by Chris Carter
Hunter began studying the blood-covered walls one more time.
‘Now,’ Garcia continued. ‘If we consider the possibility that the killer saw this whole scene as an art piece, that this entire room was nothing but a canvas to him, then the apparent brutality in here starts to make sense, because it loses its sadistic connotation. In the killer’s eyes, what happened in here wasn’t evil or vicious; it was art. There probably was no anger toward the victim. This killer didn’t thrive in the power or the dominance of the murder act. He didn’t feed off her fear or suffering. That’s why he killed her quickly. And what did he do immediately after suffocating her? He took off her hands and feet. Why? Because he wanted to keep them? I don’t think so. To make skinning her body a little easier, like Dr. Hove suggested? Maybe. But I think there was another reason, too. I think he took them because they were the extremities to her body’s major arteries and veins.’
Hunter paused and thoughtfully looked back at his partner.
‘To create his brush strokes,’ Garcia explained, indicating the walls around the room, ‘he needed her blood, Robert. It was his paint, so to speak.’
Hunter was still staring at the walls. He took two steps back, one to his right, tilted his head sideways and began studying them from a different angle.
Garcia carried on with his analysis.
‘The skinned body on the bed was simply the centerpiece in his live canvas. To the killer, her suffering, if there was any, her death, all of it, was secondary – collateral damage so he could create his masterpiece.’
Hunter looked back at the bed pushed up against the south wall. Though Linda Parker’s body wasn’t there anymore, he could easily see the whole scene in his head as if it were.
‘Just like the Chessboard Killer example you gave me a moment ago,’ Garcia concluded. ‘This killer’s pleasure didn’t come from the murder or the violence in it, it came from accomplishing something he had set out to accomplish. In the Chessboard Killer’s case – beating a record. In this case – creating a sick and grotesque art piece.’
‘How about the victim?’ Hunter asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘How was she chosen? You said that to the killer, her suffering, her death, all of it was secondary, right? How about the victim herself? Do you think that she was also secondary? I mean – any person would do as long as the killer could create his art? Or did he pick Linda Parker for a specific reason?’
Garcia paused by the bed. The blood-soaked sheets were still on it. ‘I’m not sure. He could’ve picked her because it was convenient for him.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Hunter disagreed. ‘If he really thinks of himself as an artist, and this is the kind of art he creates, his centerpiece wouldn’t have been chosen for convenience, Carlos. Artists are usually very specific in their vision of what they want to create. Something must’ve brought him here. Something must’ve made him choose her.’
‘OK, so what do you think it could be? It couldn’t have been anything to do with her looks because it doesn’t feature in the final composition. She was skinned, remember? If she had been black, Asian, blonde, brunette, drop-dead-gorgeous, diarrhea-ugly, whatever, it wouldn’t have mattered. The final effect would still have been the same because all we could see was muscle tissue.’
‘That’s true,’ Hunter agreed. ‘But I wouldn’t discard her looks just yet. Maybe it doesn’t matter to us – spectators – because we only really got to see the finished work. Or maybe that was exactly the killer’s intention – for us to think that the victim didn’t really matter; but it mattered to him.’ Hunter paused, as with Garcia’s suggestion a new thought entered his mind. ‘She was a model, right? Clothes catalogs, catwalks, that sort of thing.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘How about art modeling? Posing for paintings, sculptures, art photos . . . whatever. Anything to do with art, not fashion.’
Garcia’s eyes lit up as he reached for his cellphone. ‘I don’t know, but I’ll get someone on it right now.’
While Garcia spoke to Operations, Hunter changed position again. This time he walked back toward the bedroom door and placed his left cheek against the wall.
‘Robert, what the hell are you doing?’ Garcia asked as he disconnected from the call.
‘Clutching at straws, I guess.’
‘By doing what?’
‘I’m not really sure. Maybe I’m just trying to see something where there isn’t anything to be seen.’
‘See something? It looked like you were trying to listen to the wall.’
‘I was looking at the blood smears, actually.’
Garcia walked over to where Hunter was. ‘You picked a really weird angle to look at them.’
‘Exactly. I was thinking about the letters carved into the victim’s back and how some of the lines didn’t connect properly. If this whole scene really is a canvas, then maybe just like the carvings, all these smears aren’t what they initially appear to be. Maybe they all add up to something else – an image, another letter, another message – something other than just blood marks on the walls.’
Garcia hadn’t thought of that, but it made a lot of sense.
‘Maybe the reason why we can’t see it,’ Hunter continued, ‘is because we’re not looking at it the right way, using the correct perspective, the correct angle . . . I’m not sure. Some works of art are like that – the image changes as you change your point of view, but hey, like I’ve said, I’m clutching at straws here because nothing really makes sense.’
‘Maybe you are clutching at straws,’ Garcia agreed. ‘But I say that that’s definitely worth a try.’
He walked over to the north wall and placed his right cheek on it.
Twenty-Three
The snacks room at the blood center in downtown Tucson wasn’t very big, but it was spacious enough to accommodate three small tables and the two other people already in it reasonably well.
