One by One

by Chris Carter

  Garcia nodded his understanding.

  ‘He didn’t call you on Monday night?’ Hunter asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you call him?’

  ‘Yes, but he no answer phone. Message said phone not ’vailable.’

  ‘What time was that, can you remember? What time did you call your husband?’

  Anita didn’t have to think about it. ‘Not late. Around eight thirty. Kevin is never late home. He is usually back from work by eight o’clock.’

  Hunter wrote that down.

  ‘Did you talk to any of his work colleagues from the shop? Was he at work on Monday?’

  ‘Yes. I call the shop Monday night. After I tried calling Kevin. No answer. Nobody there. I call the policia at eleven, but they didn’t care. A cop came by at around one in the morning, but he just said I had to wait. Maybe Kevin would be back home in the morning. Morning came and Kevin not home. Then I call shop again. Talk to Emilio. Emilio is a good friend. Old friend. He said Kevin worked on Monday, but no stay after work to play Internet games. He said they closed the shop at seven and Kevin left. I called police again, but they still didn’t care. They say Kevin was not a child. They had to wait one or two days before they could do anything.’

  Hunter and Garcia knew that to be true. In America, any adult has the right to go missing if he or she wants to. Maybe they don’t want to see their wife or husband for a day or two. Maybe they just need a break from everything. It was their prerogative. California’s Missing Persons’ protocol dictated that they should wait between twenty-four and forty-eight hours before filing a missing persons’ complaint for anyone over the age of eighteen.

  Hunter took some more notes. ‘Does Kevin drive to work?’

  ‘No, he takes bus.’

  ‘Did you, as a family, have any financial problems?’ Garcia asked.

  ‘Financial?’

  ‘Money problems,’ Garcia clarified.

  Anita shook her head vigorously. ‘No. We pay everything on time. We don’t owe nobody no money.’

  ‘Did Kevin?’ Garcia pursued it. ‘Did he gamble?’ He noticed her confused look and clarified again before she could ask. ‘Bet . . . apuesta. Did he bet . . . on horses, or Internet poker or anything?’

  The face Anita pulled was as if Garcia had bad-mouthed her entire family. ‘No. Kevin is a good man. A good father. He’s a good husband. We go to church every Sunday.’ She indicated the portrait of Jesus on the wall. ‘Kevin likes videogames, like boom, boom, boom, shoot monsters.’ She used her thumb and index finger to create an imaginary gun. ‘Shoot soldiers in war, you know? But he’s no betting chico. Él no apuesta. Just like to play. We save all the money we can – for Lilia.’ She looked down at her daughter, who was still happily sucking on her dummy. ‘His heart is not so good, you know? He takes medicine. Doctor said he has to be careful. He is scared he won’t see Lilia grow up, so he saves for her future.’ Anita’s eyes started to fill with tears. ‘Something is wrong. I know it. Kevin always call. There was no bus accident. I checked. This neighborhood very dangerous. This city very dangerous. People think LA is all about Hollywood and big life, you know? It’s not.’ A tear ran down her cheek. ‘I’m scared. Kevin and Lilia is all I have. My family is in Puerto Rico. You have to find Kevin for me. You have to.’

  Hunter’s heart sank for the second time, and he felt something tighten inside his chest because he knew there was nothing he could do. It was time to tell Anita the truth.

  Nineteen

  Hunter and Garcia sat in silence inside Garcia’s car for a long moment. Having to break the news to somebody as vulnerable as Anita that her husband had been taken by a psychopath, that his body had been almost dissolved in an alkali bath, and that baby Lilia would never see her father again had a way of rattling even the most experienced of detectives.

  At first Anita just stared at them, as if not a single word they’d said had registered. Then she started laughing. Loud, hysterical laughs, as if she’d heard the world’s funniest joke. Tears streamed down her face, but the laughter carried on. Then she told them that they had to leave because her husband was due home at any minute. She had things to do before he got back. She wanted to prepare him his favorite meal, and then he would sit and play with his daughter like he did every night. Anita was shaking as if feverish when she closed the door on them.

