by Chris Carter
The officer nodded. ‘She said she’d only speak to the detectives in charge. I tried taking a statement downstairs, but she refused.’ He looked unsure for a moment.
‘Anything else?’ Hunter asked, sensing the officer’s uneasiness.
‘Something about her—’ he looked from one detective to the other ‘—gave me the creeps.’
Garcia stepped closer to the mirror, his eyes scrutinizing the girl. She looked frightened.
Monica lifted her eyes as both detectives entered the room. Her stare bypassed Garcia and settled on Hunter.
‘Hello,’ Hunter said with a warm smile, extending his hand. ‘I’m Detective Hunter and this is Detective Garcia.’
She stood up, smiled back and shook their hands, holding Hunter’s just a little longer than she did Garcia’s. ‘I’m Monica.’ Her voice was soft but padded with grief.
‘Just Monica?’ Garcia asked, his eyebrows arching slightly.
She bit her bottom lip, and her worried eyes reverted back to Hunter.
‘It’s OK,’ he said in a comforting tone. ‘I’m Robert and that’s Carlos.’ He tilted his head towards his partner. ‘I also prefer when people call me by my first name. It’s much less formal, isn’t it?’
She smiled thinly.
‘Could we get you a drink of something? Water, coffee, soda . . .?’
‘Some water would be great, thank you,’ she said as she sat back down.
‘I’ll get it,’ Garcia offered, already reaching for the door.
Hunter pulled a chair and sat across the table from the girl. Her hands were clenched, and she was rubbing her thumbs against each other.
‘These rooms are very intimidating, aren’t they?’ Hunter said in a relaxed tone. ‘The bland walls, the metal table and chairs, the big mirrored window . . . Some say we could do with an internal decorator, a few flowers, maybe some incense. I tend to agree. What do you say?’
Her mouth didn’t move.
‘I’d offer to talk in my office, but I’m afraid it looks even worse than this. If you can imagine such a place.’
Her mouth twitched with a possible smile.
‘If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?’
She hesitated for a second. ‘I’m nineteen.’
Hunter nodded. She knew he hadn’t bought her lie. Despite her young age, Hunter saw something in her eyes that told him that she was forced to mature faster than most.
The door opened and Garcia walked in with an aluminum jug of icy water on a metal tray. He placed it on the table before pouring her a glass.
‘Have a seat, Carlos,’ Hunter said, pointing to the chair next to him.
‘It’s OK, I’ll stand. I don’t mind.’
‘I do,’ Hunter hit back.
If Monica was a suspect in an ongoing investigation, Hunter would’ve stood up himself. Interrogations demand a certain degree of intimidation. Standing up, being able to move around freely and looking down on a subject who’s restricted to his or her chair puts the detective in a psychologically authoritative position. One thing Hunter definitely didn’t want was for Monica to feel any more intimidated than she already was.
Garcia pulled a chair and sat down.
‘We were told you might have information that could be of some value to us,’ Hunter said.
Monica had a sip of her water before locking eyes with him. ‘I saw something.’
‘You saw something?’ Garcia’s voice raised half an octave as he leaned forward. ‘You were inside the church on Wednesday night?’
Monica gave Garcia a subtle head shake.
‘Did you see anyone leaving the church late that night? Were you walking by or something?’
‘No. It wasn’t like that.’ She held Garcia’s gaze for a couple of silent seconds. ‘I saw it in a vision.’
Garcia’s posture stiffened defensively and he shook his head as if he hadn’t heard her correctly. Hunter didn’t react.
‘I’m sorry?’ Garcia frowned.
Monica took a deep breath to steady her voice. ‘I know how this might sound, but please just listen to me for five minutes. I’m not crazy. I’m not a clairvoyant. I can’t see the future. I don’t read minds or talk to spirits either. But unfortunately I can sense certain things deeper than most people.’
Garcia glanced at Hunter, who was sitting back in his chair. His legs were crossed casually with his hands resting on his lap. He was concentrating on the girl.
