I Am Death (27 page)

‘So our killer could’ve staked out the street from the comfort of his living room, miles away,’ Hunter said. ‘No suspicious characters or vehicles on the road. Risk of
being spotted – zero.’

Garcia nodded again. ‘As if we didn’t know, this guy is clever.’ He pushed one document aside and picked up a new one. ‘Forensics also managed to identify the type of pen
the killer used to write the note that was sent to Mayor Bailey.’

‘So what have we got?’

‘The killer used a red, BIC Cristal,
large
ballpoint pen.’ Garcia lifted his right index finger as he said the word ‘large’ to stress the emphasis. ‘BIC
Cristals are probably the most popular ballpoint pens in the whole of America,’ he explained. ‘They are inexpensive and can easily be purchased from just about anywhere – corner
shops, supermarkets, minimarkets, stationery stores, post offices, you name it. But the interesting thing here is; the most popular BIC Cristals are the medium ballpoints, not the large ones. Those
are a little rarer.’

Hunter peered at the copies of the killer’s notes pinned on to the picture board before his attention returned to Garcia.

‘But still,’ Garcia added. ‘Even though the large ballpoints aren’t as popular, they’re still popular enough.’

Hunter could’ve guessed that would be the case.

Garcia moved on to a new batch of documents. ‘We still have nothing relevant from Nicole Wilson’s laptop,’ he said. ‘Nothing from her emails either, but IT forensics have
now managed to break through the security on Sharon Barnard’s tablet computer and cellphone. I already have someone going over the computer files. So far, nothing of any significance.’
Garcia’s eyebrows lifted promisingly, as if he had left the best for last. ‘But we did get something very interesting from her cellphone.’

Hunter, who was still going over the numbers on the last report Garcia had handed him, lifted his eyes to look at his partner.

Garcia searched through the printouts on his desk, then passed two new sheets over to Hunter before explaining: ‘These are the transcripts of the very last text message conversation Sharon
Barnard had.’ He paused and his demeanor changed to something more somber. ‘That conversation was between Sharon and the killer.’

Hunter sat up. He hadn’t been expecting that. The first text message at the top of the file was time-stamped – 19:23.

Hunter read those first ten words, paused and looked back at Garcia.

‘We’ve already checked the sender’s number,’ Garcia said. ‘Surprise, surprise – prepaid cellphone, untraceable. No calls or messages were made or sent prior
to or after what was sent to Sharon Barnard. All the calls and text messages made and sent from that phone were to Ms. Barnard’s number. After that, the signal died. He destroyed the
phone.’

Hunter’s attention returned to the file.

Sharon Barnard’s reply:

Then the killer.

No reply from Sharon Barnard.

Killer:

Hunter flipped over to the second sheet.

Again, no reply from Sharon Barnard.

Killer:

The file came to an end.

Hunter reread the entire transcript a couple of times over. ‘Is this it?’

‘That’s it,’ Garcia confirmed. ‘We’ve got nothing else. But the killer called her twice just before sending the first text message. Neither of the calls lasted very
long.’

Hunter gave him a questioning look.

‘Yeah, we’re already in contact with her cellphone provider to see if we can get either a recording or a transcript of those conversations. We might have something by
tomorrow.’

Garcia began pacing in front of the picture board. ‘Have you ever encountered anyone like this guy, Robert? I mean, he’s like a fucking chameleon when it comes to the way he
operates.’ He indicated the sheets on Hunter’s desk. ‘Those text messages show another complete change of MO from his previous murder.’

Hunter knew exactly what his partner was talking about.

‘He went for pure fear this time,’ he agreed, locking eyes with Garcia.

‘Exactly. With Nicole Wilson, instead of terrorizing her, he befriended her with that whole horseshit story about being Ms. Bennett’s cousin from Texas. He wasn’t looking to
scare her. He was after her trust. But with Sharon Barnard –’ Garcia shook his head – ‘He wanted her fear, not her trust.’

