by Chris Carter
Hunter and Garcia said nothing.
‘Let me ask you this,’ the captain said, moving on. ‘Are you investigating anyone else who had also been the subject of any of Christina Stevenson’s other articles? Don’t tell me Thomas Paulsen is the only person she has ever pissed off.’
‘No,’ Hunter answered. ‘At the moment we’re not investigating anyone else.’
Garcia lifted a hand in a stop gesture. ‘Wait a second, are we getting heat for doing our jobs, Captain?’
‘No,’ the captain spat out, her voice rising a notch. ‘You’re getting heat because I got heat, and I always pass it on. You’re also getting heat because this Paulsen guy doesn’t mind putting a large chunk of his money into politicians’ campaigns, and that will buy him the fires of hell when it comes to how much heat he can bestow upon this department.’
‘So?’ Hunter said. ‘Are the mayor and the governor saying that rich folks don’t kill people?’
‘No.’ The captain glared at him. ‘They are saying that you better have something very substantial in your bag before you go knocking on Thomas Paulsen’s door again, because if you don’t they’ll lose a very important contributor to their political campaigns on the run-up to a new election, and we’ll be slapped with a lawsuit that will make Rodney King’s seem like kindergarten stuff.’ She paused, taking a moment to recompose herself, her voice going back to its normal pitch. ‘Look, I know we’re all just doing our jobs here. You know me enough to know that I don’t give a flying fuck for who Thomas Paulsen is, or who he has in his pocket, but the truth of the matter is that with this guy we will have to play it by the book, because if we don’t and we screw up even an inch, the chief has guaranteed me that the next job any of us will be doing will involve a brush, a toilet bowl and human excrement. Do you get the picture?’
‘Yes,’ Garcia replied. ‘And the picture I’m getting smells like bullshit, Captain.’
‘Well, that’s the smell of power and politics, and you as well as I know that this department is drowning in it, and there’s nothing any of us can do about it. So investigate the hell out of him if you like, but play it by the book. If you get anything else on him other than the article Christina Stevenson wrote about him, come to me with it first. That’s all I’m asking.’
The captain dropped the subject and moved toward the pictures board. ‘OK, let’s move on. The third Internet victim: I was told his body has been found.’ Her eyes searched the board, but found no new photographs.
‘It has, yesterday,’ Garcia confirmed. He then proceeded to explain how the victim’s body had been left inside a construction dumpster at the back of a private property in Maywood. ‘The body was already on its way to the coroner’s when we got there. We should be getting the autopsy results and photographs anytime soon.’ He double clicked something on his computer. ‘Forensics sent us an email last night with all the shots they took of the body in situ at the “dump scene”. I just haven’t had time to print them out and pin them up yet.’ He double clicked something again, and the printer at the edge of his desk came to life.
‘Officially confirmed ID?’ the captain asked.
Garcia nodded. ‘The victim’s wife and daughter live in Seattle. They were recently divorced. His parents live in Iowa, but we got access to his apartment in Bellflower through his landlord. Fingerprint analysis between items in his apartment and the body found in Maywood is a one hundred percent match.’
‘So who is he?’
‘His name is Ethan Walsh,’ Hunter replied, handing her a copy of the photograph the pizzeria owner had sent Detective Perez.
Captain Blake’s eyes moved to the picture and recognition was instant. She too hadn’t been able to forget his face. Seeing him branding a timid smile like the one he had on the picture seemed too alien to her memory of his terrified face contorting in agony.
‘What’s the story on him?’ Her voice almost faltered.
Hunter gave her a quick summary on everything they had found so far on Ethan Walsh.
Captain Blake listened to everything in silence, interjecting only when Hunter was done. ‘Do we have anything on this ex-partner of his, Mr. Nelson is it? He’s also an expert computer programmer, right?’ She handed the picture back to Hunter.
‘That’s right,’ Hunter confirmed. ‘Brad Nelson. We’re still gathering information on him, but chances are he’ll be clean. He moved back to Canada ten months ago.’
Garcia retrieved the printouts from his printer and carefully pinned them onto the pictures board.
The captain stepped closer to have a better look. The close-up photos of the victim’s face sticking out of the heavy-duty plastic bags made a sick acid taste travel up from her stomach, through her throat and into her mouth. She quickly reached into her pocket for a mint.
‘You said that you’ve been to the victim’s apartment,’ Captain Blake said, finally turning to face her detectives. ‘Anything?’
‘We found his laptop,’ Garcia informed her. ‘But it’s password protected. We left it with Dennis Baxter at the Computer Crimes Unit. They’re trying to break it.’
Captain Blake nodded, unenthusiastically.
‘But we also got this,’ Garcia said, producing the notebook he found in Ethan Walsh’s apartment.
‘And what is that?’
‘An old-fashioned address and telephone book,’ Garcia explained. ‘Apparently, the more into technology you are, the more you know that it can all go disastrously wrong. It looks like Ethan Walsh kept a hard copy of what I’m guessing are all the numbers in his cellphone’s address book.’
