The Executioner

by Chris Carter

  Honey counted her money again. She knew better than to get paid at the end of it all. She made that mistake once, and all she got for her troubles was a black eye and a bloody lip.

  She fixed her wig, checked her makeup and got rid of her clothes. Her underwear wasn’t new. She couldn’t even remember the last time she bought new underwear, but it was clean and she knew she wouldn’t have it on for much longer. ‘Let’s go to work, girl,’ she said to her reflection, pouting her lips.

  The tourist was sitting at the edge of the bed still fully dressed. His hands between his knees, his chin against his chest.

  ‘What’s the matter, babe?’ Honey knelt down in front of him.

  He kept his eyes on the floor, too embarrassed to look at her. ‘I . . . I’ve never done this before.’

  Honey smiled and placed a hand on his leg, caressing it gently. ‘Don’t worry, babe. I have all the experience you need.’

  ‘Do you mind if I go get cleaned up a little?’

  ‘Of course not, hun. Take your time. I’ll wait for you out here.’ She shot him a sensual wink. ‘With nothing on.’

  Honey was in bed, naked, with her back against the uncomfortable metal headboard when the man came out of the bathroom. She had already rubbed and pinched her nipples so they were hard and pointing up. She always thought they were one of her best features. But her expression changed as the tourist stepped back into the room. He was wearing what to her seemed like a long, clear-plastic raincoat, and nothing else. She also noticed his massive erection.

  ‘Wow, babe. That’s quite kinky.’ She sat up. ‘I like kinky.’

  ‘I’m here for you, Honey.’ The man’s shy voice and demeanor had vanished. His new tone covered Honey’s whole body in goose bumps. She got out of bed and he took a step towards her. As he moved, the pink-neon light reflected on something in his right hand, and she froze. She’d seen that kind of glint before. She tried to scream, but he was too fast for her, bridging the space between them in a flash and covering her mouth with a powerful hand. He pressed his body hard against hers, and she felt his excitement brushing her thigh. Her terrified eyes found his, and the evil she saw in them made her wet herself.

  ‘You’ll have to kneel and pray,’ he murmured, and she shivered in his arms. Only this morning she’d read about him in the paper. They called him ‘The Slasher’.

  He licked his lips slowly as he raised the blade to her neck and whispered in her ear. ‘I’m your salvation, Honey.’

  Hundred and Two

  Hunter sat patiently at the metal table inside the small, all-white, private visiting room in the California Correctional Institution State Prison in Tehachapi. He heard the shuffle of chains being dragged across the corridor floor outside before the door to the room opened. The first person to walk in was a Hulk of a guard. His muscles about to rip through the fabric of his tightly stretched XXL uniform. His size dwarfing the person behind him, a pale-skinned, average-height man dressed all in white.

  The same piece of chain that bound the man’s hands together in front of his body ran a loop around his waist and continued down to his ankles, giving him just enough length to perform a geisha step. His hair was cut short, but Hunter noticed it was graying at the temples. His lips weren’t as full as they were on the yearbook picture. A badly healed scar graced his left cheek. His eyes were still cat-like, but they’d lost all the menace in them. He stopped at the door and frowned as he saw Hunter.

  ‘Who the fuck is this cherry, Dubal?’ he asked Hulk guard, who shrugged indifferently before ushering the prisoner inside and sitting him across the table from his visitor.

  ‘If you need anything, I’ll be right outside,’ Dubal said before allowing the thick door to slam shut behind him.

  Peter Elder sat with his hands on his lap, his chin low and his shoulders slumped forward, but his eyes studied Hunter like a predator studied its prey.

  ‘You must be a very important cop,’ he said in a low voice.

  Hunter was leaning back on his chair. His posture relaxed. ‘Why’s that?’

  Elder smiled, revealing badly cared-for teeth. ‘This ain’t normal visitation hours; this ain’t the normal visitation room. That’s why I’m all chained up. Usually they just cuff my hands behind my back, but it’s a long walk from the Security Housing Unit and they don’t take any chances in here. You’ve gotta be somebody with weight and want something from me real bad to pull this room.’

