by Chris Carter
‘A guess?’ Garcia looked incredulous.
‘That’s all profiling is, nothing but our best guess based on the facts and evidence found at the crime scene. The problem is that when we walk in the footsteps of such deranged criminals for long enough, acting like they do, thinking like they do, immersing ourselves so deep in such dark minds, that unavoidably leaves scars . . . mental scars, and sometimes the profiler loses track of the line.’
‘What line?’
‘The line that keeps us from becoming like them.’ Hunter looked away for a moment. When he spoke again his voice was sad. ‘There have been cases . . . profilers that have worked in investigations of sadistic sexual offenders becoming obsessed with sadistic sex themselves, or going the opposite way, becoming sexually inadequate. The simple thought of sex being enough to make them sick. Others that have worked brutal murder cases have become violent and abusive. Some have gone as far as committing brutal crimes themselves. The human brain is still pretty much a mystery, and if we abuse it for long enough . . .’ Hunter didn’t need to finish the sentence. ‘So I chose to abuse my brain in a different way, by becoming a Homicide detective.’ He smiled and finished the rest of his beer.
‘Yeah, and that is some abuse.’ They both laughed.
A mile from Rusty’s Surf Ranch a well-dressed man checked his reflection against the full-size mirror in the entrance lobby of the Belvedere restaurant. He was wearing a tailored Italian suit, freshly polished shoes, and his blond wig suited him perfectly. His contact lenses gave his eyes an unusual shade of green.
From where he was standing he could see her sitting at the bar, a glass of red wine in her hand. She looked beautiful in her little black dress.
Was she nervous or excited? He couldn’t really tell.
All that time at the supermarket, all those months he’d been working her, feeding her lies, getting her to trust him. Tonight his lies would pay off. They always did.
‘Hello, sir, are you here to meet someone or will you be having dinner by yourself this evening?’
In silence he stared at the maître d’ for a few seconds.
‘Sir?’
He glanced at her once again. He knew she’d be perfect.
‘Sir?’
‘Yes, I’m meeting a friend. That lady by the bar,’ he finally replied with a pleasant smile.
‘Very well, sir, please follow me.’
Forty-Five
Friday night at the Vanguard Club produced a lively mix of people, but tonight the place was busier than usual. Tonight the club was hosting the only Los Angeles appearance of the renowned Dutch DJ – Tiësto.
The club was full to capacity and the main show was due to start at midnight, but everyone was already having a great time. It was a perfect place for what he had in mind. The more people around, the less anyone would notice him.
He’d been growing his beard for six days, just enough to make him look different. He completed his disguise by wearing a trendy cotton baseball cap, a professional-quality wig of pitch-black hair, together with a very colorful designer shirt. His youngish-looking outfit was a far cry from his usual businessman attire with his Italian designer suit and his leather briefcase. But tonight he was no businessman.
Tonight he had only one thing in mind, he had to deliver something. He’d had it for six days and for six days he’d been debating what he should do with it. Businessmen are not best known for being honest, and God only knew he hadn’t been the most honest of businessmen, but some things are just plain wrong, even for him. He had to do something about it.
He stood in a corner on the opposite side of the VIP area observing the vibrant crowd, his eyes sailing the dance floor, searching for anyone that could recognize him – he saw no one. He placed his hand inside his trouser pocket and ran his fingers over the object inside. Immediately a cold tingle started at the base of his back and ran up through his spine all the way to the back of his neck. He quickly moved his hand away.
‘Hey, man, do you need something?’
A young, dark-haired kid, no older than twenty-three, stood in front of him. He squinted his eyes as if trying to see better. ‘What?’
‘You know, man, it’s a rave . . . are you looking for a trip?’
‘Oh no, I’m good,’ he replied, finally understanding what the kid meant.
‘You better get it now, man, before the show starts,’ the kid said, flicking his head towards the stage, his dark hair flipping around just like in a shampoo commercial.