Captain Blake nodded. She had one herself. ‘OK, and . . .?’
Garcia handed her the book, already opened onto a specific page. ‘Fifth name from the top,’ he said.
The captain’s eyes scrolled down the list, paused, widened a fraction. ‘Christina Stevenson?’ She read the name out loud before her gaze shot up in the direction of both detectives. ‘Is this the same Christina Stevenson?’ She pointed to the pictures board. ‘The killer’s second victim?’
‘The one and the same,’ Hunter agreed. ‘That’s her cellphone number.’
‘You do remember that we retrieved Christina Stevenson’s cellphone from her house, right?’ Garcia asked.
‘His number is in her address book as well.’ The captain phrased it half as a question, half as a statement.
‘It is,’ Garcia confirmed. ‘We checked her phone’s call log, but it goes back only three weeks. She hadn’t made or received a call to or from Ethan Walsh’s number during that period.’
‘Do you have his cellphone?’ she asked.
‘No,’ Garcia replied. ‘It wasn’t in his apartment. We’ve checked with the provider, and the phone has been switched off. We’ve already requested phone records for the past three months for both of them. We should hopefully have them by the end of today, or maybe tomorrow. At the moment we’re not sure if they were friends, acquaintances, or if Ethan Walsh had, in any level, been part of any of Ms. Stevenson’s reports.’
Captain Blake returned her attention to the phone book.
‘I spent most of the night reading through every article Christina Stevenson wrote for the LA Times in the past two years,’ Hunter announced. ‘Six hundred and sixty-nine in total. Ethan Walsh’s name isn’t mentioned in any of them. I’ve already contacted Ms. Stevenson’s ex-editor with the entertainment desk again. She’s never heard the name Ethan Walsh.’
‘You’re thinking he might’ve been an informant?’ Captain Blake asked. ‘Like a source, I mean?’
Hunter shrugged gently. ‘It’s possible. I’ve also asked her for a copy of all the articles Ms. Stevenson wrote while she was with the crime desk.’
‘Crime desk?’ the captain asked.
‘Before she became an entertainment reporter, Christina Stevenson spent nine months with the crime desk. I know it was a long time ago, but I’d still like to go through all those articles as well. I should be getting those someti
me today.’
The captain started flipping through the pages in Ethan Walsh’s phone book.
‘If you’re looking for the first victim’s name,’ Garcia said, ‘Kevin Lee Parker, it’s not there. We’ve looked.’
She paused, considering her thoughts for a little while. ‘Yeah, but this shows that at least two of the victims knew each other. In a city where the population stands at around twelve and a half million people, this cannot be a coincidence. This killer isn’t selecting his victims at random.’
Ninety-Three
Her first thought as she finally reawakened was that death felt nothing like what she had expected.
Next, as her senses slowly came back to her, she realized that death hadn’t taken her yet, then came the pain – rushing through her like a drug overdose. It felt as if every bone and muscle in her body had been beaten up and then twisted out of shape. Her head throbbed so ferociously it was hard even to breathe. She could feel the blood thundering through her ears with such force she believed her eardrums would explode. She moaned slowly, while trying to find the strength to open her eyes against the pain.
That was when she heard his voice again, and the sheer sound of it sent a shocking wave of fear through every atom in her body.
‘Don’t fight it. Don’t try to move. Just try to relax.’ His tone was calm, emotionless, disembodied.
She was unable to hold back the fearful cry that escaped her lips.
The man waited.
She tried blinking her eyes open, thinking that she must not panic, but fear had already covered her like a shroud. She gasped in air, hyperventilating.
He spoke again.
‘Take a deep breath, and try to remain calm.’
Another gasp of air.
‘I know you’re scared. I understand it seems difficult right now, but just breathe, and soon the panic will go away.’
She tried to do as she was told.
She finally managed to open her eyes, allowing them to drink in her surroundings, but the room was mostly dark. The only light came from a terribly weak corner light far away. The air was stale, heavy with the smell of old hay, disinfectant and something else she didn’t recognize. Something sweet and sickly. She couldn’t see the man, but she could hear his breathing, and she could sense his oppressing presence.
She slowly became aware that she couldn’t move. She was sitting down in some sort of heavy, hard and uncomfortable high-backed chair. Her wrists were roped to the chair’s arms – her ankles securely fastened to the chair’s legs. Her torso and head weren’t restrained, which allowed her to slightly twist her body from side to side. She did so slowly. First left, then right, trying to better understand the room. Only then she realized that she was naked.
Suddenly she was overcome by an abrupt despair at how vulnerable, exposed and fragile she really was. She wanted to stay in control. She wanted to show strength and determination, but at that precise moment fear was winning that battle, and involuntarily she began sobbing.
‘You’re not doing what I told you to do.’ The man’s cold voice came again.
The woman could not stifle her sobs. She felt tears welling up in her eyes and squeezed them tight, wishing the tears away.
‘Stay strong,’ the voice in her head said.
