by Chris Carter
Jennet Liams, Garcia’s mother, did everything in her power to persuade him not to pursue a career as a police officer. Her marriage to a federal agent had taught her plenty. It’s a dangerous life. Few human beings can endure the kind of mental pressure that comes with it. Her family and marriage suffered because of her husband’s profession. She didn’t what her son and his future family to have the same fate. But by the age of ten, Garcia had made up his mind. He wanted to be just like his hero – his father.
He’d dated the same girl since high school and marriage came almost immediately after their graduation. Anna was a sweet girl. One year younger than Garcia with magnificent dark hazel eyes and short black hair, her beauty was unconventional but mesmerizing nevertheless. They had no children, a decision they’d made together – at least for the time being.
Garcia spent two years as a LAPD detective in north Los Angeles before being given a choice: a position with the Narcotics department or one with the Homicide division. He decided to take the Homicide job.
On the morning of his first day with the RHD Garcia had woken up a lot earlier than usual. He’d tried to be as quiet as possible, but that didn’t keep him from waking Anna. He needed to report to Captain Bolter’s office at eight-thirty, but by six-thirty he was already dressed in his best suit and found himself killing time in their small apartment on the north side of LA.
‘How do I look?’ he asked after his second cup of coffee.
‘It’s the third time you’ve asked me the same question,’ Anna laughed. ‘You look fine, babe. They are lucky. They are getting the finest detective in LA,’ she said as she softly kissed his lips. ‘Are you nervous?’
Garcia nodded and bit his bottom lip. ‘A little bit.’
‘There’s no need. You’ll be great.’
Anna was an optimist; finding the positive side to just about anything. She was happy for Garcia; he was finally achieving what he’d always wanted, but deep inside she felt scared. Garcia had experienced some close encounters in the past. He’d spent a week in hospital after a .44 caliber bullet shattered his collar bone and she’d spent a week in tears. She knew the perils that came with his job and she knew he would never shy away from danger, and that petrified her.
At exactly eight-thirty Garcia was standing in front of Captain Bolter’s office in the RHD building. He found it funny that the name on the door said ‘KONG.’ He knocked three times.
‘Come in.’
Garcia opened the door and stepped inside.
Captain William Bolter was now in his mid-sixties but he looked at least ten years younger. Tall, strong as an ox and sporting a full head of silvery hair together with a thick mustache, the man was a menacing figure. If the stories were true, he’d taken over twelve bullets in his time, and he was still standing.
‘Who the hell are you, Internal Affairs?’ His voice was firm but not aggressive.
‘No sir . . .’ Garcia stepped closer, handing over his forms. ‘Carlos Garcia, sir, I’m your new detective.’
Captain Bolter was sitting in his imposing high-backed swivel chair behind his rosewood desk. He flipped through the forms looking impressed at times before placing them on his desk. He didn’t need any paperwork to tell him Garcia was a good detective. No one was assigned to the RHD if they hadn’t shown a high level of competence and expertise, and according to Garcia’s track record, he had plenty.
‘Impressive . . . and you are exactly on time. Good start!’ the captain said after swiftly consulting his watch.
‘Thank you, sir.’
The captain walked up to the coffee machine in the far corner of his office and poured himself a cup, Garcia didn’t get offered one. ‘OK, first things first. You gotta lose that cheap suit. This is the Homicide division, not the fashion police. The guys out there are gonna crucify you.’ He gestured towards the detectives’ floor.
Garcia looked down at his suit. He liked that suit – it was his best suit – his only suit.
‘How long have you been a detective now?’
‘Two years, sir.’
‘Well, that’s remarkable. It usually takes a detective at least five to six years on the job before he’s even considered for the RHD. You either kiss a lot of ass or you are the real thing.’ With no reply from Garcia the captain continued. ‘Well, you might’ve been a good detective out there working for the LAPD, but this is Homicide.’ Sipping his coffee, he walked back to his desk. ‘Holiday camp is over, sonny. This is harder and definitely more dangerous than anything you’ve done before.’
‘I understand, Captain.’
‘Do you?’ He pinned Garcia with his intense gaze. His voice took a more ominous tone. ‘This job will mess with your head, kid. You’ll make more enemies than friends as a Homicide dick. Your old friends at the LAPD will probably hate you from now on. Are you sure this is what you want? Are you sure you are strong enough? And I’m not talking about physical strength here, sonny. Are you sure you’re ready?’
Garcia had half expected the dangerous job speech; every captain has one. Without turning away from the captain’s stare, he replied in a steady voice and with no vacillation. ‘I’m ready, sir.’
The captain looked back at Garcia, searching for a hint of fear, self-doubt maybe, but years of experience in character judging told him this kid wasn’t scared, at least not yet.
‘OK then, we’re done here. Let me introduce you to your new partner,’ he said, opening the door to his office. ‘Hunter . . . get in here,’ his loud voice resonating through the busy floor.
