The Executioner rh-2

by Chris Carter

  ‘Captain, you can’t do that.’ Hunter tried to calm his voice. ‘There’s no time for any other detective to hit the ground running with this case.’ He paused. ‘The killer will strike again tonight.’

  The captain’s gaze held Hunter motionless. ‘You better start talking to me, detective. And you better come as clean as morning rain.’

  This time Hunter told Captain Blake everything.

  ‘And this phone you gave her – is it still switched off?’

  ‘Trevor told me he’d call the second it came back on the grid.’

  The captain paced the room as she considered what to do. ‘We can’t even mobilize units, Robert. This girl could be anywhere. And I don’t even know if I should believe any of this shit you just told me. All I have to go on are crazy visions from a seventeen-year-old girl who I never really met.’

  ‘You have our opinion to go on, captain.’ Hunter shook his head gently. ‘She’s not a fake.’

  ‘Why should I believe you, Robert? You’ve been everything but straight with me.’

  ‘OK captain, I admit, I screwed up, but not because I wanted to piss you off or undermine your authority or show disrespect. I did what I did because I wanted to protect a seventeen-year-old girl from the destructive circus she was about to be thrown into. Interrogations, people doubting her, the press, the mockery . . . Most people would crack under much less pressure. Mollie doesn’t deserve that. She just wanted to help, and in her heart she believed she could.’ Hunter paused for air. ‘You can do whatever you like, captain. You can bust me down to traffic duty when this case is over if it pleases you, but you can’t pull us off this investigation now. This killer’s on a revenge mission. He won’t keep on killing. After he gets his revenge, he’ll disappear, I’m certain of that. We’ve only got seven days, captain. And he’s only got two more names on his list.’

  ‘Three if he’s really going after Mollie tonight,’ Garcia noted.

  ‘Exactly, but Mollie wasn’t part of his original plan.’

  The captain narrowed her eyes as a hint of confusion crossed her face.

  ‘By going after Mollie, the killer’s breaking away from his own schedule, his own rules,’ Hunter clarified.

  ‘And when they deviate from their original plan, that’s when they make mistakes,’ Garcia complemented.

  The captain looked unsure. ‘We’ve got protocols to follow, Robert.’

  ‘With all due respect, captain, fuck protocol. I’m not putting a set of bullshit, bureaucratic rules over anyone’s life,’ Hunter said firmly, to Barbara Blake’s surprise. ‘Captain Bolter told me you were a great cop. You had great instincts. You always followed your gut feelings. You must’ve withheld information from your superior officers for one reason or another at least once in your career. We all do it – including the chief of police. It doesn’t make us bad cops, captain. It actually makes us real cops.’ He studied her. ‘What’s your gut feeling telling you now?’

  Captain Blake closed her eyes and let out a long sigh. ‘Let me ask you something, detective. Do you think that reporter from the LA Times, Claire Anderson, knew where to find Mollie? Maybe knew you’d taken her to a hotel?’

  Hunter tilted his head, reflecting. ‘Possible. Reporters have their own sources, their own investigative team. Claire is certainly ambitious enough. Why?’

  Barbara Blake faced Hunter. ‘She was found murdered this afternoon.’

  ‘What?’ Hunter cocked his head forward as if he hadn’t heard it correctly.

  ‘Her throat was cut open.’

  ‘No way?’ Garcia murmured, his eyes wide.

  ‘That’s all the information I have at the moment. Detectives and forensics are still at the scene. But if our killer is really after Mollie, and Claire Anderson had any information that could’ve led him to her, the possibility he killed her for that information has suddenly become very real.’

  Hundred and Twenty-One

  The tension in the room was broken by a knock on the door. Captain Blake let Hopkins in.

  ‘Did I come at a bad moment?’ he asked, sensing the dark atmosphere.

  ‘What have you got?’ the captain commanded.

  Hopkins nervously walked over to the picture board. ‘Our only suspect is now James Reed.’ He pointed to his photo.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Robert told me to keep digging at establishing the whereabouts of the other three in the suspects’ list before he left,’ Hopkins explained. ‘Marcus Tregonni, Phillip Rosewood and Harry Lang—’ he indicated the photos as he mentioned their names ‘—are now accounted for, and they all have alibis for at least one of the crime nights. They couldn’t have done it. The only one left is James Reed.’

