by Chris Carter
‘It came in a FedEx envelope. The address is bogus. It’s a boarded-up grocery store.’
Bailey’s left eyebrow rose inquisitively.
‘Do you still have it? The envelope, I mean?’
‘Yes, of course. I’ll go get it.’ Grace began backing away from Bailey.
‘Grace, wait,’ Bailey called again. ‘Do we have latex gloves anywhere in the office?’
‘Umm . . .’ Her eyes narrowed as she looked back at him. ‘Not in the office, I don’t think so.’ She hesitated a second. ‘But maintenance will have them. Their personnel all wear them.’
‘Call them and get them to bring us a couple of pairs ASAP.’
‘Right away, sir.’
‘Also,’ Bailey stopped her again, ‘do we have some sort of sealable plastic bags? Something we keep documents in?’
Grace thought for a moment. ‘I’ve got a box of sandwich bags in my drawer. They’ve got zip seals.’
‘They’ll do. Bring them over.’
Grace nodded and quickly walked out of the office. A few minutes later she returned with the FedEx wrapper, a box of latex gloves and a box of plastic see-through sandwich bags. She handed everything to Bailey, who immediately slipped a pair of gloves on before checking the sender’s information at the back of the FedEx envelope.
‘Tyler Jordan?’ he whispered to himself, frowning.
‘I checked it against your address book,’ Grace explained. ‘But there was no match, that’s why I proceeded to open the package.’
Bailey was sure that the sender’s name and address would be bogus, but he would still have it verified.
‘Have you shown this to anyone else?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘So other than you, no one else has touched this picture?’
‘That’s correct,’ Grace replied with an anxious nod.
Bailey doubted that whoever had sent him the package had been stupid enough to leave fingerprints anywhere but, again, he needed to make sure. He retrieved a couple of sandwich bags from the box and placed the photo and the FedEx wrapper inside them.
‘There’s still a note inside, Richard,’ Grace reminded Bailey, nodding at the envelope on his desk.
He had been so taken aback by the photograph and the desperate look on the woman’s face that he had forgotten all about the note Grace had mentioned earlier. He took the envelope, tipped it over and allowed the piece of paper to slide out on to his hand.
Grace held her breath.
Bailey unfolded the note and his eyes stayed on the script for several seconds, the words barely making any sense to him until he got to the last couple of sentences. That was when his whole demeanor changed.
If Grace hadn’t known better, she would’ve sworn that what had consumed the Mayor of Los Angeles had been fear.
For the briefest of moments, Bailey seemed paralyzed. Then, like a missile, his hand shot in the direction of the phone on his desk.
Twenty-One
Four days earlier
The man sitting in seat 9A was, by cabin crew standards, the perfect passenger. As he boarded the plane, he smiled politely at all the attendants and then waited patiently for the passengers crowding the aisle in front of him to place their hand luggage inside the appropriate compartments. There was no trace of annoyance from him, no exasperated folding of the arms, no irritated ‘excuse me’s, and no uncomfortable shifting from foot to foot. Once he’d taken his seat, he hadn’t asked for a single thing, not even a glass of water.
Despite all the stewardesses onboard flight number 387 from Sacramento to Los Angeles being young and very attractive, there had also been no flirtatious looks from passenger 9A, nor any awkward attempts at cheesy pickup lines.
The man had caught the attention of Sharon Barnard, the youngest of the three stewardesses on board, and she was curious about what he did for a living. His clothes gave little away; a dark-gray suit and a crisp white shirt with a perfectly knotted black-and-white tie. He could’ve been just another businessman, like half the passengers on that early morning flight, but he was missing all the typical gadgets – the briefcase, the laptop computer or tablet, and the smartphone.
While some passengers read, some slept, some worked, some played games on their tablets or listened to music, passenger 9A did nothing. He kept his seat in the upright position, his hands together in his lap and his eyes forward, staring straight ahead. At first Sharon wondered if he was meditating, but when she walked past his seat and asked him if he’d like anything to drink, he answered her immediately and courteously, saying that he was all right. She asked him if he was going to Los Angeles on business, and he replied that he was returning from business. He lived in Los Angeles.
