by Chris Carter
The kitchen was surprisingly spacious, with black granite worktops running along three of the walls and contrasting perfectly with the shiny white floors and cupboard doors. The chrome extractor unit above the black stove matched the stainless-steel sink and the wall-mounted oven. A large double window, directly above the sink, would no doubt bring more than enough sunlight into the kitchen during daytime. The fridge, the freezer and the dishwasher were all hidden behind cupboard doors, making the kitchen look and feel clean and decluttered, and that was exactly the first thing Hunter noticed as he stepped into the room – how clean it all seemed to be. There was no real mess anywhere. No crumbs or leftovers on any of the surfaces, including the floor. Nothing to be put away, except three items left inside the sink – a fork, a small salad bowl and a wine glass. The wine glass and the salad bowl were both empty. The glass showed residues of red wine and a very noticeable red lipstick smudge around its rim.
‘I finished with all the surfaces in the living room,’ the agent explained. ‘Second in line was the kitchen.’ She nodded at her equipment case on the floor, to the right of the door.
Despite her steady voice, Hunter picked up a sincere hint of distress in her tone. While she spoke, his eyes carried on scanning the room.
‘As I’m sure you have already noticed,’ the agent continued, ‘every appliance in this kitchen, except for the oven and the microwave, sit hidden behind one of the cupboard doors.’
She indicated the first door on the far left, under the worktop that hugged the east wall.
‘We have a dishwasher right here,’ she said, before diverting their attention to the two tall doors that flanked the wall-mounted oven on the west side of the kitchen. ‘Over there you’ll find the fridge on the left and the freezer on the right.’ She paused and took a deep breath. ‘Why don’t you go ahead and have a look inside the freezer?’
Kevin White’s stare stayed on his agent for a couple more seconds before moving to Hunter and Garcia, who were standing to his left. He already had a pretty good idea of what he would find inside that freezer. His weight shifted from one foot to another before he finally took a step forward and pulled open the door.
‘Oh . . . Jesus Christ!’
The shock in White’s voice was real. There was no question that he was expecting to find the victim’s missing body parts stashed away in that freezer. But he was wrong. He was very wrong.
Hunter and Garcia had followed White and what they saw as he pulled the freezer door open added a whole new layer of cruelty to an already over-sadistic crime scene.
Two of the freezer shelves had been removed to create more vertical space. In that space, frozen in place, was a black and gray cat.
Ten
It was coming up to a quarter past one in the morning by the time Hunter finally got to his small one-bedroom apartment in Huntington Park, southeastern Los Angeles. Kevin White and his forensics team had stayed behind at the house. Despite how fast they were working they were still at least three to four hours away from processing it all, and that was only if they failed to stumble upon any more surprises. Hunter and Garcia had waited until Linda Parker’s body had been taken to the county coroner’s office before leaving the crime scene, but as Hunter closed his front door behind him, he wondered why he hadn’t stayed with the forensics team. It would’ve at least kept him busy, since he could already tell that tonight, falling asleep would be a real struggle.
Insomnia is a highly unpredictable condition that affects one in every five people in the United States. It can manifest itself in a variety of ways and intensities, none of them kind. The disorder is usually linked to stress and the pressures of being an adult in modern society, but not always.
Hunter was only seven years old when he first started experiencing sleepless nights. They began shortly after cancer robbed him of his mother. Back then, with no other family for him to rely on other than his father, coping with such loss proved to be a very painful and lonely affair for the young Robert Hunter. At night, he would sit alone in his bedroom and lose himself in the memories of when his mother could still smile. Of a time when her arms were still strong enough to hug him and her voice loud enough to reach his ears.
