by Chris Carter
‘Detective Sanchez is over there,’ the older of the officers said, indicating a short and round man, who was chatting to one of the forensics agents. The man was about five foot six, and had his hands clasped behind his back like an undertaker overseeing a funeral. There was something funereal about the way the man looked as well – a black suit with an inch of crisp white cuff protruding from each sleeve, polished black shoes and a black tie. He had dark brown hair, which had been combed back and plastered with hair gel, Dracula-style. His bushy mustache curved around his top lip like a horseshoe.
‘Detective Hunter?’ Sanchez said, as he noticed the two new arrivals.
Hunter shook hands and introduced Garcia.
‘This is Thomas Webb,’ Sanchez said, nodding at the forensics agent he’d been chatting to. Webb was a few inches taller than Sanchez, and several pounds lighter. The forensics team were already packing up, ready to leave.
Sanchez didn’t look like a man who would waste time, shooting the breeze. Introductions over, he readily reached into his inside pocket for his notebook. ‘OK, let me tell you what we’ve got,’ he addressed Hunter and Garcia. ‘At 8:52 a.m. dispatch received a call from a Mr. Andrews.’ He indicated the red Ford Fusion. ‘The owner of that car. He’s an accountant, and he has an office on the second floor of this building. The place is almost completely empty, as you can probably deduce from the number of real estate signs up front. An insurance company used to occupy the entire first floor, but they went under six months ago. The only other business in the building is a sole trader’s quantity surveying firm, also on the second floor. We haven’t established contact with him yet.’
Sanchez paused, maybe waiting for some sort of comment from Hunter or Garcia. He got none. ‘Anyway, a black and white was dispatched to this address. When they got here, they found the body of a white female on the ground over there, right by those crates.’ He indicated the location. ‘She could’ve been anywhere between early twenties and late thirties. No one could tell.’
‘The body was taken to the state coroners about an hour ago,’ the forensics agent offered, checking his watch. ‘Unfortunately, as far as studying the scene with the body in situ goes, you’ll have to do with pictures.’ He looked around himself for an instant. ‘But this isn’t a crime scene. It’s a disposal area. If this really is a homicide case, she sure as hell wasn’t murdered here.’
Sanchez observed Hunter and Garcia for a moment before moving on. ‘Anyway, Mr. Andrews parked his car in his usual space, and as he got out he noticed the body on the ground. From where he was, his first thought was that it was probably some homeless soul, but according to him he never saw a homeless person sleeping out here before. He moved a little closer to check, and that’s when he freaked out. He called for help straightaway. He swears he didn’t touch a thing.’
‘Where is he?’ Hunter asked.
‘Up in his office. There’s an officer with him. You can interview him again if you like.’
‘The entire body was severely deformed by hundreds of different-sized lumps,’ the forensics agent explained. ‘They were inflammations and swellings, probably caused by wasp stings, more specifically tarantula hawks.’
Hunter and Garcia said nothing.
‘We recovered three wasps from inside her mouth,’ the agent continued, producing a small, tubular, plastic container with three dead tarantula hawks inside. ‘One was lodged in her throat.’
‘Was she dressed?’ Garcia asked.
‘Not completely. Underwear only. Purple in color, lacy in type.’
‘Any belongings found?’
‘Nothing. We’ve already checked the dumpster. It’s empty. As Detective Sanchez said, the building is virtually unoccupied.’
‘If you were able to identify lumps all over her body,’ Hunter said, ‘I’m assuming the body wasn’t bloated.’
Hunter knew that in the early stages after death, especially the first three days, if the body is kept in relatively normal environment conditions, cellular metabolism slows as the internal systems begin to break down. Lack of oxygen in the tissues triggers an explosive growth of bacteria, which feed on the body’s proteins, carbohydrates and fats, producing gases that cause the body to smell. That chemical reaction also causes the body to start to bloat and swell considerably, while secreting fluids from the mouth, nose, eyes, ears and lower body cavities. It had been exactly three days since they watched that woman die inside that glass coffin.