‘And he certainly got it,’ Hunter told him. ‘The lack of response to these messages.’ He indicated them on the transcript. ‘The reason she didn’t answer them
back isn’t because she was ignoring him, it’s because she was petrified. She knew he was about to break into her house.’

‘So why didn’t she try calling nine-one-one?’

‘Maybe she did but the call never got through. Maybe she didn’t have time. Or maybe, in her panic, she didn’t think of it. Thinking straight under that sort of fear is a huge
task, Carlos.’

Three knocks sounded on Hunter and Garcia’s office door.

‘Come in,’ Garcia called.

‘Detectives,’ the man who pushed the door open said, lifting the blue folder he held in his right hand, ‘I think you’ll want to see this.’

That morning, just like every morning since Squirm had been taken into captivity, ‘The Monster’ unlocked the door to the kid’s cell at exactly 5:45 a.m.
Squirm had been feeling ill all night. His dinner the night before had been his own vomit, eaten from the floor in the projection room upstairs – and ‘The Monster’ had made him
eat every last scrap. Squirm had puked again, but not until he’d made it back to his cell, away from the man’s eyes. This time, shrouded by the fear of what could happen if he dirtied
the floor one more time, he did it into his latrine bucket.

‘Rise and shine, Squirm,’ ‘The Monster’ said from the doorway, his voice bright and jovial. ‘It’s a quarter to six. Time for your chores.’

Squirm had barely slept. His left eye remained badly swollen and the pains in his stomach felt like knife stabs. They were a combination of hunger pains and the result of heaving for so long on
a completely empty stomach. His head also hurt with a deadly purpose, as if somehow thorns had found their way into his skull, lodging themselves just behind his eyeballs and were now digging at
them like crazed woodpeckers. There also came a point during the night when he wasn’t sure if he’d gone delirious, or ‘The Monster’ had brought a new victim home, because he
was certain that he could hear a woman’s screams.

‘I know you’ve heard me, Squirm. So get your lazy ass out of bed. Don’t make me come over there.’

Squirm was curled up into a ball, lying down sideways on his dirty mattress, facing the wall. As he heard the man’s voice, he felt the will to carry on living desert him.

And Squirm didn’t fight it.

What was the point in living if he had to go through another day at the hands of this monster?

Squirm knew exactly what was coming because every day always played out the same. He would be beaten up, sodomized, starved, then beaten up some more – most days, until he passed out and
was thrown back into his cell, ready for the whole process to repeat itself the next day.

‘Get up, Squirm.’

Maybe if Squirm didn’t move . . . maybe if he didn’t respond . . . maybe if he disobeyed the man’s orders, this would all end? Maybe the man would get angry enough to dish out
a beating so severe the boy’s fragile body and internal organs would finally give up, and life would at last abandon him.

Was it wrong for an eleven-year-old to want to die?

Squirm didn’t think so, because in his mind what
was
wrong was for an eleven-year-old to live in this way.

Squirm had also given up praying, because he simply didn’t know to whom he was praying anymore. If there was a God, he had no idea what he had done to piss him off so badly.

Once again, tears came to the boy’s eyes. He was tired of them. He was tired of all the pain, and the hunger, and the darkness, and the fear. But most of all, Squirm was tired of
living.

As he heard the man take his first heavy step into the cell, the young boy began shivering. Instinctively, his body curled up into an even tighter ball, readying itself for the inevitable.

But Squirm didn’t care anymore. In fact, he would rather be dead.

All I have to do,
Squirm thought,
is piss him off enough that he won’t stop beating me when I pass out. Yes, that’s it. I just need to make him angry and that won’t
take much doing.

‘The Monster’ took another step toward the boy.

Squirm drew in a deep breath, as if he was breathing in courage, rolled his body over on the mattress to face his captor and looked him straight in the eye.

It was time to die.

‘Fuck you, you sick piece of shit.’

Garcia didn’t recognize the man standing at the door to their office. Decked out in a well-fitting black suit, a crisp white shirt, and a red silk tie, he was way too
well dressed to be a CSI. He also didn’t look anything like any of the IT forensics people Garcia had ever met.

