by Chris Carter
‘Of course.’
‘Great. Let’s age him about twenty-five years.’
The ageing process took a little longer. When it was finally done, Garcia’s jaw dropped open.
‘No fucking way.’
Hundred and Twenty-Four
Susan Zieliski read the letter for the tenth time, and again her emotions got the better of her. She couldn’t believe it was really happening.
Susan hadn’t had the easiest or luckiest of lives. She was born in Cripple Creek, Colorado, twenty-two years ago. Her parents were Polish–Jewish immigrants and very strict when it came to her upbringing. She did her best to respect their laws, but for a young girl growing up in today’s America they were very restrictive, to say the least.
From a very early age Susan had two great ambitions in life. One – she wanted to be on stage and sing. Two – she didn’t want to become like her mother, a very obedient, somewhat submissive wife who’d do anything her husband told her to without questioning.
At thirteen, Susan was already attractive. She’d inherited her mother’s hair – so blond it was almost white – and her father’s deep blue and captivating eyes. Plenty of boys had asked her out, but Susan wasn’t allowed to date. Not until she was eighteen, and even then it had to be under her parents’ supervision and the boy had to be Jewish.
Susan was no angel, though. Her first kiss came when she was fourteen. Bob Jordan took her behind the school gym during their lunch break and they made out like they were the only two people on earth. She allowed him to touch her breasts, and as he did she was overcome by a warm and exciting new sensation. But when he tried to slide his hand up her thigh and between her legs, she panicked and ran away. That panic didn’t last long, and soon the touching became more intense, the breathing more emphatic and the excitement impossible to control. At fifteen Susan had her first full sexual experience. It’d been quick, painful and not very satisfying, but certainly promising.
Cripple Creek is a former gold-mining camp. A bedroom closet society with a population of fewer than two thousand people. That, together with her strict family rules, made it very hard for a girl like Susan to express herself. She wanted to see more, to explore more, and for the time being the answer came in the form of softball.
Susan didn’t care much for sports, but when she found out her school’s girls’ softball team got to travel all over the state for the high school championships, she made sure she was a part of it.
Susan was sixteen when the team traveled to Colorado Springs to play a series of three games over a long weekend. On that Saturday night, the Bomber Gang, a young and upcoming LA rap group, was playing at the Underground. Susan, together with two other teammates, sneaked out of their dorm and made it to the show. It was Susan’s first-ever live gig and it blew her mind. They got to meet the guys in the band and party with them. Susan spent the night with Kool Roxx, the band’s lead rapper. He said all the right words and promised all the right things. They made love several times before she went back to the team’s dorm.
When she missed her next period later that month, she didn’t give it much thought, but soon the morning sickness, the fatigue and the tender breasts kicked in.
Susan’s father, Jacek, was an old-fashioned man who believed in obedience, respect, honor and above all the purity of his bloodline. Susan knew that there was no way her father would understand. It didn’t matter if she thought she was in love. To him she had disrespected and blemished his family’s name in the worst way he saw possible. She decided not to wait for her father’s reaction.
In Susan’s childish, backyard-America naivety, she believed that Kool Roxx had told her the truth that night when he’d said he’d fallen for her. She believed he’d be happy to see her again and even thrilled to learn he would be a father. She had enough money saved up from her job at the local bookshop to get her to Los Angeles. She’d look up Kool Roxx and they could decide together their next move. But the address he’d given her didn’t exist. The phone number he’d given her was of a Chinese restaurant. Four weeks later, alone in the public bathroom of a subway station in east LA, Susan self-aborted.
She stayed in Los Angeles. She was determined she could still make one of her dreams come true. She took a job at a diner in Lynwood and spent her afternoons auditioning for musicals. She had a great voice, very powerful and a little quirky, but her acting skills let her down. As soon as she was able to afford it, Susan started taking classes, and after five years it was all starting to pay off.
‘We are delighted to inform you that you have been chosen for the new cast of In the Heights, the Broadway musical.’
Susan never got tired of reading that line. The letter had arrived this morning, and since then she’d been walking on clouds. Ironic that In the Heights was a show about chasing your dreams and finding your new home in a different place.
The knock on the door startled her. She wasn’t expecting anyone, especially not at this hour. As Susan opened the door of her small apartment in Downey, her eyes widened in shock.
‘Oh my God!’
Hundred and Twenty-Five
‘Do you know this guy?’ Patricia asked, hitting the PRINT button on her keyboard.
Hunter nodded and she watched as his eyes suddenly widened in realization. ‘Damn, the book,’ he said, bringing both hands to his forehead.
‘What book?’ she asked.
‘The Compton High yearbook.’
‘It’s downstairs,’ Garcia confirmed.
Hunter faced Patricia. ‘Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.’
Patricia glanced at her watch. ‘You gonna owe me big time for this, Robert.’ But he was already racing out of the door and down the steps.
He was back in forty-five seconds flat.
‘Wow, that was fast,’ Patricia said and frowned. ‘How come you’re not even out of breath?’
Hunter didn’t reply. His attention was on the Compton High yearbook pages as he flipped through them, scrutinizing every photo.