  ‘He ticks all the right boxes,’ Garcia said with a pinch of excitement. ‘He’s six-two, he’s a loner, never married, lived with his mother until she died five months ago.’ He faced Hunter. ‘Which could easily have been the “last straw” you talked about. He’s strong, highly intelligent, resourceful and very good at planning and calculating. When young, he was bullied and taunted by Strutter’s gang in and out of school, and so was his mother. Can you imagine the sort of hate his household had towards Strutter and his gang? Certainly strong enough to have left very damaging psychological scars in his subconscious. He also blames them for his pet dog’s death. The dog was called Numberz.’

  ‘Hold on.’ Captain Blake raised her hand. ‘What’s this about a dog called Numberz?’

  Garcia ran through the story Kelly Sanchez had told them in her office earlier in the day. The captain immediately made the connection to the numbered victims and the decapitated pet dog.

  ‘Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’ Garcia concluded.

  ‘There’s an APB out on his car, right?’ Captain Blake asked. ‘Has it been spotted yet?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Hopkins shook his head.

  ‘We’ve gotta find him,’ she said, her voice filled with anticipation. ‘OK, James Reed is now officially our main suspect in the Executioner Killer’s case. Let’s reissue the APB. If he’s sighted, I want him stopped and arrested. We need him off the streets as quick as possible. Do we have a recent picture of him?’

  ‘We can get one from Cal Poly’s website,’ Hunter confirmed.

  She faced Hopkins. ‘Do it. Let’s get a copy of it to all bureaus.’

  Furtively, Hopkins’s eyes sought Hunter, who gave him an almost imperceptible nod as confirmation. ‘I’m on it.’ He dashed out of the room.

  Captain Blake directed her stare at Hunter, her expression stern. ‘I really hope my gut feeling is still as good as it used to be. Do what you have to do, Robert.’ A short pause. ‘Let’s hope we can save Mollie and whoever it is this psycho is after.’

  ‘Captain—’ Hunter stopped her before she left ‘—if you get any more information on Claire Anderson’s murder, please let me know.’

  She nodded and calmly closed the door behind her.

  Hunter returned to his desk and rubbed his face in frustration. He wanted to be out there, physically hunting the streets of LA for a suspect or searching for Mollie, but he knew that at the moment there was nothing else he could do but wait. And he hated waiting. It made him fidgety. He reached for the photograph pile Hopkins had left on his desk and purposelessly started flipping through them. His eyes weren’t really looking and his mind wasn’t really concentrating. He was just keeping his hands occupied while his brain worked overtime trying to piece the puzzle together. Garcia’s right. James Reed did tick all the right boxes. His mother’s death five months ago could’ve easily been the trigger that freed his bottled hatred. But why didn’t Hunter get the feeling he always did when he knew they were chasing the right guy?

  Hunter stopped flicking through the pile of photographs in his hands and held his breath. His stare locked at the top picture, studying the person’s face, looking for something he knew he’d seen before. He almost choked when he finally saw it. ‘Oh my God,’ he murmured before springing to his feet an
d showing Garcia the photograph.

  ‘Carlos, who’s this?’ he asked. ‘Why wasn’t this picture on the suspects board?’ The urgency in his voice made Garcia tense.

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t set them up, but the names are on the back of the photos.’

  Hunter checked. ‘Michael Madden?’

  Garcia consulted the list Hopkins had prepared. ‘Here he is. The reason why he wasn’t on the board is because he died a long time ago.’

  Hunter refocused his attention on the picture. ‘I don’t think he did.’ He showed Garcia the picture again. ‘I think this guy’s alive and well. And if I’m right, we both know where he is.’

  Hundred and Twenty-Two

  Garcia stared at the picture in Hunter’s hands, confused. ‘What are you talking about? Who’s Michael Madden?’

  ‘Look at the eyes, Carlos. You can change everything on a person’s face but the eyes stay the same. They’re like fingerprints.’

