by Chris Carter
Both the property owner and the construction worker checked out. They also had solid alibis for their whereabouts overnight and at the time the killer was on the phone to Hunter yesterday. But as Hunter and Garcia got back into the car, Hunter received a new phone call. This time it was Homicide Detective Mario Perez.
‘Robert, I think we’ve got an ID on your victim.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Are you in your car?’ Perez asked.
‘No, in Detective Garcia’s car.’
‘OK, I’m emailing you a few pictures now.’
Hunter switched the call to loudspeaker and used the car’s police computer to log into his email.
‘With the press and the media appealing for people to come forward, we’ve been getting calls all day,’ Perez clarified. ‘As expected, most of them have been crackpots, attention seekers or people who couldn’t be one hundred percent sure, you know how it goes – except one.’
‘Go on.’
‘A restaurant owner called Paolo Ghirardelli called a couple of hours back. He owns a pizzeria in Norwalk. I was the one who spoke to him. He was absolutely positive that the man in the picture that came out in the papers today was one of his waiters – Ethan Walsh. He hasn’t turned up for work in two days. Hasn’t answered his phone either. Mr. Ghirardelli is one of those proud Italians who has framed photographs of everyone who works for him, kitchen staff included, hanging on his restaurant wall. He emailed me Ethan Walsh’s picture, and . . . you can see for yourself.’
Hunter opened the email and the first of its three attachments – a colored photograph of a man in his early thirties with an oval-shaped face, a round nose, plump cheeks, thin eyebrows and short darkish hair. He and Garcia stared at it in silence for a long moment, and reflexively, but not that they needed to, checked the snapshot printout they’d been showing around the streets for the past few hours. Neither one had any doubts.
‘It’s him,’ Garcia said at last. ‘Or an identical twin.’
‘Ethan Walsh’s got no brothers or sisters,’ Perez confirmed. ‘I’ve already done a preliminary check on him. That’s the second attachment to the email. And it turns out that he used to be an expert computer programmer.’
‘He was an expert computer programmer?’ Garcia interjected.
‘That’s right.’
‘What’s an expert computer programmer doing working as a waiter in a pizzeria in Norwalk?’
‘If you open the second attachment, you’ll see our official details sheet on Ethan Walsh,’ Perez replied as Hunter double clicked on it. ‘The third attachment is a quick selection of a few Internet articles I found on him. That will give you a better idea of why he left games programming behind.’
‘Great work, Mario,’ Hunter said, quickly scanning the fact sheet. ‘Could you carry on and dig out everything you can on this Ethan Walsh?’
‘Already on it. By the time you guys get back here, I should have some more.’
‘Thanks.’ Hunter disconnected.
Ethan Walsh’s registered address was as a tenant in an apartment block in Bellflower, the first neighborhood west of Norwalk. A footnote at the bottom of the email Detective Perez had sent Hunter said that just to be sure, Perez had already contacted the Bellflower police station and asked them to send a black and white unit to knock on Ethan Walsh’s door. There had been no reply.
The fact sheet also carried the name, address and phone number for Ethan Walsh’s landlord – Mr. Stanislaw Reuben. Hunter lost no time in calling him, and Mr. Reuben told Hunter that he could meet them at Ethan Walsh’s address in an hour.
Ninety
Hunter and Garcia made it to Bellflower in south Los Angeles just as the sun was starting to set over Venice Beach. The apartment block Ethan Walsh used to live in was an old and dirty brick building in dire need of some repairs, located at the end of an unglamorous street.
Mr. Stanislaw Reuben, Ethan’s landlord, met the detectives by the entrance to the building’s lobby. The man had an undeniable seediness to him, with ill-fitting clothes, a pockmarked face and a lip marred by a scar. His throaty voice sounded like it had come straight out of a horror film.
‘I thought that the man I saw in the paper this morning looked rather familiar,’ Mr. Reuben said after Hunter and Garcia identified themselves. ‘I suspected that he might’ve been one of my tenants, but it was hard to be sure. I have so many, and I only see them once or twice a year, really. Most of my tenants post me predated checks a few months in advance. I find it easier that way.’
