by Chris Carter
‘What do you think, Captain? The killer’s at it again, only this time he made me choose. If I picked the correct dog the victim would live.’
‘That last phone call, did he tell you where the new victim is?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘He’s playing games now?’
‘It sure as hell seems like it.’
Captain Bolter turned and faced the window. Fifteen long silent seconds followed before he spoke again. ‘Why? He’s never done it before. He’s never given you a chance to save a victim. Why now? Why dog racing?’
‘I couldn’t tell you why now or why he’s chosen dog racing, but the logical conclusion for why he’s playing games is that he wants to share the guilt.’
‘What? Are you for real?’ the captain asked incredulously.
‘It’s a psychological game, Captain. He wants to share the guilt with someone, in this case, me. He wants me to feel like I played a hand on the victim’s death by not picking the winner – I’m just as guilty as he is.’
Captain Bolter turned to face both detectives. ‘Are you telling me that all of a sudden this guy’s feeling too guilty? He’s feeling remorseful?’ His irritation was carrying through to his voice.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Well, you’re the one with the big brain.’
‘It’s a possibility, who knows?’ Hunter said after a small pause. ‘In all the previous killings it was only the two of them, the killer against the victim. There was nothing anybody could do. It was the killer’s decision to kill. By making me pick a dog the killer has brought me into the equation. In the killer’s mind the decision to kill doesn’t belong to him anymore. It belongs to me.’
‘As if you had told him to do it?’ Garcia asked.
‘Yes,’ Hunter said with a nod. ‘And because he feels the decision to kill isn’t his anymore . . .’
‘He feels he’s not as guilty,’ Captain Bolter concluded.
‘He might also be hoping to increase the frustration and consequently slow the investigation down,’ Hunter confirmed.
‘Well, it’s definitely adding to my frustration,’ Captain Bolter shot back.
‘Or he may just be playing games for the hell of it.’
Captain Bolter shook his head. ‘He’s fucking with us, that’s what he’s doing.’
‘It looks like he’s been doing that for a while, Captain,’ Garcia said, immediately regretting his words.
The captain looked at him like a hungry Rottweiler ready to attack. ‘Have you identified the first victim yet?’
‘Not yet, Captain, but we’re meeting someone on Friday that might give us a lead.’
‘We’re not moving very fast on this, are we?’
‘We’re moving as fast as we can.’ Hunter’s turn to sound irritated.
‘Let’s hope that this lead of yours turns out to be something real. This is starting to turn into a goddamn circus, and I hate circuses.’
Hunter understood the anger in the captain’s voice – it was the same anger he had bottled up inside. They knew the killer was about to claim a new victim, but they didn’t know when, they didn’t know where and they didn’t know who. They were playing a losing game. There was nothing they could do but wait for the next phone call.
Twenty-Five
Hunter arrived at Weyburn Avenue at exactly one o’clock. The street was buzzing with university students on their lunch break looking for the cheapest meal deal they could find. Burger bars and pizza parlors seemed to be the preferred choice. It didn’t take him long to find the Pancetta restaurant tucked away between a Pizza Hut Express and a stationery store.
The restaurant entrance was pleasantly decorated with colorful flowers and plants, all in a red, green and white theme. The place was small and it resembled a typical Italian cantina. Its squared wooden tables were covered with red and white checked tablecloths. A strong but pleasant smell of provolone cheese mixed with bresaola and salami greeted customers.
Hunter waited at the restaurant entrance for a moment, observing the waiters moving in between tables. His eyes browsed the entire room. Isabella hadn’t arrived yet. The maître d’ showed him to a corner table next to an open window. As he made his way through the restaurant floor, two women, no older than twenty-five, followed him with their eyes. Hunter couldn’t help noticing it and returned the compliment with a confident smile, which in turn was met with a shy giggle and a sexy wink from the dark-haired one.
