One by One

by Chris Carter

  ‘A different approach,’ Doctor Hove said, slipping a brand-new pair of latex gloves on. ‘But just as sadistic as the first murder, if you ask me.’ She had already watched the recorded footage.

  Hunter and Garcia positioned themselves on the left side of the stainless-steel examination table.

  ‘Because wasps do not leave their stinger behind,’ Doctor Hove began, ‘allowing them to sting multiple times, it’s impossible to tell how many times she was actually stung. As an educated guess, I’d say close to a thousand times.’

  Garcia’s throat knotted as beads of cold sweat broke out on his forehead. Only four stings had sent him into hospital when he was a kid. He could still remember the pain, and how sick he felt. His brain couldn’t even begin to contemplate what a thousand stings would’ve been like.

  ‘As she was lying on her back during the attack,’ Doctor Hove continued, ‘the wasps concentrated their efforts on the front and sides of her body. The least-stung areas are these small sections of her breasts.’ She indicated with her index finger. ‘And this area around her groin and hips. As you know, the reason for that is because she was wearing a bra and panties. The lab is already analyzing them. Any findings, you’ll be the first to know.’ She paused to clear her throat. ‘Safe of those areas, as you can see, she was stung pretty much everywhere else, including the inside of her mouth, the back of her throat, her tongue, her eyes and the inside of her nostrils.’ Doctor Hove glanced at the chart on the west wall that itemized the weights of the deceased’s internal organs. ‘I retrieved dead wasps from deep inside her aural cavity, her esophagus and her stomach.’

  Garcia closed his eyes and swallowed dry. He was starting to feel unwell.

  ‘Stomach analysis showed that it was practically empty,’ Doctor Hove said.

  Hunter knew that that wasn’t unusual in a kidnap/murder case where the murder was committed only a day or two after the kidnapping. Even if the perpetrator had tried to feed his victim, the sheer fear, anxiety and uncertainty that come with being held in captivity would’ve undoubtedly acted as a very powerful appetite suppressant, even for the most steady of individuals.

  ‘She died from cardiac arrest, probably caused by anaphylactic shock.’

  From what Hunter and Garcia had witnessed with the broadcast, they were sure the victim hadn’t been allergic to wasps’ venom. If she had, her body would’ve started shutting itself down immediately after the first sting. Without help, death would’ve come too fast. A lot faster than the almost eighteen minutes it took her to die.

  The doctor looked up and noticed that Garcia had taken a step back. He didn’t look too good. ‘You OK, Carlos?’

  He nodded, avoiding eye contact. ‘Yep. Fine. Just carry on, please.’

  ‘You probably already know this,’ she continued. ‘But for an anaphylactic reaction to occur, one must have been exposed, in the past, to the substance that causes the reaction, called the antigen. In this case, the wasps’ venom. This process is called sensitization. The problem is, even if she wasn’t already allergic to the antigen, in the case of a prolonged attack, like the one she suffered, the sheer volume of venom injected directly into her bloodstream could’ve easily caused one of two extreme reactions – either force an exceptionally quick sensitization or skip the process all together, forcing the body straight into anaphylaxis – extreme allergic reaction.’

  Garcia used the sleeve of his white coverall to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

  ‘But I did say that the cardiac arrest was probably caused by anaphylactic shock.’ Doctor Hove opened a red folder that was resting on the stainless-steel counter to her right. ‘But there’s another possibility. The main characteristic of the tarantula hawk’s venom is that it paralyzes its prey. Now you have to remember that its main prey is the tarantula spider, which can be twice, maybe three times larger than the wasp itself.’

  ‘Very strong venom,’ Hunter said.

  ‘For its natural prey, fatal,’ Doctor Hove agreed. ‘But its paralyzing ability shouldn’t affect humans, unless a very high quantity of it is injected into the bloodstream. In that case, there’s a very high possibility that the venom could induce a human heart into paralysis.’