‘And that was how Mr. Walsh paid his rent?’ Garcia queried.
‘That was indeed.’ Mr. Reuben smiled, showing badly cared-for teeth.
‘How long has he been a tenant of yours?’ Garcia followed up.
‘Not long at all. Just over six months. Seemed like a nice tenant too. Quiet, no complaints . . .’ Mr. Reuben pinched his left earlobe a couple of times. ‘It’s him, isn’t it? The man who was killed on the Internet? That was my tenant, Mr. Walsh, wasn’t it?’ He sounded truly excited.
‘We can’t be certain at this time,’ Garcia replied.
‘Do you think I’ll get interviewed by TV?’ His excitement grew. ‘I’ve never been on TV.’
‘And that’s not such a bad thing,’ Garcia said, gesturing toward the building. ‘Shall we?’
The landlord used his key to unlock the lobby door and ushered the detectives inside. The confined space smelled of cat piss with something else that carried an acid undertone.
Garcia wrinkled his nose while his eyes quickly searched the dusky lobby as if he was expecting to identify the source of the smell.
‘I suggest we take the stairs up,’ Mr. Reuben said. ‘That elevator is very small, and I wouldn’t really risk it, if you know what I mean.’
The stairs were dirty and dark, with graffiti decorating the walls all the way up. As they got to the fourth floor, Mr. Reuben led the way down a long and dimly lit corridor. The cat piss smell from the downstairs lobby was replicated there, but it now had a fetid, sickly quality to it that made both detectives grind their teeth.
It didn’t seem to bother the landlord.
‘Here we are,’ he said as they reached a door three-quarters of the way down the hallway. The number on it read 4113. Mr. Reuben unlocked the door and pushed it open. With the windows shut and the curtains pulled to, the room before them was hidden in shadows, and the built-up heat made it feel like a prison cell even before they stepped inside.
Mr. Reuben hit the lights, revealing a small living area, with a tiny kitchen to the left. The room was sparsely decorated. There was an old wooden table, four wooden chairs, a small stereo, a sofa with a flowery cover thrown over it, a portable TV set and a chest of drawers, on which a few picture frames had been placed. There were no immediate signs of a disturbance. The walls were bare, save for a picture of Ethan Walsh with a little girl who looked to be around three years old.
‘The bedroom and the bathroom are through there,’ Mr. Reuben said, indicating a door across the room.
Hunter and Garcia gloved up.
‘Do you mind waiting outside?’ Garcia said to the landlord. ‘We’re not sure if there’s any evidence here, but if there is I’d like to reduce the risk of contaminating it.’
Mr. Reuben looked disappointed as he took a step back. ‘Of course. I understand. I’ll be right out here if you need me.’
The first thing Hunter and Garcia noticed inside the narrow living room was Ethan Walsh’s laptop computer on the wooden table. A webcam was clipped to the top of the screen.
Hunter retrieved two large evidence bags from his pocket, and placed the laptop, the web camera and all the computer cables inside them.
Garcia was looking through the photographs on top of the chest of drawers. There were four in total. All of them of Ethan Walsh with his baby daughter. The drawers revealed a few books and magazines, all on computer programming, and a vast number of comic books. The kitchen was a little untidy, b
ut not any more than one would expect for a single man living on his own. The fridge had several microwavable dinners and a lot of beer.
Hunter left Garcia to look around the living room some more and moved onto the rest of the apartment. The bathroom was a sardine can, with a cracked shower enclosure, a toilet and not much else.
The bedroom didn’t look much bigger either. A full bed was pushed up sideways against the far wall, directly under a small window, and even so it left very little space for one to maneuver around it. Besides the unmade bed, there was only a sliding-door wall wardrobe and a bed table with a reading lamp on it.
Hunter checked under the bed – two empty suitcases. The wardrobe had shirts, T-shirts, jeans, trousers, jackets, two pairs of sneakers, a pair of social shoes and two cardboard boxes full of videogames. Ethan’s bedroom was untidy, but again within what would be expected. Once more, nothing suggested a disturbance.