‘Please come in,’ Hunter said, getting to his feet. ‘Carlos, this is Detective Troy Sanders,’ he said, putting an end to Garcia’s questioning look.
‘He’s the head of the Missing Persons Unit’s Special Division based in Ramirez Street. He was also the detective in change of Nicole Wilson’s investigation.’

‘Please, call me Troy,’ Sanders said, shaking Garcia’s hand before turning to face Hunter. ‘I just came over to hand you this,’ he said, nodding at the file he had
with him. ‘It’s the results of the search you asked me to run.’

As Sanders handed Hunter the file, his gaze moved past the RHD detective and settled on the picture board directly behind him. A second later, his eyes widened.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Sanders whispered under his breath.

Hunter and Garcia followed his stare.

‘You already have a second victim?’ Sanders asked, his eyes moving about the board.

Neither Hunter nor Garcia said anything.

‘When?’

‘Her body was found the day before yesterday,’ Garcia replied.

Sanders’ expression was a mixture of surprise and incredulity. ‘A day after the first victim was found?’

Garcia gave him a single, subtle nod.

Sanders frowned as his eyes focused on one particular photograph.

‘Sharon Barnard . . . Sharon Barnard . . .’

Reading it from the board, he murmured the name to himself a couple of times, searching his memory for a moment before shaking his head.

‘Neither her name nor her face sound or look familiar.’ He looked back at Hunter and Garcia. ‘Was she ever reported?’

‘She was never missing,’ Hunter explained. ‘There was no abduction this time. Her killer simply broke into her house and murdered her in her living room.’

Sanders’ frown intensified, now speckled with confusion. ‘No abduction? The perpetrator broke away from his original MO?’

‘Don’t even get us started on this “MO” business,’ Garcia said, lifting his hands in surrender. Strategically, he moved around to the other side of the room,
dragging Sanders’ attention away from the board.

Hunter quickly joined him.

Garcia moved the subject along. ‘So those are the results of a search? What search?’ The question was directed more at Hunter than at Sanders.

‘Just a long shot, really,’ Hunter explained. ‘I had forgotten all about it. I asked Detective Sanders to run a search against the national Missing Persons database for cases
where an abduction was perpetrated under similar circumstances to that of Nicole Wilson.’

Garcia thought about it for a second.

‘I must admit that I hadn’t thought about it like that until then,’ Sanders added. ‘But it made sense. The abduction scene at the Bennetts’ house was too clean.
Forensics spent two full days in there and they found absolutely nothing – no prints, no fibers, no hairs, no speck of dust that didn’t belong, not a thing. In ten years with Missing
Persons, I’d never come across such a sterile scene. That level of perfection isn’t very easy to achieve, especially alone and on your
first ever
abduction?’

‘Right from the beginning,’ Hunter took over, addressing Garcia, ‘we both had our suspicions that this killer would kill again, remember? That he would become a repeat
offender.’

‘But what if he already was a repeat offender?’ Garcia said, already in sync with Hunter.

Sanders nodded his agreement. ‘Exactly. At least when it came to abductions.’ He once again indicated the file he’d handed Hunter. ‘Well, that long shot might’ve
paid off. Have a look in there.’

Fuck you, you sick piece of shit.

Fuck you, you sick piece of shit.

Squirm kept repeating those words in his head and he had every intention of spitting them out in his captor’s face, but as ‘The Monster’s’ steps drew nearer and Squirm
rolled his body over on the mattress, survival, the most primal of all human instincts, grabbed hold of him in a way it had never done before. Instead of saying what he had rehearsed, the words
that came out of the boy’s lips were:

‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m getting up now.’

Still, Squirm had taken too long to reply. Anger had already colored the man’s face. He grabbed the boy by his hair and lifted him off the ground.

In vain, Squirm’s hands shot up to his head, grabbing at the man’s closed fist. Pain once again took hold of the boy’s entire body with the speed of a lightning bolt. He tried
screaming, but he was so weak that all his vocal cords could produce was a feeble and muffled ‘Urghh’.

‘You’re going to have to start doing better than this, Squirm. I’m beginning to lose my patience with you.’