  Everyone’s gaze came back to the body on the table for a long, silent moment.

  ‘I read Mike Brindle’s report,’ Doctor Hove said, grabbing their attention again. ‘And I also looked through his inventory list from the abduction scene . . . her own home, right?’

  Hunter nodded.

  ‘The broken nails he found . . . they match.’ She indicated the body’s hands.

  Hunter and Garcia moved a little closer to examine them. The nails of the index and middle fingers on the right hand had been torn. The same had happened to the nail of the index finger on the left hand.

  ‘Anything under the remaining nails?’ Hunter asked.

  Doctor Hove pulled a face. ‘Well, there should have been, right? Brindle’s report describes a typical struggle scene.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Hunter confirmed.

  ‘So if she fought her aggressor, chances are that something would’ve lodged itself under a nail – fabric fiber, skin, hair, dust . . . something.’

  ‘There was nothing?’ Garcia this time.

  ‘She was cleaned up,’ the doctor said. ‘Her nails have been scrubbed with bleach. They’re as clean as a newborn baby’s. This killer is taking no chances.’

  Doctor Hove allowed them to study the body’s hands for a few more seconds before she spoke again.

  ‘Now, here’s a surprising fact,’ she said. ‘The killer preserved the body after she died, by cooling it down.’

  Hunter wasn’t so surprised. He had had his suspicions.

  ‘We all know that she died five days ago, on Friday evening,’ the doctor explained, ‘but her body was only discovered on Monday morning, that’s almost seventy-two hours later. The average temperature in Los Angeles in the past week was around eighty-three degrees. After three days, the body should’ve been bloated and discharging fluids from just about everywhere. The inflamed lumps from the wasps’ stings should’ve subsided considerably, large blisters substituting them, caused by body gases. Rigor mortis should’ve come and gone two days ago. The body was still in the late stages of it by last night. The perp preserved the body.’

  Refrigeration slowed decomposition in the same way it delayed cold cuts from spoiling, and preserved fruits and vegetables from going bad too quickly.

  Both Hunter and Garcia knew that in most cases, when the perpetrator preserved the whole body after the murder, a very strong emotion was involved. The three most common ones were hate, love and lust.

  In the case of love, the perp generally avoided disfiguring the victim, keeping the body as close to its original state as possible, for as long as possible. Disposing of the body wasn’t something the perp was prepared to do so easily.

  In the case of hate, the perp kept physically punishing the victim over and over again, to soothe the anger inside. Disfigurement was inevitable.

  And in the case of lust, the victim was usually raped several times prior to the murder. After death, necrophilia was also often committed.

  ‘Was she raped?’ Hunter asked. ‘Prior to or after the murder?’

  ‘No, she wasn’t.’ The doctor shook her head. ‘As I’ve said before, because she was wearing a pair of panties, her groin area wasn’t as exposed to the wasps’ stings as the rest of her body. I found no indication of forced penetration. No abrasions to the skin surrounding her vagina. No semen left inside her, or on her skin. No lubricant residue in her vaginal walls either, which could indicate that the perp did rape her but used a prophylactic. The lab will tell us if they find any semen on her underwear, but I don’t think they will. I don’t think this killer was after sex. I don’t think he was in love with her either. Which theoretically leaves you with two alternatives.’

  ‘Hate, or pure homicidal mania,’ Hunter said.

  Doctor Hove agreed
.

  ‘Maybe he was unable to dispose of the body straightaway and didn’t want it to start rotting and smelling up the place,’ Garcia suggested.

  ‘The killer probably used a medium-sized chest freezer to preserve the body,’ she said. ‘From skin folds and blood pooling marks, I can tell you that she was most certainly preserved in a fetus position.’

  Doctor Hove waited a few seconds before pulling a white sheet over the body. ‘Unfortunately there isn’t much else I can tell you. Her death wasn’t a mystery. We all saw what happened to her. Toxicology will be a few days.’