With her death, it didn’t take long for the ghastly nightmares to follow and they were so devastating, so psychologically damaging that insomnia was the only logical answer his brain could come up with. Sleep became a Russian roulette for Hunter – a luxury and a torment all rolled up in one. For a seven-year-old boy, his coping mechanism was as brutal as a battlefield amputation, but Hunter faced it the best way he could. To keep himself occupied during those endless, lonely, sleepless hours, Hunter took to books, reading everything and anything he could get his hands on as if reading somehow empowered him. Books became his sanctuary. His fortress. His shield against the never-ending nightmares.
As the years went by, Hunter learned how to live with insomnia instead of fighting it. On a good night he would find three, maybe four hours of sleep. On a bad one, not even a second.
Hunter had just finished pouring himself a glass of water in the kitchen when he heard his cellphone vibrate on top of the small dining table that doubled as a computer desk in the living room. He checked his watch again – 01:17 a.m.
‘Detective Hunter, UVC Unit,’ he said, bringing the phone to his ear.
‘Robert . . .’
For a moment the female voice threw him. At that time in the morning, especially after just coming back from a crime scene where the forensics team had stayed behind, Hunter didn’t even check the display screen, already fully expecting to hear Kevin White’s voice, bringing him even more bad news.
‘Robert?’ the voice said again, this time as a question.
Hunter had completely forgotten about his unfinished UCLA lecture. He had completely forgotten that he had promised Professor Tracy Adams that he would call her.
‘Tracy,’ he said, his voice low and apologetic. ‘I’m so sorry I haven’t called you. I . . .’ Hunter saw no point in lying, ‘. . . forgot.’
‘No, don’t worry about that,’ Tracy replied, her tone sincere.
Hunter and Professor Adams had met for the first time a few months ago at the twenty-four-hour reading room of the historic Powell Library Building inside the UCLA campus. The attraction on both sides had been immediate and though they’d been out on a few dates where romance had certainly threatened to blossom, Hunter had chosen to keep it just a little over an arm’s length away.
‘Is everything OK?’ Tracy asked, and instantly regretted the question. She knew Hunter’s LAPD unit dealt solely with extreme violent crimes, which meant that every time he received a call where he had to drop everything and just go, everything was never OK.
‘I’m sorry. I mean . . .’ Tracy tried to think where to backpedal to.
‘It’s all right. I know what you mean,’ Hunter said, hoping Tracy wouldn’t pick up on the concern in his voice, but knowing that she was way too attentive not to.
Hunter never discussed his cases with anyone outside the realms of the investigation, no matter how close to him they were, but he had to admit that he had come close to confiding in her more than once before. Not only was Tracy one of the most grounded people he had ever met, she was also a very well-respected criminal psychology professor at UCLA. If there ever were a civilian who would understand the pressures of what he went through with the Ultra Violent Crimes Unit, Tracy Adams would certainly be that person.
‘I’m so sorry about the lecture last night,’ Hunter said, moving away from the subject. ‘I was actually looking forward to it.’
‘No you weren’t,’ Tracy replied, the quirkiness in her tone giving away the smile on her face. ‘Did you forget that I was the one who spent weeks trying to convince you to do it?’
Hunter said nothing.
‘But admit it, Robert. You were having fun, weren’t you? I saw it. You felt that teaching bug bite.’
Hunter nodded to himself. ‘It was a lot l
ess painful than what I’d expected.’
‘Well, I do love what I do,’ Tracy said. ‘But I’ll tell you this, I’d give just about anything for the attendance numbers and the level of undivided attention you got in those few minutes. Everyone in that room was completely transfixed by everything you were saying. Including me.’
Hunter laughed. ‘And the really interesting part was still to come.’
‘Yes, I can imagine.’
Hunter walked over to the large window in his living room. Outside, clouds had started gathering up in the sky, slowly ridding the night of all its stars.
‘Robert . . . are you still there?’
Hunter caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window. He looked tired.
‘Yes. I’m here.’
‘Are you at home?’
A short pause.
‘Yes, I just got in about five minutes ago, but I can’t help thinking that I should’ve stayed. CSI is still at the scene, and they’ll be there for at least another two to three hours.’