  ‘My name’s Robert Hunter. I’m a detective with the Los Angeles Homicide Special Section.’ Hunter showed him his badge.

  ‘I don’t give a shit about who you are or where you come from, cop. What I wanna know is what the fuck you want with me?’

  Hunter studied the man in front of him for several silent seconds. ‘Your help,’ he said calmly.

  Peter laughed loudly and placed his hands on the table. His chain rattling loudly against the metal. ‘Why the fuck would I wanna help you, cop?’

  Hunter understood that among inmates there was an unwritten rule that they should never help a cop. To them it was like betraying a brotherhood, snitching, jumping sides, and if other inmates found out, the consequences would be lethal. If Hunter wanted Peter Elder’s help, he had to play his cards just right.

  ‘Not help me. Help your friends.’

  Elder’s eyebrows arched. ‘Friends?’ He chuckled. ‘Have you been smoking, cop? I’ve been in here for fourteen years, all of them spent in SHU.’ He talked with no modulation. Every word was delivered in the same monotone as the last. ‘I don’t socialize. I’m isolated from everything and everyone. Even my mail is restricted. All the friends I have live inside my head, cop.’

  ‘The friends I’m talking about go way back. Way before you got in here.’

  Elder looked up, interested.

  ‘Do you remember a kid from Compton High called Brett Stewart Nichols?’

  Elder leaned back in his chair with a hint of a smile. For an instant his gaze became distant, as if the past was playing before his eyes. When he spoke, there was a certain lift in his tone. ‘This is about Brett?’

  ‘Partially.’

  ‘And that means what, exactly?’

  Hunter took his time as he told Elder a slightly modified version of what had happened. ‘We believe this killer is after your old group of friends.’

  ‘From Compton High?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘Would you fucking stop talking in riddles, cop. It’s messing with my head. What does “not necessarily” mean?’

  From a plastic folder Hunter produced the Gardena High photo with the four girls. ‘These girls weren’t students at Compton High.’ He pushed the picture across the table. ‘Do you recognize any of them?’

  Elder stared at the photo for a long while before shaking his head. ‘Nope,’ he said coldly.

  Hunter knew he was lying, but played along. ‘I thought maybe some of these girls used to hang out with you and Brett after school.’ He pulled the picture back and observed as Elder’s eyes reluctantly broke away from it. ‘The killer’s killed two of them.’

  ‘Which two?’ The question came automatically. A nervous reflex from a concerned person.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Hunter shook his head. ‘If these girls didn’t hang out with you, then it doesn’t matter. We’re done here.’ He made as if he was getting up.

  ‘Wait a second.’ Elder leaned forward. His voice a touch more urgent. ‘Let me see that picture again.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It was a long time ago, cop. My brain has forgotten a lot. Maybe if I look at it again . . .’

  Hunter slowly pushed the picture back towards Elder. This time the inmate held it with his chained hands. Hunter observed Elder. The way his eyes moved from one girl to another. There was no doubt his gaze concentrated mostly on the girl who was second from the left – Amanda Reilly.

  Hundred and Three

  ‘Which two have been killed?’ Elder’s cold voice had softened a touch.
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  ‘Do you remember any of them?’ Hunter pressed.

  Elder looked up, and his piercing eyes rested on Hunter. He blinked quickly a couple of times as if to clear his vision. The edges of his mouth curled up. ‘You’re the one who’s on a tight schedule, cop.’ The monotone was back. ‘Trying to catch a killer and all. I already know my fate. I ain’t ever coming out of here. You can play games all you like, it doesn’t bother me. Maybe I do remember them, but first I wanna know which two have been killed.’

  Peter Elder needed a reason to help. From the way he stared at Amanda Reilly, it was clear he was struggling with an emotion he hadn’t felt in too many years. And the picture had certainly stirred some of it back to life. Hunter decided to gamble. ‘The last two girls on the right – Debbie Howard and Jessica Pierce.’