  Hunter and Garcia nodded and made for the door as if they were schoolkids who’d heard the final bell before summer vacation.

  ‘Keep us posted if anything new comes out of any of the tests, will you, Doc?’ Hunter said.

  ‘Always do.’

  They were both already halfway down the corridor by the time she looked up.

  Fifty-Four

  Dennis Baxter had managed to break through the simple four-digit security password in the smartphone Hunter had handed him last night – Christina Stevenson’s cellphone. With the phone active, he had no problems accessing all the information on the SIM card.

  Baxter quickly found out that the phone’s battery had died sometime on Sunday morning, two days after the killer’s broadcast. In between Thursday night, the night Christina was abducted, and Sunday morning, the smart-phone’s voicemail picked up twenty-six messages. There were also forty-two new text messages. A quick check through the smartphone’s applications and memory revealed several photo albums, a few videos, four voice memos and sixteen pages of notes. It didn’t look like Christina had ever used her cellphone’s calendar application, but she sure as hell used her email one. Adding up the contents of her inbox, sent and deleted folders, there were literally hundreds, maybe thousands of emails.

  When Hunter and Garcia got back to the PAB, Baxter quickly gave them a summary of everything he’d found, and handed over the phone. He was certainly glad it wasn’t his job to read through that mountain of emails.

  Hunter and Garcia began by listening to Christina Stevenson’s cellphone’s voicemails, checking her memos, reading her text messages and notes, and looking through all the photo albums and videos she had saved in the phone’s memory and SIM card. It took them almost two hours to get through everything.

  Most of the voicemail messages were left on Sunday morning. They came mainly from other reporters and press-related people – all congratulating her on her article. Some even sounded a little jealous. But one person, who had called three times since Sunday and sent Christina two text messages, sounded more like a friend. Her name was Pamela Hays. Hunter found out that Pamela was actually Christina’s editor at the LA Times’ entertainment desk.

  It took Hunter just over half an hour to map every caller who had left Christina a message to an entry in her smart-phone’s address book, and that meant that every caller was known to her. No strangers.

  None of the voicemail, text messages, notes or voice memos were interesting enough to raise any suspicions, but what Christina’s phone had given them was a long list of people they could talk to. Kevin Lee Parker’s name wasn’t in her address book.

  ‘Now that this story is out there,’ Hunter said, pushing himself away from his desk. ‘I’d like to take a trip down to the LA Times building and have a chat with this Pamela Hays woman, Christina Stevenson’s editor.’

  Garcia rubbed his eyes. ‘OK, I’ll get started on these emails.’ He pointed to Christina’s phone on the desk. ‘I’ll call Dennis and see if there’s a way we can connect the phone to a computer monitor or something. Reading all these emails on a 3.5-inch screen is just not an option.’

  Hunter agreed with a head gesture. ‘I’m sure Dennis will be able to sort something out. But it might be an idea to ask him if he can batch-copy or download all the emails to a hard drive. What you have there is a live connection to her inbox at the LA Times. If their IT department cancels her password, or shuts her account down, we’re locked out.’

  ‘Yeah, I thought of that too.’ Garcia got up to stretch his body. ‘And I would still like to have a look at that film, The Devil Inside, just to scratch that itch, you know what I mean? I can watch it on my computer, here. I don’t want to do it at home in front of Anna.’

  Another nod from Hunter. ‘I haven’t forgotten about that.’ He checked his watch and reached for his jacket. ‘Let me know if you come across anything.’

  ‘You too.’

  Fifty-Five

  Hunter didn’t call the LA Times to request an appointment with Pamela Hays. He much preferred turning up unannounced. He’d dealt with too many reporters in the past to know that they loved asking questions but hated answering them.

  Hunter didn’t know how much of a friend Pamela Hays was to Christina Stevenson. Maybe Hunter had misinterpreted her concerned tone in the voicemail messages she’d left Christina. If that had been the case, Hunter knew that if he called in advance to try to arrange an appointment, chances were that Pamela Hays would’ve given him some sort of lame excuse, like being in a meeting all day. Turning up unexpectedly put the element of surprise on Hunter’s side, catching the person being interviewed unprepared. In Hunter’s experience, that was always an advantage.