‘Who are you after now?’ Garcia asked, taking a step closer and peeking at the book.
Hunter finally stopped turning the pages and rushed over to Patricia’s desk. His face set in concentration. ‘Can you scan this picture?’ He pointed to a photo in the middle of the page. ‘And do the same that we did to that one?’ He nodded towards the printout on her desk.
‘No problem.’
They watched as Patricia Phelps took her time airbrushing and retouching, once again transforming the student on the picture into a completely different one. As she completed the ageing process, Garcia felt his body shiver.
‘You’ve gotta be shitting me.’
Hundred and Twenty-Six
Garcia made the trip from the SID to Holmby Hills in less than twenty minutes. They weren’t sure what they were hoping to find, but they needed to talk to him again. Just like James Reed, he’d also lied about his previous knowledge of the victims.
They had no problem finding the house, a white-fronted, two-story, movie-star-style mansion in Beverly Glen Boulevard. The house was in total darkness, but the lights in the beautifully kept suspended front yard were on, and so were the Christmas decorations on the perfectly triangular evergreen trees that flanked the front door.
They took the long left-bending stone steps that led to the house two at a time. The doorbell wasn’t working, and after a minute of constant knocking Hunter skipped over the small hedge to the left of the door and checked both large windows – they were locked and the closed curtains kept him from seeing inside.
‘Let’s give the garage a try,’ Hunter said, running back down the steps to the two-car garage to the right of the house. Again, it was locked and so was the wooden side door to the right of the garage that no doubt led to the house’s backyard. Its padlock looked flimsy, though.
‘What’re you doing?’ Garcia asked, surprised, as Hunter took a step back and shoved his right shoulder hard against the door.
‘Having a better look,’ he
said matter-of-factly as he stepped through the door frame. ‘You coming?’
‘Are you nuts?’ Garcia called as he doubled his step to catch up with Hunter.
The house’s backyard was impressive. The centerpiece was a grand teardrop-shaped pool illuminated by underwater spotlights. To its left, a spacious beechwood, off-ground sun deck, and at the back of it a large barbecue area. All of it surrounded by high Raywood ash trees and sculptured hedges. The perfectly mown lawn sloped down several yards to a tennis court. No houselights were on. Hunter tried the glass sliding double doors that led into what looked to be a party room – locked. He cupped his hands over the glass and tried to see inside. It all looked lifeless. Taking off his jacket, Hunter rolled it around his right elbow
‘Woah,’ Garcia said, lifting his hands in a ‘stop’ gesture. ‘What are we doing here, Robert?’
‘I have to have a look inside.’
‘Why? This may not be our guy. We have as much reason to doubt James Reed as we have to doubt him.’
‘You saw the transformation on both pictures,’ Hunter shot back calmly. ‘That was no coincidence. This story goes way deeper. And I think it goes murder deep.’
‘Fair enough, but breaking and entering isn’t the solution.’
‘We have a reason to knock on his door, Carlos.’
‘This ain’t knocking. This is kicking the damn door down, and it isn’t legal.’ He looked at Hunter as if he didn’t recognize him. ‘Even if he’s our guy, any lawyer could get this case blown out of the water because we fucked up and didn’t follow procedure, Robert. Is that what you want? We do this and we might be handing this guy a free out-of-jail card.’
Hunter glanced at his watch. ‘I understand, Carlos. And usually I’d be the one giving that speech, but I’m running out of time here. Mollie’s missing, the killer’s after her and she believes he’s gonna get to her tonight. That doesn’t give me a lot of time.’ He stared deep into his partner’s eyes. ‘I promised her nothing would happen to her. This is a good lead. I don’t have time to go through the right channels and do background research. If I do, she dies. There’s no way the DA’s office will give us a warrant to even search his trash can.’ He paused and breathed in deeply. ‘Go back to Parker Center, Carlos. I’ll deny you had any knowledge of my actions.’
‘What?’
‘You said so yourself: this could all be a mistake. I’m not gonna drag you into this. You’ve got a wife to think about, Carlos. You can’t fuck up. I can.’
Hundred and Twenty-Seven
Garcia could barely believe what he was hearing. It was because of Hunter’s stubborn attitude that he was alive today. If Hunter thought Garcia would simply turn and walk away, he had another think coming.
‘Well, knowing that you can’t properly fuck up if I’m not with you,’ he joked, ‘I’m coming with, partner.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Who knows? Traffic duty might be a blast. Let’s fucking do this.’
Hunter smiled and handed Garcia a pair of latex gloves before elbowing the door. There was a muffled crash and shards of broken glass hit the floor. They both looked around instinctively.
Hunter slipped his hand through the glass, unlocked the door and pulled his pen flashlight from his gun holster.
Garcia did the same and gingerly followed him inside.
The first room was a spacious rectangular structure with black marble floors, a few seats and a bar against the east wall. Definitely a party room, Hunter thought. Opposite the bar, a new set of double doors. These ones were hand carved in dark wood. Hunter carefully tried the handle – unlocked. They stepped through into a large and rich foyer decorated with antiques, fine porcelain, silver objects and a few paintings, no photographs. An imposing crystal chandelier hung above the split-level staircase that led up to the next floor.