He placed his jacket over the back of his chair and sat facing the entrance door. Out of habit he checked his cell phone for any missed messages or calls – there weren’t any. He ordered a Diet Coke and had a quick look at the menu. He wondered if he’d recognize Isabella. His memory of the weekend was pretty hazy.
The events of yesterday still played in his mind. Why greyhound racing? If the killer wanted to gamble, why not horse racing or roulette or something more common? Was there some hidden meaning behind it all? And as the captain had said, why has the killer started playing games now? Guilt? Repentance? Hunter didn’t buy that. His thoughts were disrupted by the waiter who had just finished pouring his drink into an icy glass. As he had his first sip his attention was drawn to the restaurant door.
Dressed casually in a thin, white, cotton blouse tucked into tight, faded, blue jeans with black cowboy boots and belt to match, Isabella looked prettier than he remembered. Her long dark hair fell loose over her shoulders and her olive-green eyes carried an intriguing sparkle.
Hunter raised his hand to catch her attention, but Isabella had already noticed him sitting by the window. With a pleasant smile she made her way towards his table. Hunter stood up and was about to extend his hand for the conventional handshake when she leaned forward and kissed him twice, once on each cheek. Her perfume was citrusy and subtle. He held out the chair opposite his offering her a seat, a gentleman-like gesture that was very much unlike him. He waited for her to sit down before going back to his chair.
‘So you found it OK?’ she asked in a cheerful voice.
‘Yeah, no problem. It looks like a very nice restaurant,’ he said, looking around.
‘Oh it is, trust me.’ She renewed her smile. ‘The food here is very tasty.’
‘Touché,’ he thought. ‘I’m sorry about that. That sentence came out all wrong yesterday. Sometimes my brain works faster than my lips and words don’t come out quite as I’d like them to.’
‘It’s OK. It made me laugh.’
‘So, you work at the University?’ Hunter changed the subject.
‘Yes.’
‘Medical or biological department?’
Isabella looked baffled for an instant. ‘Biomedical research actually. Wait, how did you know? Oh God! Please tell me I don’t smell of formaldehyde.’ She subtly brought her right wrist to her nose.
Hunter laughed. ‘No, you don’t. You smell terrific to be honest.’
‘Thank you, that’s quite sweet. But tell me, how did you know?’
‘Observation really.’ Hunter played it down.
‘Observation? Please tell me more.’
‘I just pick up on silly things that most people don’t.’
‘Like what?’
‘Just above your wrist line there’s a slight depression,’ he said, tilting his head towards her hands. ‘As if you’ve been wearing tight rubber bands around both of your wrists. The white powder residue around your cuticles is consistent with cornstarch powder, which you know is used in surgical gloves. My guess is that you’ve been wearing gloves all morning.’
‘Wow. That’s quite impressive.’ She looked at her hands for a couple of seconds. ‘But the powder on my fingers could be from chalk. That means that I could be a professor at the University. And I could teach any subject, not just biomedical,’ she challenged Hunter.
‘Different kind of powder,’ he shot back with conviction. ‘Cornstarch is much finer and a lot harder to wash off, that’s why you have it only around your cuticles and not your fingers.
Plus you have it on both of your hands. So unless you’re an ambidextrous professor, I’ll stick with my surgical gloves theory.’
She stared at him in silence. A nervous smile played on her lips.
‘The other giveaway is that UCLA Medical School is just around the corner,’ he said with a new tilt of the head.
Isabella hesitated for a second. ‘Wow, you are good. I have been wearing gloves all morning.’
‘As I’ve said, just observation, really.’ Hunter smiled, secretly glad that he’d impressed her.
‘You said you teach? You don’t look like the professor type.’
‘I said I could be a professor, but now I’m curious. What does the professor type look like?’ she asked with a chuckle.
‘Well, you know . . .’ he chose his words carefully. ‘Older, balder, thick glasses . . .’
Isabella laughed and ran her fingers through her hair, pulling it to one side but letting her fringe fall partially over her left eye. ‘Here at UCLA you’ll find even the surfer-type professor. Long hair, tattoos, piercings. Some even come to class wearing flip-flops and shorts.’