The forensics agent shook his head. ‘No. No bloating of the body, whatsoever. Actually the body was just entering rigor mortis. My guess is that she died sometime yesterday or overnight.’
Garcia looked at Hunter, but his gaze gave nothing away.
‘You’ll have to wait for the autopsy results for a more accurate time frame,’ the agent concluded.
‘Was the body sent to the coroners in North Mission Road?’ Hunter asked.
‘That’s right.’
‘Now, the really fucked-up thing is,’ Sanchez said, retrieving a clear plastic evidence bag from his pocket, ‘together with the wasps, they found this stuffed in her mouth.’ He handed the envelope to Hunter. Inside it was a yellow, square sticky note. Written in black ink, from what looked to have been a felt-tip pen, were the words Enjoy, Detective Hunter. I know I did.
Forty-Two
Hunter and Garcia read the note, and without saying a word returned it to the forensics agent. He would take it back to the lab for analysis.
‘I’m assuming that this case will now be transferred to the Homicide Special Section?’ the agent asked, as his stare flip-flopped between Hunter, Garcia and Sanchez.
Before Hunter or Garcia could answer, Sanchez lifted both of his hands, palms forward. ‘It’s all yours. Whoever did this asked for you by name, so, please, be my guest.’
‘As soon as we have any results from anything,’ the agent said, addressing Hunter and Garcia, ‘you’ll be the first to know.’ He turned and rejoined the rest of his team.
‘What the hell is going on?’ Sanchez asked, once Webb was out of earshot. ‘I’ve been observing the two of you since you got here. Checking your reactions while Webb revealed everything his team found so far, while he showed you the wasps they retrieved from inside the woman’s mouth, while you read that note and all . . . Nothing. No anger. No surprise. No disgust. Not even a wince. Fair enough, you didn’t get to see the state of that poor woman’s body up close, but even if you had I don’t think it would’ve surprised you.’ He was still studying both detectives’ faces. ‘I know you’re Homicide Special, and you’re supposed to have seen some pretty messed-up crap, but in my view, no matter how much experience you have, or how well trained you are, in a case like this something’s gotta give.’
Neither Hunter nor Garcia replied.
‘Don’t fucking tell me that you’ve seen something like this before. It looks like that woman was killed by hundreds of big-ass wasps. The biggest I’ve ever seen. That’s already nuts in itself. But from that note, one can only conclude she was murdered. I might not be Homicide Special, but I’ve been to plenty of crime scenes, and I’ve seen plenty of dead bodies. Twenty-two years’ worth of it. God knows I’ve seen some shit that would make anyone puke. But I’ll tell you now, I’ve never seen shit like this. When forensics pulled the first wasp from that woman’s mouth, my blood sugar hit the floor. I’m allergic to those things. When they pulled out that note, my balls shrunk.’ He paused and used the palm of his hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead and the nape of his neck. ‘What kind of psycho kills someone using wasps?’
Still silence from Hunter and Garcia.
‘But even after being told that hundreds of wasp stings deformed her entire body . . . even as you read that note, neither of you showed the slightest of reactions. So, you both are either the coldest motherfuckers I’ve ever met, or you were expecting this. So let me ask you again. What the hell is going on? Has this happened before?’
A tense moment passed.
Sanchez was clearly debating something in his head. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know any more details. The circumstances dictated that the case wouldn’t end up on his desk anymore, and truthfully he was glad. He ran his thumb and index finger over his mustache while staring back at the location where the body was found.
‘Do you know what?’ he said. ‘I can’t wait for retirement. I can’t wait to get the hell away from this city. Last week we arrested a father, who threw his own baby daughter out the window of his tenth-floor apartment just because she was crying too much. When, just seconds later, his girlfriend realized what had happened and started freaking out, he threw her as well. When we kicked his door down, he was sitting in his living room, watching a baseball game and eating cornflakes. The daughter died. The girlfriend is a vegetable in a hospital bed. Her brain is gone. She has no insurance, so they’re already talking about turning off the machines. The guy couldn’t give a damn either way.’