  The LA Times headquarters was an odd complex of four different constructions grouped together to form one massive building. From one side it looked like a courthouse, from another like a multistory car park, and if you approached it from West 2nd Street, you’d be forgiven for thinking you were walking into a branch of some European bank.

  The tall, tinted-glass double doors set deep inside the plush brown-granite entrance led to a wide, pleasantly lit and comfortably air-conditioned lobby. The place was active with people. Some coming and going. Some sitting patiently in the waiting area to the right. Some waiting not so patiently. The entire floor was tiled in marble, which amplified the sound of every footstep, making the whole entrance area sound like a beehive.

  Hunter was making his way up to the large reception counter at the back when a slim woman of about five foot five caught his eye as she walked across the busy lobby. She was walking slowly, her head low, her demeanor sad and drained. He immediately recognized her from a picture on the LA Times website – Pamela Hays.

  Hunter caught up with her just as she was approaching one of the four elevator doors in the empty corridor to the left and past the reception counter.

  Pamela pressed the button, took a step back and waited. Her head still low.

  ‘Ms. Hays?’ Hunter said.

  It took her a moment to look up. Her eyes moved to Hunter’s face, but they lacked focus. She was wearing a well-fitted dark suit that almost made her fade into the black and gray granite walls around her.

  Hunter waited a couple of seconds, and as her stare intensified he saw the moment her absent mind reentered reality. Her eyes were steel blue, her hair caramel blonde, worn just off her shoulders. There was an angular quality to her jaw, cheekbones and nose that made her look as though she was concentrating very hard. Pamela smiled for an instant, but it did nothing to soften her.

  ‘Ms. Hays,’ Hunter said again, this time displaying his credentials. ‘I’m Detective Robert Hunter with the LAPD Homicide Division. I was wondering if you could spare a few minutes of your time?’

  Pamela Hays didn’t reply. Things were still slotting into place inside her head.

  ‘Ms. Hays, I could really use your help . . . and so could Christina Stevenson.’

  Fifty-Six

  Pamela guided Hunter back out onto West 1st Street and around the corner to The Edison Lounge, just across the road from the Police Administration Building. She didn’t feel like sitting in a conference room, or anywhere else inside the LA Times headquarters at the moment.

  The Edison was an elegant and sophisticated bar located in the basement of the famous Higgins Building in downtown LA. At the beginning of the twentieth century, that same basem
ent housed the city’s first privately owned power plant. As homage to the plant’s place in history, The Edison retained many of its original architectural and mechanical artifacts.

  In an area to the left of the main bar, they found two high-backed leather armchairs, arranged around a knee-high, varnished, marble-effect coffee table. The dim lights and soft 1930s music, together with the period features and detailed decoration, created such a nostalgic atmosphere that could almost take you back in time.

  Hunter waited for Pamela to have a seat before he took his.

  She gave him another weak smile, acknowledging the gesture.

  ‘Before you start asking questions,’ Pamela said. ‘Please answer me this: has Christina’s body been found?’

  It wasn’t hard for Hunter to read Pamela’s thoughts. Right at that moment she wasn’t being a reporter. She wasn’t asking questions because she wanted information for a possible story. Right at that moment she was still holding onto a sliver of hope that all of what she’d seen had been some crazy hoax – some big misunderstanding.

  Hunter had been in this position countless times. And it only got harder.

  His stomach tightened.

  ‘Yes.’

  He saw a light turn off inside her eyes. Something he’d seen many times before. Not like a parent who’d just lost a son or a daughter, but like someone who’d not just lost a close friend, but now also realizes that danger and evil are closer than what they had once believed. If it had happened to someone like Christina, it could happen to her. It could happen to her family. It could happen to anyone.