‘No . . . really, I’m fine.’
‘If you change your mind, I’ll be around.’ The kid made a small circular movement with his finger before moving away.
He had another sip of his Jack Daniel’s and Coke and scratched his itchy beard.
The music came to a halt and the lights and lasers went into overdrive on the dance floor. Gusts of smoke coming from the high ceiling filled the place up with a colorful haze. The crowd jumped and screamed and applauded. They were ready to welcome tonight’s special guest.
This was his chance. Everyone’s attention would be on the stage, no one would notice a person dropping a small packet over at the bar. He left his drink behind and quickly squeezed his way through the thirsty customers to position himself against the wall on the far right end of the nearest bar. Even the barmen had stopped serving for a few seconds.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is what you’ve been waiting for. Get your dancing shoes on and prepare to party. The Vanguard Club is proud to present, on his only appearance in Los Angeles, one of the biggest names in house music in the world . . . Tiësto.’
The crowd went berserk. The colored lasers switched their aim towards the stage.
He quickly pulled the small squared packet out of his pocket, leaned forward and dropped it. As the packet hit the floor, he rapidly moved away glad to have finally disposed of it. He was sure no one had seen him do it.
Fifteen minutes later, the second barman finally came across the package. As he rushed to one end of the bar to serve a very loud customer he felt something uneven under his feet. Looking down he noticed the square wrap. He bent over and picked it up.
‘Yo, Pietro!’ the barman called.
Pietro finished serving two attractive young girls and walked over to the other end of the bar.
‘Is this yours?’
Pietro took the small packet from Todd’s hands and stared at it with intrigued eyes. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘I found it on the floor, just there.’ He pointed to a spot at the far end of the bar.
‘Did you see who dropped it?’
‘No, man. It could’ve been there for a while. I only saw it because I stepped on it.’
Pietro analyzed the tightly wrapped pack in his hand. He couldn’t tell what it was, but the inscription on it left no doubt who the owner should be – ‘TO D-KING.’
Forty-Six
He climbed up the steps to the VIP area wondering why it was left up to him to play mailman. The area was swarming with B-list celebrities. Pietro maneuvered his way around the noisy crowd towards the last table on the right – D-King’s table. Jerome, who was standing just a few feet in front of his boss, had already spotted the long-haired barman.
‘Is there a problem?’
‘Somebody left this at the bar,’ Pietro said, handing the squared packet to the ex-boxer who looked it over with questioning eyes.
‘Wait here.’
Pietro watched as the muscle-bound man walked over to the table behind him, bent over and whispered something to his boss while handing him the small packet. A few seconds later he was given a signal to come closer. He knew he had no reason to feel nervous, but he could feel his chest tightening around his heart.
‘Where did you get this?’ D-King asked without getting up.
‘At the bar. Somebody left it there.’
‘So somebody just left this over at the bar and walked away or did he hand it to you?’
‘Neither, somebody drop
ped it over the counter onto the bar floor. Todd, the other barman, found it.’
‘And he didn’t see who dropped it?’
‘He said he didn’t.’
‘When was that, when did he find this?’
‘About five minutes ago. He gave it to me and I brought it straight over, but it could’ve been there for a while. We’re really busy over at the bar and Todd said he’d only noticed it because he’d stepped on it.’
D-King studied the man in front of him for a few seconds. ‘OK,’ he said and made a hand movement dismissing the barman.
‘Can I open it, babe, I love opening presents?’ asked one of the three girls sitting at the table.
‘Sure, here you go.’
She quickly ripped the packet open, her excited smile rapidly fading away as the contents were revealed. ‘It’s a disk?’ she said unimpressed.
‘What the hell?’ D-King took the case from her hands, flipped it over and studied it for a few more seconds. ‘It’s a DVD,’ he said, uninterested.
‘Too bad, I was hoping for diamonds,’ another one of the girls commented.