  Hunter left without saying another word. In his career he had seen the most diverse grief reactions: a mother who sincerely believed her son had been abducted by aliens rather than accept the fact that he’d been stabbed thirty-three times simply for walking down a neighborhood wearing the wrong colors; a new doctor, fresh out of med school, who lost all memory of his young wife rather than recall the night their house was broken into by four men, who tied him up and made him watch as they showed her absolutely no mercy. When reality becomes too senseless to make sense, the human mind will sometimes create its own.

  Hunter would immediately request that a city psychologist got in touch with Anita. She would need all the help she could get.

  Someone from the forensics office would also visit Anita in the next day or so. They would need a mouth swab, or a hair sample from her baby daughter. Hunter and Garcia were certain the victim was Kevin Lee Parker, but protocol required positive identification. With the body’s grotesque disfigurement, Anita would never be able to identify it down at the County Coroner’s. Positive identification would have to be made by DNA analyses.

  ‘Shit!’ Garcia said, resting his head against the steering wheel. ‘We’re looking for another I-don’t-care-who-the-fuck-I-kill murderer.’

  Hunter just looked at him.

  ‘You just saw the victim’s house. There’s no wealth. You met his wife and daughter – simple everyday people. OK, we have to wait for whatever the research team can dig out on Kevin Lee Parker, but does any of what we know or have seen about his life so far strike you as anything other than ordinary?’

  Hunter said nothing.

  ‘I’ll be surprised if the team finds even a parking ticket on him. He was just a young family man trying to get by, trying to build some sort of a future for his wife and daughter before his faulty heart gave up.’ Garcia shook his head. ‘I don’t think Kevin Lee Parker became a victim because of money, or debt, or drugs, or revenge, or anything. He was just picked at random out of the general public by a sadistic maniac. It could’ve been anyone, Robert. He was at the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘You know we can’t be sure of that at this point, Carlos.’

  ‘Well, that’s my gut feeling, Robert. This isn’t about the victim. It’s about the killer showing off on a God power trip. Why build that torture chamber? Why call us and stream the execution live over the Internet for us to watch, as if it were a goddamn killing show? You said so yourself, the whole setup behind this is too bold, too complex – a phone call that bounces all around LA, not the world or even America, just LA, but an Internet transmission that seemed to have originated in Taiwan?’

  Hunter had no reply.

  ‘This guy just wants to kill. Period. Who he kills makes no fucking difference to him.’

  Hunter still said nothing.

  ‘You were right in your assessment,’ Garcia continued. ‘If we don’t stop this guy soon, Kevin Lee Parker won’t be the only victim we’re going to find. He’s just going to pick someone else at random off the streets, put him in that torture chamber and start the nightmare again. Maybe Baxter is right. Maybe this psycho is playing a game. Showing off how sick and creative he can be at the same time. You’re the psychologist here, what do you think? I must say that when he was talking to you on the phone, I had never heard anyone sound so cold and without emotion. The victim’s life meant absolutely nothing to him.’

  Garcia had picked up the exact same apathy in the caller’s voice as Hunter had. There was no anger, no revenge tone, no satisfaction, no amusement, nothing. The caller had dealt with taking a life in the same way a person would deal with ope
ning a tap and filling a glass with water. Hunter and Garcia both knew that that was the worst type of killer any detective could be faced with. The one to whom it seemed that nothing mattered. Killing was just a game.

  Twenty

  Hunter and Garcia drove straight to the Next-Gen Games Shop in Hyde Park where Kevin Lee Parker used to work. According to Anita, Kevin’s best friend was another employee of the same store – Emilio Mendoza.

  The videogames shop occupied a double corner unit in a small shopping mall in Crenshaw Boulevard. At that time in the morning business was slow, with only a handful of kids browsing the shelves.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Hunter said, grabbing the attention of a shop assistant who was reorganizing a couple of displays at the front of the shop. ‘Could you tell me if Emilio is working today?’

  The man’s stare slowly zigzagged between both detectives for a brief moment.

  ‘I’m Emilio,’ he said, placing one last game on the shelf and offering them a cheesy smile. ‘How can I help you today?’ His Puerto Rican accent was subtle, charming.