  Elder’s face relaxed a fraction with relief. Hunter was certain he’d gambled correctly – time to roll the dice one more time. ‘The others are all in danger, as is everyone who was part of your street group. We have reason to believe the next one on the killer’s list will be the second girl from the left – Amanda Reilly. Do you know her?’

  Peter Elder tensed. ‘If you believe she’s gonna be the next victim, why don’t you protect her?’

  ‘We can’t find her. We think she’s running scared. Our best chance is to catch the killer before he strikes again. We know those girls knew each other, but we still don’t have a link between them and Brett.’

  ‘And how will that help?’

  Hunter leaned forward. ‘Look, I know you guys bullied a few kids when you were young; it happens in every school in America. From what we have so far, it looks like that for some reason one of the kids you pushed around back then decided it’s payback time.’

  Elder frowned. ‘That was about twenty-five years ago.’

  ‘Some people don’t ever forget.’

  ‘But these girls weren’t Compton High students. Why would the killer go after them?’

  Hunter explained his street gang theory.

  Elder used both hands to scratch his forehead. ‘So you need me to confirm if you got it right. A pushed-around kid who decided to get his own back on our little gang.’

  Hunter nodded.

  ‘You didn’t.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Your theory is bullshit, cop.’ Elder allowed his eyes to study the picture again and they mellowed. ‘Some of us did hang out together.’ He pointed to the last girl on the right. ‘Debbs, one of the girls you said was killed, was one of them, and so was Mandy.’ He pointed to Amanda Reilly. ‘But this other girl who died, what did you say her name was?’

  ‘Jessica Pierce.’

  ‘I’ve never even seen her before. She didn’t hang out with us; neither did the other one. So this killer of yours can’t be going after my old street gang.’

  ‘Your old gang – how many were you?’

  Elder thought about it for a moment. ‘Eight, counting me.’

  Hunter pulled a new picture from his folder and slid it across the table. Elder switched his gaze from the girls’ photo to the new one – a slender man with neatly trimmed fair hair leaning casually against a white wall. The one they got from the house in Malibu – the still unidentified first victim. Hunter observed Elder’s eyes and expression. The recognition came within five seconds.

  ‘He was the first victim,’ Hunter announced.

  Elder remained silent.

  ‘Was he part of your street gang?’

  Elder returned his clasped hands to his lap and considered what to say. ‘Strutter was the craziest motherfucker I’d ever met.’

  Hundred and Four

  Hunter’s brow creased slightly. ‘Strutter?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s what we called him. He was a huge Kiss fan and “Strutter” was his favorite song.’

  ‘Good song,’ Hunter agreed.

  The smile that came to Elder’s lips was genuine. ‘He was a bad motherfucker, but a very cool guy. If there was a leader in the group, he’d be it. Strutter wasn’t scared of shit, except wasps. He was very allergic to them. If one came flying around, Strutter was out of there like lightning.’

  ‘Was he a student at Compton High?’

  The smile turned into a laugh. ‘Strutter wouldn’t be caught dead inside a school. He hated the whole education thing. He used to say he could learn everything he’d ever need from the streets.’ He studied the picture once again and shook his head almost sadly.

  ‘What was his real name?’

  ‘Fucked if I know, cop.’ Elder chuckled. ‘We just knew each other from the streets. I knew Brett’s name because we were in school together. In the streets we called everyone by their nicknames – Strutter.’ He pointed to the picture before moving to the girls’ one. ‘Mandy, Debbs. Brett was BS, and that didn’t mean Brett Stewart. I was Kicker and then there were JayJay, Double D and Lipz.’ Elder noticed Hunter’s intrigued look and clarified. ‘JayJay was a crazy, skinny fucker, Double D an all-dancing, all-jiving black dude and Lipz a very hot Puerto Rican girl. She had the sexiest lips I’ve ever seen or kissed.’ He smiled as he remembered.

  ‘And you never called them by their real names?’

  ‘Not really,’ he replied coolly. ‘I don’t think I ever knew Strutter or JayJay’s real name. Lipz’s one was too strange for me to pronounce. Double D’s was something like Darnell or Darrell or something like that.’