‘There’s something inside the wrapper,’ Jerome said, noticing a small, white note stuck to the discarded wrapping paper. D-King reached for it and read it in silence.
I’m sorry.
‘What does it say, babe?’
‘Why don’t you three go dance,’ D-King commanded. ‘Come back in twenty minutes or something.’
They knew that wasn’t a request. Silently, all three stunning-looking girls left the VIP area quickly disappearing into the dancing crowd.
‘We have a DVD player in the limo, don’t we?’ D-King asked, now sounding a little more curious.
‘Uh-huh,’ Jerome nodded.
‘Let’s go take a look at this now.’
‘Sure boss.’ Jerome immediately retrieved his cell phone from his dark Tallia suit. ‘Warren, bring the car around back . . . No, we’re not leaving just yet, we just need to check something out.’
Cars were something D-King enjoyed and he made no secret of it. His extensive private collection included models such as a Ford GT, a Ferrari 430 spider, an Aston Martin Vanquish S and his newest addition – a twelve-passenger Hummer limousine.
Within five minutes they’d met Warren around the back of the Vanguard Club.
‘Is anything the matter, boss?’ Warren asked, standing next to the open back door of the thirty-eight-feet-long vehicle.
‘No, everything is cool. We just gotta have a look at something.’ D-King and Jerome jumped into the back of the limo and waited until Warren had closed the door on them.
A small panel next to the main seat hosted an array of buttons and faders giving its occupant total control over everything: different light settings and colors, sound and speaker configuration, access to the state-of-the-art high-definition DVD system and to the hidden compartment containing a small arsenal of weapons.
D-King placed himself comfortably on the main seat and quickly pressed a button. To his right, the front of a wooden cabinet slid open revealing a slimline DVD player. Without hesitation he placed the disk in it. The front panel that divided the driver’s cabin from the rest of the car glided shut and a colossal screen extending the width of the vehicle rolled down from its ceiling. The entire operation took less than ten seconds.
Low-quality images filled the screen and for a minute Jerome struggled to understand what was going on.
In a dirty and derelict square room a blindfolded and gagged young woman had been tied to a metal chair. Her body half exposed through her ripped clothes.
‘What the fuck’s this?’ Jerome asked, still looking confused.
‘Hold on, nigga,’ D-King replied as he reached for the fast-forward button. The images danced frantically on the screen for a few seconds before he released the button allowing the film to resume play. They both watched in silence for a while longer as the frightened young girl was being physically, verbally and sexually abused.
‘This is sick, boss. Somebody’s playing a practical joke on you,’ Jerome said, turning his face away from the screen and getting ready to leave the luxurious car.
‘Wait a second.’ D-King stopped his bodyguard before he had a chance to open the door. Something wasn’t right, D-King could feel it. He reached for the fast-forward button once again allowing the disk to skip ahead several minutes. When he resumed play the movie carried on showing more violence and abuse.
‘Ah damn. Turn it off, boss, it’s making me feel ill,’ Jerome pleaded.
D-King raised his hand signaling Jerome to be quiet for a second. He advanced the film one more time stopping it just short of the last scene.
As the two other mysterious characters in the film positioned themselves for the film’s climax, D-King realized what was about to happen. Jerome still looked clueless to what was really going on, but his attention was still on the screen. They both watched as her blindfold was torn away from her face.
‘What the fuck!’ Jerome yelled, jerking backwards. The camera focused on the girl’s face. ‘That’s Jenny.’ His voice half stating the obvious, half asking a question.
D-King had realized who the girl was a full minute before Jerome did. His anger oozed through every pore in his body. They observed in morbid silence as the knife sliced through her neck like a Bushido sword through rice paper. The camera zoomed in on her helpless and dying eyes and then on the blood spilling from the fatal wound on her neck.
‘What the hell is going on, boss?’ Jerome’s voice was an excited shout.
D-King remained silent until the DVD reached its end. When he spoke, his voice was ice cold. ‘What do you think is going on, Jerome? We just saw how they tortured and killed Jenny.’