Sanchez straightened his white cuffs under his suit jacket, and then his tie. ‘This city has no conscience. It has no mercy. I wouldn’t be surprised if in the end you find out that whoever did this did it just for the fun of it.’
Forty-Three
California oaks shaded the road as Hunter turned into Loma Vista Drive from West 8th Street in Long Beach. The house they were looking for was almost at the end of the drive. Sat back from the street, it had a pale yellow front that contrasted nicely against the white door and window frames. A low wrought-iron fence surrounded the house. Behind it, a neatly mowed front lawn. The narrow driveway on the left led to the one-car garage at the back of the house. The driveway gates were open. A metallic-blue Toyota Matrix was parked just outside the garage. The license plate number matched the one they had for Christina Stevenson’s car.
According to the research team, Christina had left the LA Times headquarters on Thursday evening. She had taken Friday and Saturday off, but they were expecting to see her back on Sunday. She never turned up, but that wasn’t surprising. Reporters had a tendency of disappearing for days, depending on the story they were working on.
Hunter parked on the street, directly in front of the house. On a Monday afternoon the road was quiet. No kids playing. No one tending to their gardens or lawns. No one sitting out on their porches, enjoying the day.
They entered the property grounds via the driveway gates. Hunter knocked, and then tried the front door – locked. Both front windows were also locked, with their curtains drawn shut.
Garcia had carried on down the driveway in the direction of the blue Toyota. He gloved up and checked the car doors first, before moving onto the garage – all locked.
‘Everything up front is locked,’ Hunter said, joining Garcia. ‘Curtains are all shut.’
‘Same on this side of the house,’ Garcia replied. ‘Car and garage are locked too. But she obviously came back home on Thursday evening after she left the paper.’
They both made their way around toward the back of the house. The fence to the right of the garage wasn’t just for decoration like the one up front. This one was solid wood and about eight feet high, with a sturdy-looking door. Hunter tried the door handle. The door clicked open.
‘That’s not a good sign,’ Garcia said.
They walked through to the house’s ample patio, where a rectangular swimming pool was its main feature. Four sun loungers were arranged on one side of the pool. A small shelter at the north end of the patio housed a barbecue grill. The house was to their right, where the entire back façade was completely made of glass. There were two sliding doors leading back into the house. One led back into the living room, the other back into a bedroom. The one closer to them, leading back into the bedroom, was wide open. They started moving toward it, and at that exact moment a strong gust of wind blew east, in the direction of the house. The floral curtain behind the open door flew back just enough for them to catch a glimpse of the inside of the room. It was enough to make both detectives stop and look at each other.
‘I’ll call forensics,’ Garcia said, reaching for his phone.
Forty-Four
Christina Stevenson’s house was spacious, bigger than most in that part of town, but for the moment Mike Brindle and his forensics team were concentrating all their efforts in processing her bedroom.
The room was large and comfortable, overflowing with girly touches – from the pink dresser to the stuffed toys – but it looked like it had been hit by a hurricane. The toys, the bed pillows and several colorful cushions were scattered all over the floor. The bed covers had been partially pulled off, as if someone had grabbed at them with both hands while being forcefully dragged away from the bed. The bed itself was twisted out of position, and that had knocked the bedside table on its side. The bedside lamp had hit the floor and shattered into tens of tiny pieces. A bottle of Dom Ruinart 1998 champagne was tipped over, lying next to the bedside table. Most of the bubbly liquid had spilled out onto the floor. Some of it had seeped through the wooden floorboards; the rest had pretty much evaporated, leaving just a tiny pool by the bottle’s neck. A smashed champagne flute was lying just inches away from the bottle.
The pink dresser looked as if somebody had kicked it in a fit of rage. Perfume flasks and hair product bottles had been knocked over, and most of them were now on the floor, together with an MP3 speaker docking system, a hair dryer and various makeup items. The dresser mirror was cracked. Though they hadn’t found any blood anywhere yet, the entire room screamed one word at everyone – struggle.