  Garcia did as he was told, concentrating harder this time. ‘Nope, I still have no idea who this guy is.’

  Hunter looked at the photo one more time. Was his mind playing tricks on him? He would have only one shot at this. He needed to be one hundred percent certain. ‘Let’s go.’ He rushed out of the office.

  ‘Where are we going this time?’ Garcia asked, following Hunter, who took the stairs going up in giant leaps.

  ‘SID. I need to be sure. We need to talk to Patricia Phelps.’

  Garcia frowned. ‘The composite sketch artist?’

  ‘That’s her.’ Hunter nodded.

  The LAPD Scientific Investigation Division is responsible for the collection, comparison and interpretation of physical evidence found at crime scenes or collected from suspects and victims. It’s located on the top floor of the RHD building. The LAPD composite artists are part of the SID team.

  Patricia Phelps was the most senior and most experienced of the SID sketch artists. She was getting ready to go home after doing a couple of hours’ overtime when Hunter and Garcia burst through her office door.

  ‘Pat, we need your help,’ Hunter puffed, half out of breath.

  The short-haired brunette with a stop-traffic figure looked at Hunter through the top of her thin-rimmed designer glasses. ‘Did you just run up six flights of stairs, Robert?’ she asked in her husky voice that made most men melt. ‘I guess if you ran all the way up here this can’t wait until tomorrow, can it?’

  Hunter took a deep breath but didn’t reply.

  ‘I thought not. What do you need?’ She undid her coat.

  Hunter handed Patricia the photograph. ‘I need you to alter this picture.’

  She studied it for a second before shrugging. ‘OK. Let me scan it in.’ She returned to her desk and a minute later the image appeared on one of her computer screens.

  ‘How advanced is your software?’ Hunter asked.

  Patricia chuckled proudly. ‘State of the art. As good as any animation studio in Hollywood. I can turn him into Brad Pitt if you like.’

  Hunter smiled and motioned Garcia closer, who still looked puzzled. ‘OK, guys, now here’s the scenario. When you were young, everyone made fun of you, mainly because of the way you looked. It happened in school, on the streets . . . everywhere. Girls wouldn’t give you the time of day and boys pushed you around, called you names and beat you up. It went on for so long and it got so bad that you ended up hating yourself and the way you looked. You wished you could be somebody else. Are you with me so far?’

  Garcia and Patricia both nodded.

  ‘What if you became rich early in your life? What if you had enough money to do anything you liked, including drastically changing the way you looked? You could finally become that someone else you always wanted to be? No more laughing or name-calling or being beat up. People you knew wouldn’t even recognize you. Would you go through with it? Would you change your face?’

  Hundred and Twenty-Three

  Garcia thought about it for a moment, his eyes on the face on Patricia Phelps’s screen. ‘Probably.’ He didn’t sound very sure.

  ‘Most definitely.’ Patricia nodded enthusiastically. ‘I’ve seen the kind of damage severe bullying can do to someone. The daughter of a friend of mine committed suicide a few years ago because of it.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Hunter said.

  Patricia gave him a soft smile.

  ‘Alright, so if you’re this kid—’ Hunter pointed to the computer monitor ‘—what would you have changed?’

  Garcia crossed his arms and chewed on his bottom lip while studying the young student’s face.

  ‘Those umbrella ears would have to go,’ Patricia said, leaning back on her chair. ‘He probably got some real heat for them. They’re quite – shall I say? – predominant?’

  ‘Yeah, OK. I’ll have to agree.’ Garcia nodded.

  ‘Can you change that?’ Hunter asked, resting a hand on Patricia’s left shoulder.

  ‘Watch me work.’ She entered a few algorithms into the software and used a device that looked like an electronic pen to draw on a flat board on her desk. Like a painter stroking a canvas, her movements were precise and graceful. Moments later the student’s ears were completely different.

  ‘Wow, that’s cool,’ Garcia said.

  ‘Yeah, that looks much better.’ Patricia smiled.

  ‘OK, so what else would you change?’ Hunter pushed.

  ‘Probably that bump on his nose,’ Garcia offered. ‘It looks as if it’s been broken.’