‘Wow, is it that bad?’ Tracy’s question ran away from her and for the second time in less than a minute, she found herself regretting her choice of words, but before she had a chance to apologize, Hunter surprised her.
‘Worse, Tracy,’ he confirmed in a heavy voice. ‘A lot worse.’
Tracy’s initial impulse had been to ask Hunter if he wanted to talk about it, but this time thought finally preceded action and she quickly rephrased the question in her head before actually asking it.
‘Would you like some company? Do you want to come over?’
Hunter hesitated.
‘I’m still wide awake,’ she added. ‘Will be for hours. I can tell.’
As coincidence had it, Tracy Adams also suffered from insomnia, albeit not as severely as Hunter.
‘And I’ve got a late start tomorrow. My first class is only at eleven.’
The truth was, Hunter would have loved her company, but he thought about it for an instant, more than enough time for his logical side to take over.
‘Is it OK if I take a rain check on that one? Tonight I won’t be good company to anybody.’
Hunter meant every word, but that was only part of the reason. Something had been really bothering him since he had entered Linda Parker’s bedroom a few hours back, and before the night was over he wanted to run a couple of searches against a few different databases.
‘Of course,’ Tracy replied after a silent moment. ‘If you change your mind, you know where to find me, right?’
‘I do. I’ll call you, OK?’
As soon as they disconnected, images of the crime scene began tumbling over each other inside Hunter’s head – avalanche style. He looked up at the sky again. The stars were now all gone. Darkness, it seemed, had come to Los Angeles in more ways than one.
Eleven
Dr. Carolyn Hove, the Los Angeles Chief Medical Examiner, was an early riser. She’d been so for as long as anyone could remember, including herself. Back when she was a schoolkid, even during summer breaks, and to her parents’ dismay and annoyance, young Carolyn would be up and ready for action by the crack of dawn. One of her earliest memories of her late father was of him telling her that if she looked up the definition of ‘morning person’ in a dictionary, she would probably find a picture of herself.
That morning, like every morning throughout the year, Dr. Hove arrived at the County Department of Medical Examiner – Coroner in North Mission Road at least an hour before any other pathologist in her team. That first quiet hour by herself was her favorite part of the working day.
At the reception counter, inside the lobby of the architecturally stunning old hospital-turned-morgue, Frank, the night watcher, who was built like a tank, greeted her with a warm smile.
‘Good morning, Doctor,’ he said in his natural baritone voice.
Dr. Hove smiled back at him. Despite being in her late forties, she still looked like a woman in her early thirties, tall and slim, with piercing green eyes, full lips, prominent cheekbones and a delicate nose. That morning, her long chestnut hair had been tied back into a tidy ponytail.
Frank pushed a large cup of coffee across the counter in her direction.
‘Brewed less than a minute ago,’ he said.
Every morning, as soon as Frank saw Dr. Hove driving into the parking lot through one of the many surveillance monitors, he would make a brand-new pot of strong Colombian coffee. Her favorite. By the time she’d parked and walked through the main entrance doors, he’d always have a fresh, steaming cup waiting for her.
‘I have no idea what my mornings would be like without you, Frank,’ the doctor said as she took the cup. Her voice had the sort of velvety and calm tone usually associated with experience and knowledge, and Dr. Hove possessed plenty of both. ‘Did you watch the game last night?’ she asked, already knowing the answer. Just like her, Frank was a huge Lakers fan and, if time and work allowed, would never miss a game.
‘But of course,’ he replied. ‘Did you?’
The doctor made a face at him. ‘Does Dolly Parton sleep on her back?’
Frank’s smile brightened. ‘What a game, wasn’t it? And we’re now one step closer to the playoffs.’
‘Oh, we’ll get there,’ Dr. Hove said with conviction. ‘The way we’ve been playing, there’s no doubt about it. I’ll see you tomorrow, Frank. Have a good morning and a good sleep.’