Despite having no appetite, Timothy Davis walked over to the table in the corner that displayed a very small selection of cookies and biscuits. His eyes scanned the few packets on the table and his mouth twisted awkwardly.
‘Not really a varied choice, is it?’
The question came from the tall man who had just joined Timothy by the table. He too seemed to be struggling with a decision.
‘No, sir,’ Timothy replied with a slight headshake. ‘The problem is, I’m not very big on cookies or biscuits.’
‘Yeah, I hear you, buddy, me neither, but unfortunately this is all the Red Cross can afford. Actually, I think that even these packets have come from donations.’
‘Yes, sir, they probably have.’
The man studied Timothy for a brief second. ‘I’m Mike,’ he said, extending a strong and firm hand. His arm had also been bandaged, but his dressing seemed quite different from the one Nurse Atkins had applied around Timothy’s arm. Timothy failed to notice that.
‘Timothy Davis. Pleasure to meet you, sir.’
‘OK, what’s with the “sir” thing?’ Mike asked, his brow creasing under his baseball cap.
‘Oh, please take no offense, sir. Where I come from I just . . . got used to calling everybody either “sir” or “ma’am”, that’s all. I don’t mean anything by it.’
‘Where you come from?’ Mike said, running his thumb and forefinger over his thick walrus mustache. ‘Let me take a wild guess here – somewhere in the Deep South.’
Timothy smiled. ‘That’s right, sir. Alabama, born, bred and raised.’
‘Alabama? That’s a looong way away. So what brings you to Tucson?’
‘Mostly work,’ Timothy replied, extending and flexing his arm a couple of times. ‘This gets quite itchy, doesn’t it?’
Mike chuckled. ‘It sure does. Is this your first time?’
Timothy nodded. ‘I should’ve done it before, but . . .’ his voice was padded by melancholy. ‘Anyway, I’ve promised myself that I’ll be a regular from now on. Yes, sir.
Got to try and help others when we can, you know? At least some. People just don’t seem to care about each other anymore.’ Timothy raised a hand. ‘I’ll admit that I’ve been guilty of that myself for a long time. But I’ll do better from now on, sir. Yes I will.’
The melancholy was still there, but before Mike could ask anything else, Timothy moved the subject along.
‘How about you, sir? Is this your first time?’
‘Oh no. This is my . . . eighth.’
At that exact moment, Timothy’s stomach growled so loudly Mike took a step back.
‘Wow,’ he said, making a face, his blue eyes paused on Timothy’s stomach. ‘It sounds like you have something alive and very angry in there.’
‘I apologize, sir. I’m not sure where that came from.’
‘From being hungry,’ Mike said. ‘That’s where. Didn’t you have some food before coming here?’
Timothy hesitated. When he spoke again, his voice was barely louder than a whisper. ‘I know I was supposed to, but . . .’
Despite the hunger noises coming from his stomach, Timothy didn’t feel like eating anything. In fact, he hadn’t had much of an appetite for the past three and a half weeks and he had dropped a considerable amount of weight in that time.
‘Well,’ Mike said, ‘I’m afraid that cookies and biscuits just won’t be enough to silence that dragon living in your stomach. Have you had breakfast this morning?’
‘Umm . . . I did, I just didn’t eat very much.’
‘Are you nuts?’ Mike asked. ‘That’s a crazy thing to do on the morning you’re giving blood. I’m surprised they allowed you to donate.’
Timothy’s eyes averted.
‘You never told them, did you? Of course not. If you had they would’ve sent you home and asked you to come back tomorrow or the day after.’
‘I know, sir, but I haven’t had much of an appetite lately and I doubt that that will change in the next few days.’ The sadness in Timothy’s eyes was heartbreaking.
‘Why?’ Mike asked. ‘Are you ill? Have you been to a doctor?’
‘No, sir, I’m not ill. I’m just . . . reevaluating my choices in life, I guess.’
‘Well, your stomach is begging you for some food, my friend, and now that you have just given blood, you need to listen to it, unless you enjoy passing out without much warning.’
Timothy shook his head. ‘Not particularly, sir, no.’ He looked back at the cookie table.
Mike consulted his watch. ‘I have an idea. Do you like Mexican food?’
Timothy curbed a smile. It was his favorite kind of food.
‘Yes, sir, very much.’
‘OK, the “sir” thing will have to stop. Please. It’s making me feel ancient. Just call me Mike, OK?’
Timothy nodded in agreement. ‘Sure, Mike. Please call me Tim.’
Mike smiled. ‘That’s much better. I already feel young again. So now back to the subject at hand, Tim: just around the corner from here there’s a fantastic little Mexican café. They do the most incredible burritos. That will certainly fill you up, I promise you. How about you and I go grab ourselves some proper food, Mexican style. I’m buying. What do you say?’
Timothy looked unsure.
‘C’mon,’ Mike insisted. ‘Neither of us can really go into work today, especially you, no matter what it is that you do, and we both need food. Doctor’s orders.’ He grinned. ‘So we might as well eat something we enjoy, don’t you think?’