That had brought a smile to Sharon’s lips.
‘Tom,’ Sharon said to the head steward, who was also her best friend and housemate. ‘What do you think of that guy in seat 9A?’
Tom smiled at her teasingly. ‘Are you asking me if he’s gay, darling?’
Tom Hobbs was twenty-three years old, very attractive, single and gay. One of his biggest talents was his sixth sense for spotting other gay males without even speaking to them. He stepped out from behind the partition and casually looked down the aisle.
‘Yep, he’s one hundred percent hot,’ he replied. ‘I clocked him as soon as he stepped on to the aircraft.’ Tom smiled again, then pouted his lips at Sharon. ‘And I can see that so did you.’
Sharon didn’t look embarrassed. ‘As you’ve said,’ she replied, ‘he’s hot.’
‘No doubt there, and you might just be in luck, honey,’ Tom continued. ‘Because he’s definitely straight.’
Sharon smiled. ‘You really think so? He hasn’t looked at any of us girls.’
‘Oh, I’m positive, darling.’ Tom glanced at 9A again. ‘Yep, that man likes pussy.’
‘No wedding band either,’ Sharon said.
Tom grinned at her. ‘Look at you, you vixen, scouting the customers and all, way ahead of the competition. I like your style.’
‘You better, I’ve learned it from you.’
Tom lifted his hand for a high-five.
Sharon slapped it.
‘Though,’ she said, ‘I can’t help thinking that he looks familiar somehow.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. Maybe it’s the eyes, or that strong chin, but I keep on thinking that I have seen him before. Do you remember seeing him on a previous flight at all?’
Tom looked at passenger 9A once again. ‘Umm, no darling. A hunk like that, I would definitely remember if I had.’
Sharon also didn’t think that she had seen him on a previous flight, but she was almost certain that she had seen him before somewhere.
‘OK,’ she said, moving things along. ‘So what do you think he does for a living?’
When flying together, Tom and Sharon sometimes played a guessing game over a few chosen passengers. It helped pass the time.
‘Umm.’ Tom wiggled his head from side to side for a second. ‘He definitely works out. You can tell by his arms. His biceps are about to rip through his sleeves. But he also comes across as the calm type. Nothing seems to bother him, and he has one hell of an intense stare. Have you checked those big brown eyes?’
Sharon nodded. ‘Oh yes.’
Tom smiled again. ‘Silly me for asking. Well, I’d say he’s either a psychologist, or some sort of therapist . . . maybe sports.’ He then mimed a shiver. ‘Ooh no, even better, I’d say he’s a sexual therapist.’
‘Psychologist.’ Sharon liked that thought.
‘Cabin crew, please take your seats for landing,’ the announcement came through the speakers.
Less than ten minutes later the Boeing 757 touched down on runway two at Los Angeles International Airport.
Once again, passenger 9A waited patiently for all the other passengers in front of him to collect their hand luggage and clear the aisle. As he walked past the crew at the front of the plane, he gave them all a single courteous nod and mo
uthed the words ‘thank you’. His eyes sought no one in particular and Sharon felt a little disappointed. She had a special smile, coupled with a sexy wink prepared just for him. All she could do was watch as he walked away. She really would’ve liked to get to know him a little better.
What she had no way of knowing was that passenger 9A already knew everything he needed to know about Sharon Barnard.
Twenty-Two
Hunter’s cellphone rang less then ten seconds after he had stepped back into his office at the Police Administration Building.
‘Robert, where are you?’ Captain Blake said as soon as he answered.
‘Just got back to the PAB, Captain, why?’
‘Is Carlos with you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I need to see you both in my office – right now.’
When Hunter and Garcia got to the captain’s office, she was sitting behind her desk, attentively looking at something that was lying flat on her desktop. From where they were standing, neither detective could tell what it was.