Hunter had just walked in. He was sitting at his desk stirring a cup of strong black coffee. His sleep-hangover made the captain’s voice sound like a heavy metal band. He calmly had a sip of the bitter-tasting liquid and felt it burn his lips and tongue. In the past few months Hunter’s insomnia had gotten worse, fueled by the constant nightmares. He’d sleep a couple of hours every night if he was lucky. His daily routine had become lethargic – bad headache, strong boiling-hot coffee, burnt mouth and onto the pile of second-rate cases on his desk.
Hunter didn’t knock, he simply opened the door and stepped inside. Garcia was standing next to the rosewood desk.
‘Yo! Captain, you’ve got the wrong man, I’m not in trouble with Internal Affairs,’ Hunter said biting the loose skin on his burnt top lip.
Garcia looked down at his suit again.
‘Sit down, Hunter, he isn’t IA.’ The captain paused, holding the suspense for a few seconds. ‘Meet your new partner.’
At first those words didn’t seem to register in Hunter’s ears. Garcia took two steps in Hunter’s direction and offered his hand. ‘Carlos Garcia, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Detective Hunter.’
Hunter left Garcia’s hand hanging in the air; in fact he didn’t move at all except for his eyes. Garcia could feel Hunter analyzing him, trying to size him up. It took Hunter twenty seconds to make his mind up about his new partner.
‘No thanks, Captain, I’m doing quite well on my own.’
‘The hell you are, Hunter!’ the captain said calmly. ‘Since Wilson’s death what have you been doing, office work and helping the LAPD with shoplifting and petty theft cases? Gimme a goddamn break. Anyway, you knew this was coming. Who did you think you were, Dirty Harry? Look, Hunter, I’m not gonna give you the bullshit speech about how great a detective you are and how you’re wasting your talent. You’re the best detective I’ve had under my command. You can figure things out that no one else can. Sixth sense, detective’s intuition, whatever you wanna call it; you’ve got it like no one else does. I need you back in Homicide and I need you sharp. You know I can’t have a Homicide dick on the streets on his own, it’s against regulations. You’re no use to me the way you are.’
‘And how’s that, Captain?’ Hunter shot back in a half-offended tone.
‘Have a look in the mirror and you’ll find out.’
‘So you gonna pair me up with a rookie?’ He turned to face Garcia. ‘No offense.’
‘None taken.’
‘We were all rookies once, Hunter,’ the captain said running his fingers over his Santa Claus mustache. ‘You sound just like Scott did when I told him I was getting him a new partner. He hated your guts at first remember? You were young and inexperienced . . . and just look at how you turned out.’
Garcia bit his lip trying not to laugh.
Hunter regarded him once again. ‘Oh, you think this is funny?’
Garcia tilted his head in a maybe gesture.
‘Tell me, what sort of experience do you have?’ Hunter asked.
‘I’ve been a detective for the LAPD for two years,’ Garcia replied cheekily.
‘Oh, a local boy.’
Garcia nodded.
‘Why are you so nervous?’
‘Who said I’m nervous?’ Garcia said defiantly.
Hunter gave Captain Bolter a confident smile. ‘The knot on your tie is too tight, but instead of loosing it up you keep on faintly rotating your neck hoping no one will notice. When you tried to shake my hand earlier, I noticed how moist your palm was. This room ain’t hot enough, so I’m guessing nervous perspiration. And since I walked into the office you keep on shifting your weight from one leg to the other. You either have a lower back problem or you’re feeling a little uncomfortable. And since you wouldn’t make detective with a back problem . . .’
Garcia frowned and shifted his stare to Captain Bolter who gave him a quirky smile.
‘A word of advice,’ Hunter continued. ‘If you’re feeling nervous it’s better to sit down instead of standing up. It’s a more comfortable position and it’s easier for you to hide your tell-tale signs.’
‘He’s good, isn’t he?’ Captain Bolter asked with a chuckle. ‘Anyway, Hunter, you know you don’t have a say in this, I’m still king of this fucking jungle and in my jungle you’ll take a partner or you’ll walk.’
Garcia finally understood the nameplate on the door. He waited a few seconds before extending his hand again.
‘As I’ve said, Carlos Garcia, it’s a pleasure.’
‘The pleasure is all yours nervous boy,’ Hunter replied, leaving Garcia’s hand hanging for a second time. ‘You’ve gotta lose that cheap suit, rookie, who do you think we are, the fashion police?’
Ten
As night fell over LA, Hunter and Garcia went back to the old wooden house. The forensic team had already left and the place was deserted. The lack of sunlight and the impenetrable surrounding vegetation meant that exploring the outside at this time was impossible, but Hunter was sure the perimeter had already been meticulously searched by a team of specialized officers. Hunter and Garcia concentrated on the house, but after a couple of hours, both were ready to call it a night.
‘There’s nothing here. If there were, the forensic guys must’ve picked it up,’ Garcia said, sounding hopeful.
Hunter could see fine, green fluorescent powder that had been applied to several surfaces around the house. The special green powder is always used in conjunction with lasers and low-powered ultraviolet lamps to allow the visualization of latent prints which would otherwise go undetected. Hunter had a feeling the forensic team hadn’t found anything either. ‘Let’s hope Doctor Winston has some good news for us in the morning,’ he said, grabbing Garcia’s attention. ‘There’s nothing else we can do here tonight.’