  Emilio looked to be in his early thirties, with a heavy and oddly shaped body – round and bulbous around the shoulders and stomach, a little like a child’s party balloon that had been squeezed into shape. He had short dark hair and a thin, perfectly groomed mustache.

  ‘We’re with the LAPD,’ Hunter said, displaying his credentials. Garcia did the same. ‘Is there a place where we could talk with a little more privacy?’

  Emilio shifted on his feet uncomfortably. His quizzical gaze started bouncing between both detectives again.

  ‘It’s about Kevin Lee Parker,’ Hunter clarified, but Emilio seemed to become even more confused.

  ‘Is Kev OK?’

  Hunter’s eyes circled the shop before returning to Emilio. ‘Maybe we should talk back at the parking lot?’ he suggested, jerking his head to one side.

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ Emilio nodded and turned to address the tall and skinny assistant behind the counter. ‘Frank, I’ve gotta take a ten-minute break. Will you be OK?’

  Frank’s eyes lingered on the two men with Emilio for a quick moment. ‘Yeah, I’ll be fine.’ He nodded. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Yeah, we’re all good. I’ll be back in ten.’

  Emilio followed Hunter and Garcia back to the parking lot. ‘Kevin isn’t OK, is he?’ he asked once they reached Garcia’s car. Hunter detected real fear in his voice.

  ‘When was the last time you saw Kevin?’ Garcia asked.

  ‘Monday,’ Emilio replied. ‘He was working Monday. He was supposed to be working every day this week, but he didn’t turn up on Tuesday morning, or any day after that. Anita, his wife, called me on Tuesday morning. Kev didn’t go home on Monday night. She said that she had called the police, but they didn’t pay her much attention.’

  ‘What time did he leave work on Monday, do you know?’ Hunter asked.

  ‘Yes, same time as always,’ Emilio said. ‘He closed the shop at around 7:00 p.m., as he does daily. We usually walk up to the bus stop on Hyde Park Boulevard and 10th Avenue together, but on Monday evening I decided to grab dinner at Chico’s, just around the corner.’ Emilio pointed east. ‘I asked Kev if he wanted to come along, but he said that he just wanted to go home and play with his daughter.’

  ‘Do you know if he made it to the bus stop?’

  ‘I don’t.’ Emilio’s response was followed by a headshake.

  ‘On Monday, did Kevin look or sound different in any way?’ Garcia asked. ‘Nervous, anxious, agitated, worried, scared . . . anything?’

  Emilio pulled a face as if that was the strangest question in the world.

  ‘No. Kev was . . . ’ He shrugged. ‘Kev. Always smiling. Always happy. Nothing different about him at all.’

  ‘Was he a gambler of some sort?’

  Emilio’s eyes widened and he chuckled nervously. ‘Kevin, a gambler? No way. He was into videogames and online gaming, more specifically “Call of Duty – Modern Warfare, Black Ops 2” and “Ghost Recon”, but that was it. No casino games. Kev wouldn’t throw money away like that.’

  ‘How long have you known each other?’ Hunter asked.

  Emilio gave them an uncertain headshake. ‘A long time. Over fifteen years. We met in lower school back in Gardena. Kev is the one who got me this job two years ago, after he became shop manager. I was struggling, you know? I was laid off a few years back and couldn’t get a job nowhere. Kev is a real friend . . . my best friend.’

  ‘So you don’t think that he was in any sort of trouble?’ Garcia asked.

  ‘I don’t think so. Look, if Kev is in any kind of trouble . . . anything, really, he would’ve told me, I’m sure of it; if not, I would’ve picked it up anyway. He isn’t very good at hiding things. He’s a very average guy, quite shy sometimes. He loves his family, and he loves his job. There really isn’t that much more to him. Something must’ve happened. And I mean something bad, you know what I’m saying? I’m telling you, he wouldn’t just take off. He has no reason to. He’s not a heavy drinker or anything, and I know he doesn’t sleep around.’ Emilio paused and looked back at both detectives, now visibly shaken. ‘Something did happen to Kevin, didn’t it? That’s why you’re here. You’re not from Missing Persons.’