‘OK,’ she said, finally lifting her stare to meet theirs. ‘First question – are we really dealing with some sort of ritualistic killer here?’
‘It’s too soon to tell, Captain,’ Garcia replied. ‘As things stand, there’s not enough evidence to say for certain either way.’
‘How about the positioning of the body?’ she countered. ‘Set out to look like a five-point human star? Isn’t a five-point star a pentagram? And aren’t pentagrams widely known to be associated with devil worshiping and all?’
‘Not exactly, Captain,’ Hunter replied.
Captain Blake looked at him and waited. He said nothing else.
‘What do you mean, Robert?’ she asked finally.
‘Pentagrams are ancient figures that have been used throughout history to symbolize a number of things,’ Hunter explained, ‘such as strength, unity, power, secrecy. Several different religions have adopted it in different contexts, including Christianity. In fact, the pentagram has long been believed to be a potent protection against evil.’
Both Garcia and Captain Blake looked a little surprised.
‘The symbol that has been associated with evil and devil worshiping,’ Hunter continued, ‘is an inverted or reversed pentagram, with two points projecting upwards, and that’s because an inverted pentagram symbolizes overturning the proper order of things.’
Hunter paused, giving Captain Blake a few seconds to weigh everything up.
‘In our case,’ he added, ‘there’s no way to tell, Captain. Yes, the victim was positioned in a way that resembles a five-point human star, but we don’t know if that star is right side up or upside down, because we have no way of telling what the killer’s point of view was. If we consider the standard geographic coordinates – north being up and south being down – then the victim was not left in an upside down position.’
Captain Blake frowned at Hunter.
‘Her head was pointing north,’ he explained.
‘I’m actually scared to ask how you know all this about pentagrams, Robert,’ Captain Blake said, sitting back on her chair.
Hunter shrugged. ‘I read a lot.’
‘But of course you do.’ Her eyebrows arched sarcastically. ‘OK,’ the captain lifted her right hand, accepting Hunter’s argument, ‘for now, let’s forget the pentagram shape and focus on the body itself. Doesn’t specific victim positioning suggest some sort of ritual?’
‘Usually, yes,’ Garcia agreed. ‘But as I’ve said before, Captain, right now we don’t have enough evidence to be sure either way. What if this killer positioned the body that way just to try to make us believe that he really is a ritualistic killer, just to send us down the wrong path? He seems to be smart enough to be able to come up with something like that.’
Captain Blake chewed on that thought for a couple of seconds.
‘How about a cult?’ she asked, getting up from behind her desk and moving around to the front of it. ‘Could we be dealing with some sort of cult here, instead of a single individual?’
‘No,’ Garcia replied. ‘We’re not dealing with a group or any sort of cult here, Captain. This is a single individual.’
‘You sound very sure.’
Garcia proceeded to tell Captain Blake everything that the autopsy examination had revealed. She listened to his account without interrupting, her expression changing according to the level of surprise or disgust she was feeling at what was being said.
‘So this note the killer left lodged inside the victim’s throat,’ she said when Garcia was done, ‘it was written in blood?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Whose blood, the victim’s?’
‘We don’t know yet,’ Garcia answered. ‘That’s what we’re expecting it to be. We should hopefully get an answer from the forensics lab sometime this afternoon.’
‘I’m a little confused,’ the captain said, lifting a hand again. ‘How does that answer my question as to why you sounded so sure that we’re not dealing with a cult here, Carlos?’
‘The note.’
The penny finally dropped.
‘I Am Death,’ Captain Blake said in a half-whisper. ‘Not We Are Death.’
Hunter nodded. ‘This guy’s got an ego, and a big one. This is his work, his “masterpiece”, no one else’s, and he really wants us to know that.’
One didn’t need to be a detective to pick up the look of deep concern on Captain Blake’s face. A concern that clearly went beyond Garcia’s account of the autopsy findings.
‘Captain,’ Hunter asked. ‘What’s going on?’
Captain Blake reached for something on her desk.
‘A fucking hell of a lot.’