Hunter laughed.
The waiter came back to check on their orders.
‘Sig.na Isabella, come sta?’
‘Va bene, grazie, Luigi.’
‘What can I get for you today?’ he asked in a very strong Italian accent.
Isabella didn’t need to look at the menu to decide, she knew exactly what she wanted.
‘What do you recommend?’ Hunter asked, struggling to make a selection of his own.
‘Do you like olives, pepperoni and pine nuts?’
‘Yeah, very much.’
‘OK, then have the penne Pazze, it’s gorgeous,’ she said, pointing down at her menu.
Hunter accepted her suggestion and complemented it with a small rucola and parmesan salad. He thought about having some garlic bread, but decided against it – not the best of dishes when you’re out on a date. They both opted for no wine as they still had to go back to work after lunch.
‘How about you? How’s work going?’ she asked.
‘Same old, same old, just a different day,’ he said playing with his bread knife.
‘I bet being a detective in a city like LA isn’t easy?’
Hunter looked up and stared at Isabella, intrigued. ‘How do you know I’m a detective?’
It was Isabella’s turn to fix him down with a stare. ‘Huh?’ She paused and worked her fingers through her fringe. ‘Are you kidding?’
His expression told her he wasn’t.
‘This past weekend? In my apartment?’
She got no reaction from him.
‘Do you remember anything about that night? We went back to my place from the bar, you took off your jacket and the first thing I saw was a gun. I freaked out and you showed me your badge saying that everything was OK, you were a detective for the city of Los Angeles.’
Hunter looked down in embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry . . . I actually don’t remember much about that night . . . little memory flashes, but that’s all. How much did I have to drink?’
‘Quite a lot,’ she said giggling to herself.
‘Was I on Scotch?’
‘Yep,’ she nodded. ‘So you don’t remember much about that night at all?’
‘Very little.’
‘Do you remember sleeping with me?’
The embarrassment was now complete. A slight shake of the head was all he could muster.
‘Oh God! So I wasn’t memorable?’
‘Oh no, it’s not like that. I’m sure you’re incredible in bed . . .’ Hunter realized he’d said those words louder than he intended. Their conversation had suddenly attracted the attention of some of the neighboring tables. ‘Wow, that sentence came out all wrong,’ he said in a much lower tone of voice.
Isabella smiled. ‘Your brain working faster than your lips again?’ she teased.
Luigi came back with a bottle of still mineral water and poured it into the wine glass in front of her. Hunter declined signaling that he was alright with his Diet Coke.
‘Grazie, Luigi,’ she said softly.
‘Si figuri, sig.na,’ he replied with a jovial smile.
Isabella waited until Luigi was gone. ‘I must admit that your phone call yesterday came as a surprise.’
‘Surprising people is one of the things I do best,’ Hunter replied, sitting back on his chair.
‘I was unsure of what to make of it. I didn’t know if you really wanted to see me or just get into my pants again.’
Hunter smiled. He admired her forwardness. ‘And that’s why you opted for a quick lunch. Dinner dates are easier to escalate into something else.’
‘Lunch dates are safer,’ Isabella confirmed.
‘Plus you wanted to check me out.’
‘What do you mean?’ She played dumb.
‘We both had a few more drinks than we intended on the night we met. Our perceptions probably got somewhat . . . distorted. You were probably unsure of what I look like and if I was worth going on a second date with. A quick lunch date would clear all that up.’
Isabella bit her lip.
Hunter knew he was right.
‘I’m sure I remember more than you do,’ she said, playing with her hair again.
‘True,’ Hunter admitted. ‘But that night was atypical. I usually don’t drink to the point of passing out and not remembering what happened.’ He had a sip of his Diet Coke. ‘So, did I pass the lunch-date test?’
Isabella nodded. ‘With flying colors. Did I?’
Hunter frowned.
‘C’mon. You were checking me out just as much as I was checking you out. You said it yourself. You don’t remember much.’