But to a forensics team, a crime scene marked by a struggle was almost like hitting the jackpot. A struggle meant that the victim resisted, fought back in some way. Even if the assailant was prepared for it, with rivers of adrenaline rushing through the victim’s veins no one could predict how long or how intense that struggle would be. A struggle would always cause more evidence to be left behind – more clothes fibers lost, maybe a hair follicle, or an eyelash. A bump against the sharp corner of a bedside table or a dresser could cause a micro cut, invisible to the naked eye, but nevertheless leaving behind traces of blood and skin, and consequently DNA. Ironic as it might sound, forensically speaking a struggle was a great thing.
A forensics agent in white Tyvek hooded coveralls was dusting the glass door that Hunter and Garcia had found wide open. A second agent was slowly moving about the place, tagging and photographing every item in the room. Mike Brindle was working the bed and the area immediately around it.
Hunter and Garcia had also suited up in hooded coveralls, and were now checking the living room. The space was pleasantly decorated. The furniture was elegant and expensive-looking. A well-equipped open-plan kitchen was located at the south end of the room. To the right of the front door, three portraits were arranged next to a bowl of fake fruit on top of a stylish black sideboard.
The living room and the kitchen were in perfect order. Nothing seemed out of place. The struggle had happened only inside the bedroom.
They had found Christina Stevenson’s bag on the floor by the sideboard. Her wallet was in there, together with her driver’s license, her credit cards, her car keys and her cellphone, which had run out of battery.
Garcia was looking around the kitchen when his smart-phone beeped.
‘We’ve got a file on Ms. Stevenson,’ he announced, checking his email application.
Hunter was studying the three pictures on the sideboard. One was of Christina sitting on a beach somewhere. In the second one, a kind-faced woman with vivid blue eyes and full lips was smiling. Christina had definitely inherited her mother’s eyes, strong nose, high cheekbones and the small mole under her bottom lip. The woman on the picture had an almost identical one. The last picture showed Christina in a black and gray cocktail dress, holding a glass of champagne and talking to an elegantly dressed group of people.
‘What do we have?
’ Hunter asked, turning to face Garcia.
‘OK, I’ll skip what we already know,’ Garcia said. ‘Christina Stevenson was born right here in LA. She grew up in Northridge, where she lived with her mother, Andrea. No brothers or sisters. Her father is unknown, and according to this, Christina never had a legal stepfather. Her mother never married. She went to Granada Hills High School, and it looks like she was a good enough student – good grades, never in trouble. She was part of the cheerleaders’ team from her sophomore to her senior year.’ Garcia scrolled down on his phone application. ‘Her mother died of a brain aneurysm seven years ago, on the exact same day Christina received her degree in journalism from UCLA.’
Reflexively Hunter’s gaze returned to the portrait of the smiling woman on the sideboard.
‘It looks like her mother’s death knocked the life out of her,’ Garcia moved on. ‘Because we’ve got nothing for a whole year here. After that, she managed to land an intern’s job with the LA Times and has been with the paper ever since.’
‘Was she always with the entertainment desk?’ Hunter asked.
‘Nope. She spent four years jumping from desk to desk – city, international, politics, economy, current affairs, crime, even sports. She only settled into her own when she joined the entertainment desk two years ago. Never married. No kids. There’s no mention of any boyfriends here either. No records of drug use. They’re still checking her financial records, but the mortgage on this house is almost paid off. She earned a very decent salary from the paper.’ Garcia scrolled down a little more. ‘She had a big story published yesterday, in the Sunday edition of the LA Times. Probably the story Emilio was talking about.’
‘What was the story?’
More scrolling followed by a surprised look from Garcia.
‘Listen to this. It was a scoop on a Hollywood celebrity who’d been fooling around with her kid’s teacher while her husband, who is also a celebrity, was away, recording the latest episodes for the TV series he stars in. The story made the front cover of the entertainment supplement, with a sizable “call” on the paper’s front page.’ Garcia put his smartphone away. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but that’s the kind of story that can get you a whole bunch of new enemies. The kind that can break up marriages and destroy lives.’