Twenty-Three
Captain Blake picked up a small, see-through plastic bag, which was what she had been looking at when Hunter and Garcia entered her office a few minutes earlier. Inside the bag sat a 4x6 Polaroid photograph. She handed it to Hunter and Garcia.
‘Here, have a look.’
Garcia took the bag and turned it over so they could see the image. The photograph was of Nicole Wilson.
‘What the hell?’ Garcia’s gaze paused on Hunter for a split second before moving back to his captain. ‘How did you get this?’
‘I didn’t.’ Captain Blake leaned against her desk. ‘The mayor did.’
There was a hesitant moment as both detectives exchanged another concerned look.
‘The mayor?’
‘Yes. He received it earlier this morning, via FedEx.’ She reached for plastic bag number two and handed it to Garcia again. ‘As you can see, it was marked as ‘‘urgent – private and confidential”.’
Hunter and Garcia checked the FedEx wrapper.
‘Tyler Jordan?’
‘Bogus name, as expected,’ the captain replied. ‘Bogus address as well. Apparently it’s a boarded-up shop – everything else still needs to be checked.’
‘Did the mayor know Nicole Wilson?’ Hunter asked.
Captain Blake shook her head. ‘According to him, he’s never seen her before. But we all know that public safety has always been at the forefront of Mayor Bailey’s campaign, so once he saw that picture he immediately got on the phone to Chief Bracco. Bracco left this office about five minutes before you got here. That’s how I have these. He wanted them to go to forensics ASAP, but I wanted you to see them first.’
‘Does the chief know that Nicole Wilson’s body was found in the early hours of this morning?’ Hunter asked.
‘He does now.’ Captain Blake paused and drew in a deep breath. ‘But that’s not all.’
Hunter and Garcia’s attention moved from the photo and the FedEx wrapper back to her. Once again, she reached for something that was on her desk – a third see-through plastic bag.
‘The photo came with a note,’ she said, handing the bag to Hunter.
The white piece of paper that sat inside the plastic bag had a crease down its center where it had been folded in half. Like the note
found in Nicole Wilson’s throat, the words had been handwritten, but this time not in blood. The killer had used a red ballpoint pen.
People in this city put their trust in law enforcement agencies like the LAPD, and sometimes even the FBI, to keep them safe, to help those who can’t help themselves, to right them when they’re wronged, to protect them, and to seek justice no matter what.
Those agencies are supposed to be the best of the best. The experts when it comes to reading people and discerning good from evil. But the truth is that they only see what they want to see. And the problem with that is that when they play at being blind men, people suffer . . . people get tortured . . . and people die.
So now I have a question. If any of these so-called experts stood face to face with someone like me, if they looked straight into my eyes, would they see the truth inside me? Would they see what I have become, or would they falter?
The woman in the picture certainly saw it. She felt it on her flesh.
And before the sun rises tomorrow, someone else will see it and feel it too. And trust me, what she’s been through is nothing compared to what is still to come, unless these so-called experts are able to stop me.
Well, are they?
FOR I AM DEATH.
‘Jesus,’ Garcia said after reading the note a couple of times over.
‘And from what you’ve told me so far,’ the captain said, ‘I guess we can confidently say that he’s not bluffing.’
Silence filled the room for several seconds. Garcia was the first to break it.
‘What I don’t get is, why the mayor? This note refers to law enforcement agencies like the FBI, and ourselves, nothing really to do with the mayor’s office. If Mayor Bailey didn’t know Nicole Wilson, why send the picture and the note to his office? Why not send it directly here to the PAB or to Chief Bracco’s office?’
‘I’ve been asking myself that same question,’ Captain Blake said. ‘And with today’s technology, why post it instead of emailing it?’
‘Two reasons,’ Hunter replied, his full attention still on the note. ‘If the killer had emailed it, there’d be no guarantees that the mayor would’ve gotten it. Something like this could’ve easily been automatically flagged as spam or junk mail by some sort of firewall program, and have been completely discarded without anyone actually opening it. No way this killer would’ve run that risk.’