She had read somewhere that rape attackers thrived on fear, on the submission of their prey, but that thought only served to scare her more, and the uncertainty of what would happen to her next petrified her. When she spoke, the words left her lips as if spoken by a little lost child.
‘Please, don’t hurt me.’ Her voice faltered. ‘Please, let me go.’
Silence.
Her next words came out without any thought.
‘I’ll do whatever you want. Please, just let me go.’
No reply.
‘Please . . .’ In a moment of sobriety from her fear, she realized how useless that word sounded.
‘Tell me what you want from me?’ Her mind raced over the possible answers to her own question, but she forced herself to banish the gruesome visions.
The man breathed out slowly, and she sensed his movement.
For an instant she felt as if her heart had stopped.
The man stepped out of the shadows, for the first time hovering into the periphery of her vision. She craned her neck in his direction. Despite the different clothes, she immediately recognized him. It was the same man she had talked to in the supermarket, and then later helped at the parking lot. But gone were the easy approachable grin, the shy persona and the kind eyes. He looked taller, stronger, menacing. His face now seemed to be all edges and angles.
‘Hello again,’ he said.
His gaze grabbed hers like a giant claw, and she had the sensation that she was being helplessly sucked into a dark place. More tears came to her eyes.
‘Crying won’t help you.’
‘Please, don’t hurt me,’ she said again. The words simply dripped out of her lips, unrequested, sorrowful, powerless. ‘I’ll do whatever you want.’
‘Whatever I want?’ He did not take his eyes from her naked body. The insinuation in his words and the rigidity of his gaze struck her like a blow to the temple.
She swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat, and heard the lost girl inside her reply, ‘Yes. Whatever you want.’
He stepped closer.
She held her breath. ‘Oh, please, God.’
‘Stop praying.’
‘Sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘Whatever you say. Please.’
‘Stop begging.’
She began crying again.
‘Stop crying.’
She breathed in through her nose and held the breath in her lungs until she was able to control her sobs.
‘So, will you do whatever I want you to do?’ he asked her one more time.
She breathed in again, courage coming to her out of thin air.
‘Yes.’ There was now distinct determination in her tone. ‘You can do this.’ The voice in her head spoke again.
He stepped closer still, and she finally saw the glint of the knife in his hand.
‘Oh my God . . . no.’ The determination was all gone. Her mind became a single black sheet of panic, paralyzing her every move.
The man smiled in a way that told her that her fear pleased him. His eyes held hers as if they were connected. She felt the coldness of the steel blade on her skin, but was unable to break away from his hypnotizing stare. The blade pulled away fast, in a quick slicing movement.
The woman held her breath for a moment.
No pain.
She knew that a sharp enough blade could cut through human skin and flesh so subtly that sometimes no pain would come with it. She also knew that the tremendous amount of adrenaline rushing through her veins at that precise moment could hide even the most excruciating pain.
She waited.
Still no pain.
The man stepped back, breaking eye contact at last.
As if finally let go from a spell, her eyes moved down to her body, searching for blood, looking for cuts.
There were none.
Instead she saw that the man had sliced through the ropes that bonded her right wrist.
She was confused. Was he about to let her go? She didn’t dwell on that idea for very long, because her ankles and her left wrist were still tied to the heavy chair. She brought her right arm toward her chest, and the sensation of being able to move it again was exhilarating. Blowing onto her wrist, she opened and closed her fingers into a fist several times to get the blood circulating again. It felt nice.
The man reappeared suddenly, moving from behind her, and placed something heavy and cold on her lap. Her eyes moved to it.
A pair of gardening scissors.
‘Pick them up,’ he said.
She obeyed.
He paused. Time seemed to hesitate with him. ‘OK. I want you to cut off all the fingers on your left hand. Start with your pinky, and work your way to your thumb.’
>
She looked up, but he had returned to the shadows.
‘What?’ Her voice wavered.
‘You said that you would do anything I wanted you to.’ The voice came from behind her, now speaking very slowly. ‘That’s what I want you to do. I want you to cut off all the fingers on your left hand.’
The woman could not hide the terror she felt. The gardening scissors started shaking in her hand, and her lip quivered.
‘I suggest that you put a finger between the blades, close your eyes and just clip it fast and hard, before the courage escapes you.’
She couldn’t even form words.
‘It will hurt. No doubt about that. There will be a lot of blood. No doubt about that either. You will certainly feel like passing out. But if you show me that you are psychologically strong enough to completely mutilate your left hand, I’ll let you go, that’s a promise. I’ll even drive you to the police station myself.’
The woman fought the wave of nausea that came over her and looked down at the scissors.
‘I am giving you a choice. Do this and you are free. Don’t do it and . . .’ He left the mystery of the consequences at the mercy of her already terrified imagination.
She took a mouth full of air, but this time courage did not come with it.
‘Do it,’ he said firmly.
Her gaze moved to her left hand, still firmly tied to the chair.
‘Do it. That’s the price of your freedom.’