‘But that’s wrong. The detectives said that she had no bullet or knife wounds, that she’d been skinned alive. We just saw someone slice her neck open.’
‘The detectives said the girl on the picture they showed us had been skinned alive. We thought that girl was Jenny. We were wrong.’
Jerome brought both hands to his face. ‘This is fucked up, boss.’
‘Listen to me.’ D-King snapped his fingers twice to get Jerome’s attention back to him. ‘The fucking gloves are off. I want those two in the video,’ he said with so much rage it made Jerome shiver. ‘I want the sonofabitch behind the camera, I want whoever owns that shithole of a place and I want the person responsible for that whole motherfucking operation, do you hear me?’
‘I hear you, boss,’ Jerome said regaining his composure.
‘Don’t get the word out on the streets. I don’t want to scare these fucks away. Use only reliable people. I want them fast and I want them alive if possible. It doesn’t matter who you pay. It doesn’t matter how much you pay. It doesn’t matter what it takes.’
‘How about the cops?’ Jerome asked. ‘I think we should tell them that the girl on the photo is not Jenny.’
D-King pondered the idea for an instant. ‘You’re right, but I wanna get these guys first. After that, I’ll get in touch with them.’
Forty-Seven
It’d been several days and their bar and club search hadn’t produced any results yet. They’d covered Santa Monica in its entirety and had moved to the bars and clubs in Long Beach, but the response had been the same everywhere. The rest of their investigation was also moving at no pace. Just like the original Crucifix killings they were yet to establish any definite links between the victims. There was the possibility Jenny and George knew each other from one of the sex parties they’d attended, but they still hadn’t managed to positively identify their first victim. No one could confirm the faceless woman’s body was indeed Jenny Farnborough’s. Carlos was yet to find her family in Idaho or Utah. Assumption was the only thing they had to go on and Captain Bolter hated assumptions. He wanted facts.
With every resultless day that went by they knew they were a day closer to receiving another phone call – another victim. Everybody’s patience was wearing thi
n, including the Chief of Police. He demanded results from Captain Bolter who, in turn, demanded results from his two detectives.
The investigation was slowly consuming everyone. Garcia had barely seen Anna in the past few days. Hunter had spoken to Isabella over the phone a couple of times, but he had no time for romantic meetings. Time was wearing thin and they knew it.
Hunter arrived early at the RHD to once again find Garcia already at his desk.
‘We’ve got some news,’ Garcia said the instant Hunter walked through the door.
‘Make me smile, tell me that someone has recognized our sketched suspect.’
‘Well, it’s good news, but not that good,’ Garcia said a little less excited.
‘OK then, tell me?’
‘Doctor Winston just sent me the result of the DNA test from the hair strand found in George Slater’s car.’
‘Finally, and?’
‘No DNA could be obtained from the hair as it had no skin follicles.’
‘So the hair didn’t fall naturally. It’s been cut instead of being pulled out.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘So we’ve got nothing?’ Hunter’s asked, unimpressed.
‘No, no, there were chemicals on the hair and that allowed the lab to find out where it came from.’
‘And?’
‘It’s European hair.’
‘From a wig?’ Hunter’s eyes widened in surprise.
‘How do you know European hair is wig hair?’
‘I read a lot.’
‘Oh that’s right. I forgot about that,’ Garcia said with a cynical nod. ‘So disregarding synthetic hair wigs, the three best types of wigs you can buy are: real hair, human hair and European hair. In the wig-making industry, real hair and human hair refer to Asian hair which has been processed, bleached from its original color and then dyed to match European hair colors. This process damages the hair, but it’s very readily available and inexpensive. But European hair . . .’ Garcia shook his head ‘ . . . is almost unprocessed hair. It comes mainly from Eastern Europe. No hair dyeing is used although it’s coated with a high-grade conditioner for longevity. It’s the closest to naturally grown hair you can get.’
