ Angela’s scared eyes flipped to Hunter. ‘Is he crazy?’

  ‘My version makes a lot more sense than yours,’ Garcia countered.

  ‘Your version is delusional,’ Angela refuted. ‘You know I don’t even have to be here.’

  ‘Really? So prove me wrong. How did you know where Dr. Susan Slater lived, or even who she is? And why did you deliver the journal to her mailbox when you could’ve sent it directly to the LAPD or even the FBI?’