‘What sort of things?’ Garcia asked.
Monica nervously pulled a loose strand of hair from her face and hooked it behind her ear. Even though Garcia had asked the question, she stared at Hunter before answering.
‘Pain.’
‘You can sense pain?’ Garcia asked with a dubious expression.
‘I can sense other people’s pain,’ she explained.
Garcia shifted his weight in his chair. Almost without fail, every time a high-profile case hits the news, the police get tens of people dropping in or calling and saying they can help with the investigation because they had a dream or a vision. He knew it was only a matter of time before it happened in this case, but he wasn’t expecting it to happen so soon.
Since Garcia took point on questioning, Hunter had limited himself to listen and observe. He was taking in the girl’s reactions, analyzing her eyes and physical movements together with voice intonation and quivers. Experience told him that when people walked in from the streets claiming they had a vision that could help the police catch a criminal, they usually fell into one of five categories – a lonely person looking for attention – a drug user who had hallucinations – someone with mental problems, most probably schizophrenia – a charlatan looking for money and/or publicity – or they had been involved in the crime themselves. Monica, so far, gave no indication of any.
Garcia once again glanced at Hunter, half hoping for some sort of reaction. When he didn’t get one, he checked his watch before leaning forward and placing both elbows on the table.
‘I’ll tell you what we’ll do, Monica,’ he said calmly. ‘I hope you understand that at the moment we’re stretched thin and really pressed for time. But I’ll ask an officer to take down what you think you saw, and if you leave us your details we’ll get in touch if we have any questions . . .’
‘I’m not trying to waste your time, detective,’ she said firmly, reading Garcia’s reluctance to believe her.
‘And we appreciate that,’ he replied in the same tone, but she didn’t break stride.
‘Whether you believe it or not, detective, it happens. Unfortunately, it happens to me. I see other people’s suffering. I see their pain and tears and what makes them sad. It’s not a gift; it’s a curse that makes me scared of closing my eyes every night. I don’t wanna be here either. I’ve never done this before, but I really think I can help.’
Monica went back to staring at Hunter. Something shifted in her eyes.
‘Helen . . .’ she whispered, ‘. . . it wasn’t your fault.’
Hunter raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘You just wanted the crying to stop. She just wanted the pain to go away. You did what you thought was right. What she asked you to do. You freed her from the pain.’ She shook her head. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’
Hunter stiffened. His eyes fixed on the brunette in front of him. He felt his mouth go dry and his stomach churn as images of a long time ago flooded his memory.
Garcia sensed the change in Hunter, but before he could say anything the door to the interrogation room was pushed open by Captain Blake.
‘You guys better wrap it up in here,’ she said, ignoring Monica. ‘It looks like he claimed another one.’
Hunter looked up. ‘Our man?’
Captain Blake nodded. ‘In Malibu.’
Garcia jetted out of his chair. ‘Thanks for coming,’ he said before hurrying out of the room.
Hunter turned and faced Monica. ‘I’ll get an officer to write down your details.’ He quickly placed
one of his cards on the table in front of her.
‘Detective,’ she called as Hunter got to the door.
‘He knew about the fire. He knew what scared her.’
Thirty-Eight
Hunter sat in silence staring out of the window as Garcia sped down Hollywood Freeway. Night had already fallen over Los Angeles, and with it came rain. Not your typical, heavy Californian downpour, but a steady, annoying English-type drizzle. The sky was covered by gray clouds. The wet weather would go on for hours.
Hunter was softly massaging between his eyebrows with his index finger, focusing his attention on the raindrops on the passenger’s window. His thoughts were tangled in a tight cluster, and he was trying hard to unwind them. In the space of half an hour, the whole complexion of the case had changed. Now that they knew about the priest’s dream, the idea of the killer being ritualistic took a knock. Hunter was certain that what happened a few days ago inside the Seven Saints church was not a ritual. The killer had simply acted out Father Fabian’s nightmare, but why?