Hunter returned to the living room, where Garcia was standing next to the uncomfortable-looking sofa, flipping through the pages of what looked like a notebook or a diary. As Hunter stepped back into the room, Garcia paused and frowned at the page he was reading.
Hunter recognized the look. ‘What have you got?’
Garcia looked up and smiled.
‘Our first link.’
Ninety-One
The man carrying his empty basket walked down the long fruit and vegetable aisle in the supermarket for the third time, still unable to decide what to get. He stopped by the oranges section once again, picked one up, brought it to his nose and breathed in its intense aroma. He really liked oranges, but still, not one made it into his basket. He moved a couple of steps further along and paused by the ample and diverse apples display. His favorites were Fireside apples, but they were hard to find in Los Angeles, being a lot more popular in the upper Midwest. It didn’t much bother him though, because Pink Pearls were just as nice, and they were a product of northern California, abundantly found everywhere in LA. He held one in his hand for a long moment, resisting the temptation to bite into it right there and then. He put the apple back and moved along to yet another fruit display.
The indecisive man wore a dark blue suit jacket that didn’t match his light-colored trousers. His shoes were battered, showing years of wear. His hair had been combed back loosely, but only by his fingers, and his two-day stubble made him look a little older than he really was.
The man moved past the blueberries display without stopping. He didn’t like their grainy texture, and to him they were never sweet enough. Anyway, blueberries were way too expensive. He reconsidered buying some pears, peaches or nectarines, but in the end he moved on once again without making his mind up.
When he reached the end of the aisle, he paused and looked back at it, sighing with disappointment. He placed his hand inside his trouser pocket, closed his fingers around all the money he had, pulled it out and counted it again. He didn’t have a lot, just enough to buy the few items he had placed on his mental list. Fruit was one of those items, if only he could decide which one. He returned the money to his pocket and slowly walked back to the top of the aisle again. An attractive woman, who looked to be in her late twenties, was carefully selecting oranges and placing them inside a small, clear plastic bag. The man paused by her side, and after a few seconds tentatively reached for one.
‘These are great,’ the woman said quite enthusiastically.
The man smiled shyly.
‘I bought some the other day,’ the woman continued. ‘And they were the sweetest oranges I’ve had in a very long time.’
‘Really?’ the man replied, now intriguingly eyeing the orange in his hand.
‘I’m telling you.’ She paused and looked at him. He had kind eyes, she thought. ‘It’s like they’ve been infused with sugar or honey or something. You should try some.’
And just like that, a decision was made.
The man smiled and nodded happily. ‘OK, I think I will, then.’ He placed two oranges inside his shopping basket. Two were all he could afford.
A few minutes later the man had, at last, managed to buy all the items on his mental list. Happy with himself, he exited the supermarket, carrying everything inside a brown-paper bag. When he reached the semi-dark parking lot he paused, looking a little confused. He glanced left, then right, trying to decide which way to go. As he turned to go right, the brown-paper bag he was carrying ripped open at the bottom. The few groceries he had in it spilled to the ground, scattering around his feet. The two oranges he bought began rolling away in different directions.
‘Shit!’ he whispered, scrambling after the first of them like a cat after a tennis ball. He finally managed to pick it up, and quickly turned to look for the other one. He spotted it just as it was about to roll away under a parked SUV. All of a sudden, a foot came out of nowhere and stopped it.
The man looked up and saw the woman he’d met at the orange display. She bent over and collected the fruit from off the ground. ‘This one is a runaway, huh?’ She smiled.
The man looked at her, then at the ripped bag and the rest of his groceries on the ground.
‘It’s a bummer when that happens, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘I can’t believe this supermarket still uses paper bags. They’re crap, and not very good for the environment either.’
The man was unsure of what to say, so he said nothing. Timidly, he started collecting his things.
‘Here, let me help you,’ she said, picking up half of the items, among them a jar of coffee. ‘You’re lucky this didn’t break.’
The man nodded, thinking that he was also lucky that he hadn’t chosen apples instead of oranges. They would’ve certainly bruised.
‘Thank you,’ he finally said, trying to collect the items she had picked up, but he didn’t have enough hands.
‘It’s OK. I can help you with these,’ she said. ‘Do you have a car?’