‘Have no doubt of that, Doc.’
Dr. Hove approached the double metal doors just past the reception counter and waited for Frank to buzz her in. Once she got to her office, she fired up her computer, sat back on her chair and sipped her coffee. It tasted absolutely perfect.
As her computer finally came to life, the event and autopsy rota was the first application to automatically load onto her screen.
She studied it for a short moment.
Several autopsies from the previous day had taken longer than the examining pathologist had anticipated, which was nothing new. Due to the incredible workload of the Los Angeles County morgue, such delays happened a lot more often than Dr. Hove wanted. The main problem was, those autopsies would have to be reentered into today’s schedule, pushing back the ones that had originally been planned for the day. It was a vicious cycle and at the moment, the backlog added up to roughly a week and a half.
Dr. Hove had another sip of her coffee and went to work. As the Chief Medical Examiner, it was her job to reschedule the autopsies each and every morning, reassigning examination rooms and pathologists if necessary. She had to push back five post-mortems originally scheduled for the end of the day, but after twenty minutes she had it all sorted out. Unfortunately that was only half of the battle.
Dr. Hove’s stare moved to the pile of folders that had been left inside the ‘entry’ tray on her desk. Those files belonged to the bodies that had arrived overnight. They would have to be entered into the system and added to the autopsy schedule.
‘Never a dull night in the City of Angels,’ she whispered to herself, reaching for the files.
Unknown to Dr. Hove, in the early hours of the morning, there had been two retaliation drive-by shoot-outs in Westmont. Nine males had lost their lives, and four of them were under the age of eighteen. Add five other adult bodies to that tally – three male and two female – who had all died under mysterious circumstances, and Dr. Hove was looking at fourteen new arrivals; but again, that didn’t really bother her. What did bring a worried frown to her forehead was the annotation that had been made to the cover sheet of one of the two female body files.
New entries marked as ‘urgent’ were a common trade in her line of work. Understandably, every LAPD or county sheriff homicide detective saw practically every single one of their cases as urgent, and since the results from a post-mortem examination could very easily change the entire course of an investigation, they would all like to have them back as fast as humanly possible. Dr. Hove and every pathologist in her team were more than used to handling cases tagge
d as urgent. But the file she had in her hand wasn’t marked as urgent. It was marked as a Level Zero autopsy.
Twelve
In Los Angeles, every postmortem examination where, even after death, the victim could still pose some sort of risk of contamination – radiation, poisoning, contagious diseases, etc., were tagged as ‘dangerous’ or ‘hazardous’. Those examinations were conducted exclusively inside Autopsy Theater Zero, which was the only autopsy theater located in a sealed-off area down in the basement of the main building of the Medical Examiner complex. Those autopsies were known as Level Zero and they could only be performed by a specialist team, or the Chief Medical Examiner herself.
‘Interesting,’ Dr. Hove said, flipping open the file.
She was instantly surprised.
Usually, requests for a Level Zero autopsy only came to her if the investigation was either being handled by the FBI, or had the involvement of the CDC – Center for Disease Control and Prevention – but that wasn’t the case. This investigation belonged to the LAPD. More precisely, to the Ultra Violent Crimes Unit. The name of the lead detective assigned to the case was Robert Hunter.
As the doctor read that piece of information, her interest increased. She leaned forward and placed her coffee cup on her desk.
Dr. Hove and Detective Hunter’s professional relationship went back several years and she was yet to meet a more enigmatic man than the head of the LAPD’s Ultra Violent Crimes Unit, but that wasn’t the only characteristic that differentiated Hunter from every other homicide detective inside the LAPD, and every other law-enforcement agency she had ever worked with. In twenty-one years as a pathologist, Dr. Hove had never come across anyone who could read a crime scene or get inside the mind of a killer quite the same way Detective Hunter could.
Even without seeing the body, Dr. Hove was sure that this would be an interesting postmortem examination.