  Patricia nodded and made the change.

  ‘Good. Any other problems either of you would like to fix?’ Hunter asked.

  ‘His teeth.’ Patricia this time.

  ‘You can’t see his teeth.’ Garcia shook his head, frowning at her.

  ‘That’s true, but see the way he closes his mouth?’ She used the electronic pen to indicate it on the screen. ‘He’s not doing it naturally. He’s forcing his lips together in a pouting movement, which tells me his teeth were bigger than normal and pushed forward.’

  Hunter and Garcia squinted at the picture.

  ‘Trust me, guys. I work with this sort of stuff every day.’

  ‘OK.’ Hunter shrugged. ‘But how can you change his teeth on the picture if you can’t see them?’

  ‘I can change the shape of his mouth, push his lips back a fraction and do away with his pouting. You’ll see,’ she said as her perfectly manicured fingers punched several keys on her keyboard. A few more strokes with the magic pen and the kid had a new mouth.

  ‘Wow, he looks quite different from the original,’ Garcia agreed.

  Hunter shook his head, unsure. ‘Something is not fitting.’

  ‘His jaw,’ Patricia noted. ‘Because of the alterations I made to his lips and teeth, I’m certain a surgeon would suggest a small redesign of his jawline to fit his new smile. Maybe square it a little.’

  ‘Can you do that?’

  ‘As I said, with this pen I can do anything.’ She smiled confidently and made the alterations. When she was done, they all took a step back from the monitor. The image they were staring at was that of a very different-looking boy from the one they’d started with.

  ‘That’s it,’ Patricia said. ‘I don’t see anything else to add or subtract, do you?’

  Both detectives shook their heads.

  ‘We just turned a geek into a hunk.’ Patricia laughed.

  ‘That’s perfect,’ Hunter agreed.

  Something had changed in Garcia’s expression, but the recognition still wasn’t there.

  ‘Do me a favor now, Pat.’ Hunter hunched his body over her desk. ‘Darken his hair to a brownish color, add some gray over his temples and make it a shorter, combed-back style, will you?’

  They waited while Patricia tweaked the picture once again.

  ‘Can you hypothesize age?’ Hunter asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Great. Let’s age him about twenty-five years.’

  The ageing process took a little l
onger. When it was finally done, Garcia’s jaw dropped open.

  ‘No fucking way.’

  Hundred and Twenty-Four

  Susan Zieliski read the letter for the tenth time, and again her emotions got the better of her. She couldn’t believe it was really happening.

  Susan hadn’t had the easiest or luckiest of lives. She was born in Cripple Creek, Colorado, twenty-two years ago. Her parents were Polish–Jewish immigrants and very strict when it came to her upbringing. She did her best to respect their laws, but for a young girl growing up in today’s America they were very restrictive, to say the least.

  From a very early age Susan had two great ambitions in life. One – she wanted to be on stage and sing. Two – she didn’t want to become like her mother, a very obedient, somewhat submissive wife who’d do anything her husband told her to without questioning.

  At thirteen, Susan was already attractive. She’d inherited her mother’s hair – so blond it was almost white – and her father’s deep blue and captivating eyes. Plenty of boys had asked her out, but Susan wasn’t allowed to date. Not until she was eighteen, and even then it had to be under her parents’ supervision and the boy had to be Jewish.

  Susan was no angel, though. Her first kiss came when she was fourteen. Bob Jordan took her behind the school gym during their lunch break and they made out like they were the only two people on earth. She allowed him to touch her breasts, and as he did she was overcome by a warm and exciting new sensation. But when he tried to slide his hand up her thigh and between her legs, she panicked and ran away. That panic didn’t last long, and soon the touching became more intense, the breathing more emphatic and the excitement impossible to control. At fifteen Susan had her first full sexual experience. It’d been quick, painful and not very satisfying, but certainly promising.

  Cripple Creek is a former gold-mining camp. A bedroom closet society with a population of fewer than two thousand people. That, together with her strict family rules, made it very hard for a girl like Susan to express herself. She wanted to see more, to explore more, and for the time being the answer came in the form of softball.