‘This place’s too big. We’d better split up,’ Hunter whispered, leaning towards Garcia. ‘You stay down here, I’ll check upstairs.’
Garcia nodded. As Hunter cautiously took the steps to the next level, he took the door directly in front of him.
The main sitting room was as ostentatious as the rich foyer he’d just come from, filled with expensive furniture, oil paintings and sculptures. Garcia crossed the room silently and made his way through the French doors at the far end of it. They led him into a sprawling den, warmed by a black marble fireplace on the east wall. The white carpet was lush and spotless. The north wall was framed entirely in full-length windows. On the opposite side of the room Garcia noticed a strange wooden door, not as high as a regular house door. Faint spots of light were coming from underneath it. Tentatively, he walked over, put his right ear against it and listened for a moment – some sort of distant hum. He looked back at the den’s entrance as if debating whether he should go back and get Hunter. He decided to check it out by himself first.
As Garcia twisted the doorknob, he felt his blood warming and his pulse race. Every bone in his body was telling him something was wrong. He reached for his gun.
The door opened soundlessly, revealing a long and narrow flight of concrete stairs dimly lit by a single bulb that hung from a wire. At the bottom, another closed door. Garcia took the steps one at a time. The air was damp and heavy with a musty smell. His left foot caught the edge of a worn step and he slipped. His body was catapulted forward awkwardly, and he reached for the dirty walls, desperately trying to stop him from tumbling down. It worked, but he smashed his flashlight. His heart went into overdrive. Despite the cold, Garcia was sweating.
His eyes quickly moved from the door at the bottom to the one at the top several times, his finger tight at the trigger of his semiautomatic. He took a moment to calm his breathing and reassess the situation. He was sure that if the house wasn’t deserted, his clumsiness had given away his position.
‘Smooth, Carlos, very fucking smooth,’ Garcia whispered between clenched teeth. He stood still for a while, listening for footsteps, waiting for somebody to come from one of the two directions – nothing. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his gun hand and descended the last few steps. At the bottom he pressed his right ear against the door once again. The humming sound was coming from inside.
Extra-cautiously, he tried the handle – unlocked. He pushed the door open just enough for him to be able to take a peek inside. It was a large basement room. Garcia observed from the door for a long moment but saw no movement. Satisfied, he took a deep breath, steadied his trigger finger and stepped inside. A series of brass lanterns mounted at uneven intervals on each of the two long side walls lit the room with a pale glow. He walked forward slowly, giving his eyes time to get accustomed to the poor light. Something caught his eye on the north side of the room and he stopped dead, his gaze fixed on the display in front of him. He knew exactly what it was.
‘Oh God!’ He shivered.
At the edge of his peripheral vision he saw a smudge of movement, too fast for him to be able to react. The first blow hit him perfectly across the face. He heard something crack and blood spurted from his nose. Out of balance, Garcia stumbled backwards, but not far enough. The second blow was delivered a split second later, hitting the tender spot on the back of his head with military precision. Garcia’s world faded to darkness.
Hundred and Twenty-Eight
Hunter stopped suddenly, as if sensing something wasn’t right. He’d been through three of the six upstairs rooms and so far he’d found nothing to substantiate his theory. He unholstered his H&K USP Tactical pistol and turned around, half expecting someone to walk in on him. He heard something, he was sure of it. Some sort of crash.
Carlos. He quickly and quietly moved back downstairs.
‘Carlos?’ he whispered at the bottom of the stairwell.
No answer.
He moved into the next room – a large sitting area. ‘Carlos?’
Silence. The house was still. Stealthily, Hunter made his way through the French doors at the end of the room and ente
red the den.
‘Carlos, goddamnit. I’m getting tired of saving your ass. Where the hell are you?’ But if Garcia was in this room, he wasn’t talking.
On the opposite wall he saw the dimly lit, small doorway that led to the stairs going down to the basement.
‘I hate basements,’ he murmured and moved down the steps as quietly as he could. Halfway down, Hunter saw broken pieces of thin glass on one of the steps. He also noticed scratch marks on the walls and a small dent, where Garcia’s flashlight had hit it.
What the fuck happened here? His internal danger sensor started to scream at him.
The door at the bottom was ajar, and through the small gap Hunter could see that the room was large and in half darkness. He steadied his back against the wall and pushed the door open with his fingertips. From his outside position, he took in as much of the room as he could before checking his corners and finally stepping through the door. Crude brick walls surrounded the spacious area that was twice the size of the large party room upstairs. The air was saturated with a gagging, fusty smell. But there was something else in that basement room Hunter couldn’t identify. Something that made his skin crawl. Something very evil.
At the far end he could see a long metal table that served as a counter for several instruments, but he couldn’t make them out from where he was. There were seven life-sized dummies lined up against the wall. To their right there were drawings, sketches, timetables and plans. Hunter recognized what they were for before he saw the pictures. Large photographs of seven different people taken from all angles. The photos were divided into distinct groups clearly numbered one through seven. The first five had been marked with a large red cross over them. Hunter held his breath as he stared again at the photographs of the first five victims of the killer the press was calling the Executioner. The killer’s research had been impeccable.