Garcia’s attention was on the road, but he’d noticed his partner’s change in mood inside the interrogation room. Something that girl said had really got to Hunter.
‘Can I ask you something?’ Garcia asked tentatively.
‘Shoot,’ Hunter said without breaking his stare.
‘Who’s Helen?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Monica, the—’ Garcia searched for the correct word ‘—psychic girl we just talked to. She said something about Helen and it not being your fault. Who’s Helen?’
Hunter closed his eyes.
Garcia knew better than to push for an answer. He allowed the silence to stretch.
‘My mother,’ Hunter finally replied, returning his attention to the window. ‘Helen was my mother.’
He’d only been seven when it happened, but the memories crowding his mind now were still fresh.
Thirty-Nine
He sat alone in his room watching the heavy rain hammering against the window. He liked rain, especially heavy rain. Its thundering noise was almost enough to cover the crying, the moans of pain that came from the room next door – almost. He’d asked his father why the doctors didn’t do something. Why they didn’t take her into hospital and make her better.
‘There’s nothing more that can be done,’ his father had said with tearful eyes as he placed two tablets next to a glass of water before hiding the medicine bottle deep inside the highest cupboard in their small kitchen.
‘Can’t we give her some more tablets, Dad? They help with her pain. She doesn’t cry so much when she takes them.’
‘No, Robert,’ his father replied in a nervous voice. ‘Too many aren’t good for her.’
He had to take care of her when his father wasn’t home, and back then his father worked nights.
Nights were always worse. Her screams sounded louder, her groans deeper and heavier with pain. They always made him shiver. Not like when he felt cold, but an intense shiver that came from deep within. Her illness had brought her so much pain, and he wished there was something he could do to help.
He cautiously opened the door to her room. He felt like crying, but his father had told him he mustn’t. She was curled up on the bed. Her knees pushed up against her chest. Her arms wrapped tightly around her legs. She was crying.
‘Please help me,’ she whispered. ‘It hurts so much.’
He was shivering, trying to keep his tears locked in his throat. ‘What can I do, Mom?’ His voice was as weak as hers.
She curled up into a tighter ball.
‘Do you want me to call Dad?’
She shook her head. Tears were streaming down her face.
‘Dad can call the doctor. He’ll come and help you.’
‘Dad can’t help, honey. Neither can the doctor.’
His mother looked like a different person now. She was so thin he could see her bones poking at her sagging skin. Her eyes had the darkest bags under them. Her once-beautiful long blond hair was now fine and frizzled and sticking to her sweaty face. Her lips were cracked and crusted.
‘I can heat some milk up for you, Mom. You like hot milk.’
She managed a delicate shake of the head. Her breath was coming in short gasps.
‘Would you like me to get you some biscuits? You haven’t eaten much today.’
She winced as a new surge of pain took over her body. ‘Please, baby. Help me.’
He couldn’t hold his tears anymore and they started rolling down his cheeks.
‘You can help the pain go away,’ she said in a trembling voice. ‘You can get me my pills. You know where they are, don’t you?’
He ran the back of his right hand against his running nose. She could see he was scared and shaking. ‘They’re very high up,’ he said, hiding his eyes from her.
‘Can’t you reach them for me, baby? Please, the pain has been going on for so long. You don’t know how much it hurts.’
His eyes were so full of tears everything appeared distorted. His heart felt empty, and he felt as if all his strength had left him. Without saying a word, he slowly turned around and opened the door.
His mother tried calling after him, but her voice was so weak that only a whisper left her lips.
He came back a few minutes later carrying a tray with a glass of water, two cream biscuits and the bottle of medicine. She stared at it, hardly believing her eyes. Very slowly and through unbearable pain, she pushed herself up into a sitting position. He stepped closer, placed the tray on the bedside table and handed her the glass of water.
She gave him the most honest smile he’d ever seen.
‘I’m not strong enough to open the bottle, darling. Can you do it for me?’