It was past midnight when Hunter turned his old Buick into Saturn Avenue with Templeton Street in South Los Angeles. The entire street was in desperate need of refurbishment with its ageing buildings and neglected lawns. Hunter parked in front of his six-floor apartment block and stared at it for a moment. Its once striking yellow color had now faded to unappealing pastel beige and he noticed that the light bulbs above the doorway had been broken again. Inside the small entrance hall the walls were dirty, the paint had peeled off and gang graffiti made up most of its decoration. Despite its terrible state, he felt comfortable in the building.
Hunter lived alone; no wife, no kids and no girlfriend. He’d had his share of steady relationships, but his job had a way of taking its toll on them. The dangerous RHD lifestyle wasn’t easy to cope with and girlfriends always ended up asking for more than he was prepared to give. Hunter didn’t mind so much being alone any more. It was his defense mechanism. If you have no one, they can’t be torn away from your life.
Hunter’s apartment was located on the third floor, number 313. The living room was oddly shaped and the furniture looked as if it had been donated by Goodwill. A couple of mismatched chairs and a beaten-up black leatherette sofa were placed against the far wall. To its right, a small badly scratched wooden desk with a laptop computer, a three-in-one printer and a small table lamp. Across the room a stylish glass bar looked totally out of place. It was the only piece of furniture Hunter had purchased brand new and from a trendy shop. It held several bottles of Hunter’s biggest passion – single malt Scotch whisky. The bottles were arranged in a peculiar way that only he understood.
He closed the living-room door behind him, turned on the lights and moved the dimmer switch to the ‘low’ setting. He needed a drink. After pouring himself a double dose from the twenty-year-old bottle of Talisker, he dropped a single cube of ice in the glass.
He couldn’t shake the faceless woman’s image from his mind. Every time he closed his eyes he could still see the carving on the back of her neck; he could still smell the pungent odor from that room. Could this be happening again? Could this be the same killer? And if yes, why has he started killing again? The questions kept coming and Hunter knew the answers wouldn’t follow at the same speed. He stirred the ice cube once around the glass with his index finger and brought it to his lips. The sour, peppery taste of the Talisker relaxed him.
Hunter was certain that this would be another sleepless night, but he needed to somehow rest. He turned on the lights in the bedroom and emptied his pockets onto the bedside table. Car keys, house keys, some pocket change and a small piece of paper that read Call me – Isabella. A smile played on his lips as he remembered the whole morning incident.
‘I can’t believe I suggested she was a hooker to her face,’ he thought and the smile turned to laughter. He liked her sense of humor and her wit. She had thrown his sarcasm straight back at him. She was certainly different from most of the dull women he met in bars. He checked his watch. The time was coming up to one in the morning – too late. Perhaps he’d call her some other time.
He walked to the kitchen and pinned Isabella’s note on a corkboard next to the fridge, before making his way back into the bedroom ready to fight insomnia.
From the parking lot, hiding in the shadows a dark figure avidly observed the flicker of lights coming from the third-floor apartment.
Eleven
Hunter managed to doze off a few times during the night, but that was the best he could do. By five-thirty in the morning he was up and feeling like he’d been hit by a truck. Gritty eyes, dry mouth and a nagging headache that would be with him throughout the rest of the day – all the signs of a sleep hangover. He poured himself a strong cup of coffee and considered adding a quick shot of whisky to it, but that would probably make him feel worse. By six-thirty he was dressed and ready to leave when his cell phone rang.
‘Detective Hunter speaking.’
‘Robert, it’s me, Carlos.’
‘Rookie, you gotta stop calling me so early in the goddamn morning. Do you ever sleep?’
‘Sometimes, but last night it was hard to.’
‘You can say that again. So what’s up?’
‘I just talked to Doctor Winston.’
Hunter quickly glanced at his watch. ‘This early? Did you wake him up as well?’
‘No, he’s been up most of the night. Anyway, he said his team of forensic examiners didn’t come up with anything from the wooden house either.’
Hunter ran his hand over his chin. ‘Yeah, I was half expecting that,’ he said disappointedly.
‘He also said that there’s something he want
s to show us, something important.’
‘There always is. Is he in the Coroner’s office now?’
‘Yep.’
‘OK, I’ll meet you there . . . half an hour?’
‘Yeah, that’s enough time, see you there.’
The Los Angeles County Department of Coroner is located on Mission Road. As one of the busiest Coroners in the entire United States, it can receive anywhere up to one hundred bodies a day.
Hunter parked next to the main building and met Garcia by the entrance door. He’d seen his fair share of dead bodies after ten years as a detective, but Hunter still felt uneasy walking down the corridors in the Department of Coroner. The smell was like a hospital, but it had a different sting to it, something that burnt the inside of his nostrils and irritated the back of his throat.
Yesterday’s victim’s autopsy had been conducted in a small separate room in the basement of the building. Doctor Winston had been the medical examiner during the Crucifix Killer case; if anyone could identify the same modus operandi, he could.
‘Why are we going downstairs – aren’t all the autopsy rooms on the first floor?’ Garcia asked intrigued, as they reached the bottom of the stairs that led to an empty and creepy basement corridor.