As if on cue Timothy’s stomach growled again.
‘OK, we have one “yes”,’ Mike joked. ‘Any more takers?’
Timothy smiled as he also checked his watch. He didn’t really have anywhere to go back to. He had quit his job, and home . . . well, home just didn’t feel like home anymore.
‘Yes,’ he finally replied. ‘Mexican sounds mighty fine right now. Lead the way and I’ll follow.’
‘Great,’ Mike said. ‘But first let’s grab some orange juice. We both need the fluids and the sugar.’
‘I guess that’s a good idea.’
As the man walked across the room and grabbed two cups of orange juice from a small table, Timothy never noticed him emptying the contents of the tiny bottle he had palmed into his right hand into one of the cups.
Twenty-Four
Once Hunter and Garcia left Linda Parker’s house, they decided to split the afternoon’s interview workload. Hunter was seeing Linda’s parents in Cheviot Hills while Garcia was dropping by her model agency in West Hollywood. By pure chance, they both made it back to the Police Administration Building just seconds apart. Hunter had just locked the door to his old Buick when Garcia pulled up next to him.
‘Did you just get here?’ he asked as he jumped out of his car. ‘Or are you going out again?’
‘No, I just got back.’
‘So how was your interview?’
‘Tough,’ Hunter replied. ‘Her parents are in shock. Getting any sort of information out of them was a very slow and tactical affair.’
‘That’s why you went to them while I checked out her model agency,’ Garcia said. ‘You’re much more tactful than I am. Anyway, did they give you anything?’
‘Nothing ground-breaking,’ Hunter explained. ‘As we were told, it does sound like Linda Parker’s mother was also her best friend. They hung out together. Went places together. Took holidays together. Did most things best friends do together. She was adamant that Linda always told her everything that was going on with her personal life. Including about guys she was seeing.’
Garcia tilted his head sideways in a ‘not so sure’ way. ‘Did you buy that?’
‘No. Nobody ever gets told everything. No matter how good a friend they think they are. We all have secrets.’
‘Especially when it comes to mother-and-daughter relationships,’ Garcia agreed. ‘I just can’t see a daughter telling her mother everything, regardless of how open-minded they both are.’
‘But we’ve got to go with what we have,’ Hunter said. ‘Which is, according to her mother, Linda Parker wasn’t seeing anyone. Actually, her mother told me that she’d never really had a steady boyfriend.’
‘Never? Really?’
They entered the PAB, crossed the reception lobby and cleared security.
‘She told me that Linda just didn’t have time for relationships,’ Hunter clarified. ‘And that since high school she had always concentrated all her efforts on her career and getting into the international fashion world. She said boyfriends were a distraction that Linda knew very well how to live without.’
They reached the elevator.
‘Actually,’ Garcia said, ‘the people at her model agency told me pretty much the same thing – that Linda Parker wasn’t the dating type and that she was very focused on her career.’
‘But I did get something else that might help us,’ Hunter added.
‘Oh, and what’s that?’
‘Emily Parker wasn’t only Linda’s mother and best friend. She also helped Linda with her online presence – Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, YouTube and email.’
‘OK.’
‘That means that she had the username and password to all of Linda’s accounts,’ Hunter said.
‘Wow. We won’t have to hack into anything?’
‘Not this time.’
‘Damn, that’s got to be a first.’
‘Her mother also told me that on the day she was murdered, Monday, Miss Parker had a very busy day – five photoshoots in five different studios scattered all over LA.’
‘Yep. I got the same info from her agency. We’re going to have to check them all.’
As they crossed the Robbery Homicide Division’s floor in the direction of their office, they both frowned as they noticed that their door was ajar.
‘Did you forget to lock the office?’ Hunter asked.
Garcia looked back at him sideways. ‘You were behind me when we left, remember? If anybody forgot to lock anything, it was you.’
‘I never f
orget to lock the door.’
‘Maybe the captain is in there,’ Garcia came back.
‘Yeah, but why?’
As they at last got to their office, Hunter and Garcia stopped by the open door. Captain Blake wasn’t in there. Instead, standing directly in front of their picture board with her back toward them and seemingly studying all the photographs that had been pinned onto it was a five-foot-eight woman. Her black hair had been elegantly styled into a shoulder-length beach wave. She wore a perfectly cut dark-gray suit jacket and a matching knee-length skirt.
Hunter didn’t need to ask to know who she was.
Garcia, on the other hand, had no clue who the woman was. He was much more impulsive.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, his tone firm and demanding. ‘Who the hell are you and how did you get in here?’
‘He skinned her?’ the woman asked without turning around and completely disregarding Garcia’s question. ‘And he severed her hands and feet?’ The surprise in her voice was undeniable.
Garcia’s head jerked back momentarily as his eyes widened with wonder. ‘Sorry, lady, are you hard of hearing? This office is out of bounds to everyone. You can’t be in here.’
‘And what the hell is this?’ she asked, still facing the board. ‘Is this a frozen cat? What the hell is going on here?’