He took the bottle, pressed down on the cap and twisted it anticlockwise. Pouring two pills onto his hand, he offered them to her. She took them, put them in her mouth and swallowed them down without even sipping the water. Her eyes pleaded for more.
‘I read the label, Mom. It says you shouldn’t have more than eight a day. The two you just had make it ten today.’
‘You’re so intelligent, my darling.’ She smiled again. ‘You’re very special. I love you so much and I’m so sorry I won’t see you grow up.’
His eyes filled with tears once again as she wrapped her bony fingers around the medicine bottle. He held on to it tightly.
‘It’s OK,’ she whispered. ‘It’ll all be OK now.’
Hesitantly, he let go. ‘Dad will be angry at me.’
‘No, he won’t be, baby. I promise you.’ She placed two more pills in her mouth.
‘I brought you these biscuits.’ He pointed to the tray. ‘They’re your favorite, Mom. Please have one.’
‘I will, honey, in a while.’ She had a few more pills. ‘When Daddy comes home,’ she whispered. ‘Tell him I love him. Can you do that for me?’
He nodded. His eyes locked on the now almost empty medicine bottle.
‘Why don’t you go read one of your books, darling? I know you love reading.’
‘I can read in here. I can sit in the corner if you like. I won’t make a noise, I promise.’
She extended her hand and touched his hair. ‘I’ll be OK now. The pain’s starting to go away.’ Her eyelids looked heavy.
‘I can guard the room. I’ll sit by the door.’
She smiled a pain-stricken smile. ‘Why do you wanna guard the door, honey?’
‘You told me that sometimes God comes and takes ill people to heaven. I don’t want him to take you, Mom. I’ll sit by the door and if he comes I’ll tell him to go away. I’ll tell him that you’re getting better and not to take you.’
‘You’ll tell God to go away?’
He nodded vigorously.
She smiled again. ‘I’m gonna miss you so much, Robert.’
Forty
As they drove down Pacific Coast Highway, the scenery had changed from the hustle and bustle of Downtown Los Angeles to the tranquility and breathtaking
ocean views of Malibu. Hunter continued to stare out of the window.
Malibu is famous for its warm sandy beaches and for being the home of countless movie stars and celebrities. A place reserved for the rich and mega-rich.
‘No need to check for the address,’ Garcia said, slowing down. ‘I guess that’s it.’
About a hundred yards ahead on the left, several police vehicles were parked at the gates to a large mansion. News vans from various channels were already at the scene. Satellite antennas raised high in the cold and wet night sky.
Garcia slowly zigzagged his way around the cars and came to a stop in front of the intimidating electronic iron gates. An officer wearing a standard-issue LAPD vinyl raincoat came up to the driver’s side.
‘Detectives Garcia and Hunter,’ Garcia said after lowering his window. ‘Homicide Special.’
The officer nodded and used the remote control in his hand to open the gates. ‘Forensics and the two other detectives have been in there for a while now,’ he said.
‘Two other detectives?’ Hunter asked, leaning across Garcia.
‘That’s right,’ the officer replied, stepping back from the car and gesturing for them to drive through.
As Garcia drove forward, Hunter caught a glimpse of Claire Anderson standing under a large white umbrella with the other reporters.
The perfectly cement-paved driveway must’ve been at least a hundred yards long, flanked by numerous palm trees. Just past the gates, on the left, there was a tennis court. The large green area between the court and the impressive two-story mansion had been impeccably mown, and the hedges around it were neatly cropped.
Garcia entered a circular parking bay and pulled in next to a forensics unit van, just in front of a four-car garage.
‘Wow, would you have a look at this place,’ Garcia said, stepping out of his car. ‘Someone knew how to live in style.’
The house was white and modern with a terracotta-tile roof and large glass windows. On the second floor, the room at the corner of the house had a wrap-around balcony offering panoramic views of the beach. A few police officers were standing on the stone steps that led up to the front door, sheltering themselves from the rain.