  ‘No, I’m afraid we’re not,’ Garcia replied.

  Twenty-One

  It was twenty-eight minutes past five in the afternoon when Hunter finished going through the road camera footage he was sent by the Valley Bureau’s Traffic Division. The closest, constant recording traffic camera to the alleyway in Mission Hills, where the victim’s body had been found, was just shy of a mile away, on the intersection of two major freeways – San Diego and Ronald Reagan – an escaping man’s dream. The problem was the killer didn’t have to take any of those freeways at that junction. He didn’t have to take a freeway at all. He could’ve easily gone from one side of LA to the other via city streets, where the largest majority of traffic cameras were activated only if you broke the speed limit or drove through a red light. He could’ve dropped the body in that back alley and driven all the way across town without a single camera ever picking him up.

  Nevertheless, Hunter sped through four hours of traffic footage, spotting thirty-seven pickup trucks joining one of the two freeways at that junction. Twenty-one of them were dark in color, but none of them seemed to have a dented back fender. Hunter passed the license plate number of all thirty-seven vehicles to his team, just in case Keon had been wrong. He didn’t want to leave anything to chance.

  ‘I told you we wouldn’t get anything out of the ordinary,’ Garcia said, walking back into the office. He had a file in his hands. ‘Kevin Lee Parker was your everyday John Doe. A simple guy, with a simple life. He’s never been arrested. Always paid his taxes on time. He’s not a homeowner; he rents. We contacted his landlord. Only once, about two years ago, Kevin wasn’t able to pay his rent on time. It was just after his wedding and he was a little low on his finances. Anyway, he was only late by a couple of weeks. The landlord said that he was an upstanding guy.’

  Hunter nodded and leaned back in his chair.

  ‘Kevin grew up in Westlake, where he went to school. His school records were average. Not the best of students, but not the worst either. He never went to university. Kevin had a series of odd jobs all over the place – waiter, supermarket attendant, warehouse clerk . . . ’ Garcia made a hand gesture indicating that the list went on and on. ‘He started working for Next-Gen Games Shop in Hyde Park five years ago, and took the manager’s position three years later. He married Anita around the same time. They’d been going out together for five years then. His daughter, Lilia, was born six months ago.’

  Garcia had to clear his throat as the memory of the smiling baby in her mother’s arms came back to him.

  ‘It sounds like he was a very careful person too.’ He moved on. ‘As we found out, he had a heart condition – mitral stenosis. He was conscientious enough never to abuse it. No strenuous
exercise, never smoked, apparently no drugs either. He was part of a healthcare plan, but it doesn’t look like it was a great one. He still had to cough up a little more money every time he saw a doctor. And that’s why in the last five years he’d been to see a cardiologist only twice – Doctor Mel Gooding. His practice is in South Robertson. We can drop by tomorrow morning.’

  Hunter nodded.

  ‘As Emilio told us earlier today, Kevin didn’t have a vast circle of friends. His life was centered around his family and his job; that was it. Emilio was his best friend.’ Garcia flipped a page on the report before carrying on. ‘We should have a statement on his latest bank transactions by tomorrow morning. Nothing yet from his cellphone or web provider, but hopefully we’ll get something in a day or two.’

  ‘Any news on the bus?’ Hunter asked.

  Garcia nodded. ‘Kevin used to take a bus on route 207 back home. It goes from Athens to Hollywood. There were six drivers driving that route for the LA Metro on Monday evening. I’ve got all their names here. Four are working tonight. The other two will be in tomorrow morning.’ He quickly consulted his watch and handed the report to Hunter. ‘It’s your call. But we can be at the depot in an hour or so and check with the four drivers working tonight if any of them remember seeing Kevin on their bus on Monday evening.’

  Hunter was already out of his chair. ‘Let’s go.’

  Before he got to the office door, his cellphone rang in his pocket. He checked the caller display window – unknown number.

  ‘Detective Hunter, Homicide Special,’ he answered it.

  ‘Hello, Detective Hunter,’ the caller said in the same raspy voice and calm tone as two days ago.