Hunter enjoyed her company. She was certainly different from most women he’d met. He liked her sense of humor, her sharp answers and her irreverent way. They both stared at each other for a little while. Hunter felt just as comfortable being silent with her as he did in conversation.
Luigi arrived with their pasta and Hunter watched as Isabella placed her serviette around the collar of her blouse like a true Italian. He did the same.
‘Wow, this is absolutely beautiful,’ he said after his first mouthful.
‘I told you, this is authentic Italian food, that’s why they are always busy.’
‘I bet you eat in here all the time. I would.’
‘Not as much as I’d like. I have to keep an eye on my figure you know.’ She looked down at her waist.
‘Well, whatever you are doing, it’s working out fine for you,’ he said with a smile.
Before she was able to thank him for his compliment Hunter’s phone rang. He knew it was impolite to leave his phone on inside a restaurant, but he had no choice.
‘Sorry about this,’ he said semi-embarrassed, bringing his phone to his ear. Isabella didn’t seem to mind.
‘Detective Hunter speaking.’ He heard a faint click.
‘Go down Camp Road in Griffith Park. Before you get to the end of it you’ll reach a sharp right elbow turn, don’t go right, take the tiny dirt road on the south end of it and follow it all the way around until you reach the high trees. There you’ll find an M-Class Mercedes-Benz. I left the result of yesterday’s gamble inside it.’ Before Hunter had a chance to say anything the robotic voice hung up.
Hunter looked up at Isabella’s staring eyes. She didn’t need to be psychic to know something wasn’t right. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked concerned.
Hunter took a deep breath before answering. ‘I gotta go . . . I’m so sorry.’
Isabella watched as Hunter stood up and grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair.
‘I’m really sorry for having to run out on you again.’
‘It’s OK, trust me, I understand.’ She stood up, took a step forward and kissed him on both cheeks.
Hunter pulled two twenty-dollar bills out of his wallet and placed the money on the table. ‘Is it OK if I call you sometime?’
‘Of course.’ With an insecure smile Isabella watched as he raced out of the restaurant.
Twenty-Six
Hunter called Garcia on the way to Griffith Park, asking him to inform the forensics department together with the LAPD Special Tactics Unit. He was sure the killer wouldn’t be at the location, but he had to follow protocol, the STU team needed to clear the area first.
Encompassing over 4,107 acres, Griffith Park is the United States’ largest municipal park of natural terrain covered with California oak trees, wild sage and manzanita. It is also home to the famous Hollywood sign, which stands on Mount Lee.
It didn’t take the STU long to find the abandoned Mercedes-Benz. The area was hidden away from any members of the public that might’ve been strolling around the park. High and bushy white oak trees surrounded the car, blocking most of the two o’clock sunlight. The air felt uncomfortably humid and hot, soaking everyone’s shirt in sweat. It could be worse, it could be raining, Hunter thought. Garcia was already busy faxing the vehicle details through.
The car seemed intact, the heat making its rooftop shimmer like water, but its dark-green tinted windows prevented anyone from seeing inside properly. A perimeter had been rapidly delimited around the car. After deliberating over their plan of action, four STU agents approached the car in two by two formation, with their MP5 sub-machine guns at eye level; the powerful flashlights attached to the bottom part of their barrels cast light circles over the abandoned car. With every cautious step dried leaves and sticks crunched under their feet.
They carefully checked the immediate area. Gradually inching their way towards the vehicle. Searching for any trip wires or booby traps.
‘We’ve got someone in the driver’s seat,’ the agent at the front announced in a firm voice.
Suddenly all the light circles illuminated a figure slumped in the front seat. His head was tilted back resting against the headrest with his eyes shut. His mouth was semi-open and his lips looked a dark shade of purple. Droplets of blood had run down his cheeks from his eyes like blood tears. He’d been stripped of his shirt and his body was covered in hematomas.
‘Backseat, what have I got?’ Tim Thornton, the STU leader, called out. His voice demanding.