  Double D – Darnell Douglas. Hunter chose not to mention anything for now. His urgency was in identifying the two remaining members of Elder’s old gang. ‘How about JayJay and Lipz? Were they students at Compton High?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Were they like Strutter, street kids?’

  ‘No, they did go to school somewhere, but it wasn’t Compton High. I didn’t fucking know and I didn’t fucking care. We all hated school anyway. I think they both flunked out of it just like me.’

  Hunter pulled one last item from his file, the Compton High yearbook. ‘Could I ask you just one more thing?’ He placed the book in front of Elder, who arched an eyebrow. ‘Could you have a look at this yearbook and point out the students you guys pushed around the most?’

  ‘Why? I already told you your theory is shit. Your killer killed a girl who wasn’t part of the gang.’

  Time to play the last card. Hunter retrieved a photograph of Darnell Douglas and placed it on the table. ‘Do you recognize him?’

  From his leaned-back position Elder lowered his eyes to the picture, studying it for a moment. A few seconds later his relaxed expression morphed into a frown. He craned his body forward and picked the picture up with both hands.

  ‘Motherfucker. It’s Double D,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘He put on some weight.’

  Hunter took a deep breath. ‘He was found murdered yesterday.’

  Elder’s head snapped up.

  ‘It was the same killer.’ Hunter had to think quickly. ‘Maybe Jessica Pierce wasn’t part of your gang, but she might’ve pushed him around anyway. Maybe the killer had a crush on her and she made fun of him, embarrassed him in front of others.’ Hunter pointed to the pictures again. ‘Brett, Strutter, Double D and the girls’ paths never crossed in their adult lives. You all went your different ways. Nothing connects the five victims except their school days and your old gang. That’s no coincidence.’

  Elder’s left eye twitched slightly.

  ‘We can still save them.’ Hunter tapped the girls’ picture, making sure his finger landed on Amanda Reilly. ‘But they need your help.’ He extended his hand offering the convict a blue crayon.

  Elder paused for a long instant before taking the crayon and drawing a circle on the table around the yearbook. ‘There you go. We messed with just about everyone in that school.’

  ‘OK, how about if you narrow it down to the ones you messed with not only in but outside school as well? Just the ones your gang pushed around.’

  ‘Why should I give a shit? None of them ever came to visit me. They didn’t g
ive a fuck for how I was doing. Not even BS came to see me. He was my best friend.’

  Hunter tried to think of something he could say. He could lie and tell Elder that it wasn’t true. That Brett and Amanda had requested visitation rights but were denied. But that would play in Elder’s mind until his last days, and no one deserved that kind of psychological torture. ‘I can’t answer that question,’ he finally said. ‘Only you can find a reason why you should care.’

  The silence that followed as they stared at each other seemed interminable.

  ‘This could take a fucking long while, cop,’ Elder said, flipping open the yearbook and reaching for the crayon.

  Hundred and Five

  Hunter was on the phone to Doctor Winston as soon as he left CCI. The autopsy had confirmed their suspicions. Darnell Douglas had died of severe blood loss. Toxicology showed he’d been injected with succinylcholine, a paralyzing agent used for surgery that doesn’t affect the nervous system. The subject wouldn’t be able to move, but he’d still feel everything. The black Cadillac found outside the crime scene gave the forensic team nothing; not even Darnell’s prints were found. The killer had done a thorough job of wiping the car clean.

  It took Hunter just short of two hours to drive back to LA. At Parker Center he went straight down to the basement and the Investigative Analysis Unit. Hopkins wasn’t at his desk and neither was Jack Kerley. Hunter called the young officer’s cell phone.

  ‘Ian, where the fuck are you?’

  ‘I’m at the morgue.’

  ‘What the hell are you doing there?’

  ‘Going over personal possessions’ inventories. They’re handwritten forms, remember? I can’t search them using a computer.’

  ‘Well, get someone else to go over the forms for now. I need you back at the RHD.’

  ‘OK, I’m on my way.’

  Garcia was at his desk going over a few files when Hunter entered the office.