The man nodded. ‘Just over there.’ He pointed to his car, which was further down the parking lot.
‘Do you live around here?’ she asked, as they started walking toward the man’s car.
‘Not very far, you?’
‘A couple of blocks away.’
The man nodded. ‘Oh!’ he said after a few seconds, as if he’d just realized something. ‘Would you like a ride home?’
She smiled again. ‘Oh no, my car is parked just back there. The SUV that your orange almost rolled under. But thank you for the offer, anyway.’
When they got to the man’s car, he unlocked it and opened the back doors. ‘You can just put everything in the back seat, if you don’t mind.’
‘Sure,’ the woman replied.
As she placed the groceries down, one of the oranges rolled away from her, off the seat and onto the floor. She moved quickly, thrusting her body forward, stretching her arm and managing to stop it just before it disappeared under the driver’s seat.
‘This one really is a runaway,’ she thought.
Suddenly she felt a presence behind her. She twisted her body slightly, and looked over her right shoulder. The man was standing right behind her. The kind look in his eyes had changed to something much darker. He smiled in a way that scared her. When he spoke, his voice also sounded different – calm, but with a cold edge to it that sucked the air straight out of her lungs.
‘Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to talk to strangers?’
Ninety-Two
The next morning brought with it the first autumn downpour. The sky was dark with heavy clouds, and daylight seemed to be fighting a losing battle to break through. The bitter wind that blew from the north made Los Angeles feel like Winnipeg in November.
For Hunter, Garcia and Captain Blake, the day started with an update meeting, held in Hunter’s office. None of them looked like they had managed much sleep overnight.
‘OK,’ Captain Blake said, using both hands to tuck her loose hair behind her ears. ‘Before we talk about anything else, I need to know what’s the deal with this Thomas Paulsen
guy?’ A pinch of irritation colored her voice.
No immediate answer, but the exact same questioning frown suddenly appeared on both detectives’ faces.
‘I got a call late last night from the Chief of Police,’ Captain Blake explained, ‘who, in turn, received two separate calls yesterday, one from the governor of California, and the other from the mayor of Los Angeles. Apparently the two of you have been harassing a Mr. Thomas Paulsen, software millionaire, who so happens to be a major funds contributor to both of their political campaigns.’
‘Harassing?’ Garcia chuckled.
‘That was the word that was used,’ the captain confirmed.
‘We barely managed to get a word out, Captain.’ Garcia was struggling to keep his calm. ‘As soon as we entered his office yesterday, he launched onto this rehearsed speech of his. When he was done, he kicked us out. And that was all that happened. I don’t think we even got to ask a single question.’
‘And what else do you have on him other than him being the subject of an article written by Christina Stevenson, our second victim?’
A moment of hesitation.
‘We are investigating the possibility that Thomas Paulsen had threatened Christina Stevenson after the article was published,’ Garcia finally said.
‘You are investigating,’ the captain came back. ‘As in you have no proof yet.’
‘Not yet,’ Garcia admitted. ‘But if you were there you would understand, Captain. Everything about Thomas Paulsen stunk of crap. And he sure as hell fits the profile. He said so himself. He’s intelligent enough. He’s got the means and the cyberspace knowledge to pull it off. He’s as arrogant and as bold as the killer is on the phone, if not more. And he admitted that he was very glad to see Christina Stevenson die the way she did. Doesn’t that stink of psycho to you?’
‘It doesn’t matter if he stinks of psycho, dog shit or roses,’ Captain Blake shot back irritably. ‘We need probable cause. And you shouldn’t need me to tell you that. Arrogant . . .? Of course he’s arrogant. He’s extremely rich. He’s got politicians eating out of his hands, and he’s the CEO of a very large, influential and successful company. That gives him power, and a lot of it. Everyone with that much power inevitably becomes arrogant and detached from what we, mere mortals, call the real world. And you shouldn’t need me to tell you that either. This Paulsen guy has the power and the contacts to slam every investigation door right on our faces. He snaps a finger, and you two will be issuing traffic tickets for a very long time. He does it again, and I’ll probably get transferred to “Shitkickers Creek” somewhere in North Dakota. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
