I Am Death (3 page)

‘Thank you, Robert,’ Garcia said, looking at Hunter. ‘For everything.’

‘Don’t be a stranger,’ Hunter said. Sadness underlined his tone.

‘I won’t.’ As Hunter got to the door, Garcia stopped him. ‘Robert.’

Hunter turned and faced him.

‘Take care of yourself.’

Hunter nodded and exited the room.

They were staring at him again.

The dark-haired girl and her friends.

They’d stare, giggle, and then stare again. Not that he minded. Eleven-year-old Ricky Temple was used to it by now. His hand-me-down clothes, bushy black hair, ultra-skinny body, pointed
nose and umbrella ears never failed to get him noticed. Noticed and laughed at. The fact that he wasn’t very tall for his age didn’t help much either.

Five different schools in the past three years due to his father’s string of unsteady jobs, and the story had been the same everywhere. Girls would make fun of him. Boys would push him
around and beat him up. Teachers would praise him for his high grades.

Ricky kept his eyes on the exam paper on his desk. He’d finished it at least twenty minutes ahead of anyone else. Even though his eyes were on his paper, he could feel their gaze burning
the back of his neck. He could hear their ridiculing giggles.

‘Something funny with the exam, Miss Stewart?’ Mr. Driscall, the eight grade mathematics teacher, asked in a sarcastic voice.

Lucy Stewart was a stunning girl, with vivid hazel eyes, fringed, straight jet-black hair that looked just as beautiful in a ponytail as it did when loose, and a captivating smile. Her skin was
incredibly smooth for a fourteen-year-old. While most girls her age were already beginning to struggle with acne, Lucy seemed to be immune to it. Every boy in Morningside Junior High would do
anything for her, but she belonged to Brad Nichols, or so he said. Ricky always thought that if he looked up the definition of
asshole
in a dictionary, Brad Nichols’ picture would be
right there.

‘Not at all, sir,’ Lucy replied, shifting on her chair.

‘Have you finished, Miss Stewart?’

‘Almost there, sir.’

‘So stop giggling and get to it. You only have another five minutes.’

An uneasy bustle swept through the classroom.

Lucy’s exam paper was half unanswered. She hated math. In fact, she hated most school subjects. They were of no use to her. Especially when she knew she was destined to be a Hollywood
superstar.

Ricky chewed on his pencil and scratched the tip of his nose. He wanted to turn around and defy her stare by looking straight back at her. But Ricky Temple rarely did what he wanted to do. He
was too timid . . . too scared of the consequences.

‘Time’s up everybody! Drop your exam papers on my desk on your way out.’

The school bell rang and Ricky thanked God for it. Another week gone. He had the entire weekend to look forward to. He just wanted to be alone doing what he loved doing – writing
stories.

Ricky changed into shorts before stuffing his books inside his faded green rucksack and grabbing his rusty bicycle from the rack by the school entrance. He couldn’t wait to get away from
that place.

Taking West 104th Street, he cut through South 7th Avenue. Ricky loved the houses in this part of town. They were big and colorful with beautiful front lawns and flower gardens. Several of them
had swimming pools in their backyards, a far cry from the squalid apartment he shared with his aggressive father in Inglewood, South Los Angeles. His mother had left them without ever saying
goodbye when Ricky was only six. He never saw her again, but he missed her every day.

Ricky had promised himself that one day he would live in a big house with a large backyard and a swimming pool. He was going to be a writer. A successful writer.

Ricky was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn’t hear the sound of the other bicycles approaching from behind. By the time he noticed them it was too late.

One of the five bicycles leveled up to the left of Ricky’s front wheel, squeezing him against the high-curbed sidewalk. Out of panic, instead of braking, Ricky increased his speed.

‘Where the fuck you think you’re going, freak?’ the hooded rider shouted from under the blue and white bandanna that was covering the bottom half of his face. ‘You
don’t belong in this neighborhood, you ugly and skinny fuck. Go back to your dirty slum.’

Two of the other riders were also screaming abuse at Ricky, but he was too scared to properly hear them.

Ricky ran out of room as his front wheel started to scrape against the curbstones. His whole body was shaking with fear. He knew he was about to fall. Suddenly, a second hooded rider leveled up
to him and kicked out, hitting Ricky’s left leg and sending him and his bike flying over to the sidewalk. He hit the ground hard and at speed, skidding a full yard, enough to scrape the skin
on his hands and knees almost clean off. His bicycle tumbled over him, landing heavily on his legs.

‘Woo hoo! Ugly boy fell off his bike,’ Ricky heard one of the kids say as they headed off, laughing out loud.

Ricky lay still for a moment, his eyes shut tight as he fought back tears. He thought he heard the sound of hurried footsteps.

‘Hey, are you OK?’ a male’s voice asked.

Ricky opened his eyes to blurred images.

‘Are you all right?’ the voice asked again.

Ricky felt someone lifting his bike off his legs. His hands and knees hurt as if they’d been scalded with boiling water. He looked up and saw a man kneeling next to him. He was dressed in
a dark suit with a crisp white shirt and a red tie. His brown hair was wavy and pleasantly tousled above a prominent brow, high cheekbones, and a strong chin that was covered by a neatly trimmed
goatee. His pale-blue eyes showed concern.

‘Who were those kids?’ the man asked, jabbing his chin in the direction that the gang had ridden off in. He had a somewhat angry look on his face.

‘What?’ Ricky said, still a little disoriented.

‘I was just on my way to pick up my son from school when I saw a bunch of kids bump you over.’ He indicated his car, which was hastily parked with two wheels up on the sidewalk on
the other side of the road. The driver’s door was still open.

Ricky followed the man’s gaze. He knew that the kids on the bicycles were Brad Nichols and his gang of asshole friends, but he said nothing. It would make no difference anyway.

‘Hey, you’re bleeding,’ the man said with serious concern, as his eyes moved first to the boy’s hands, then to his knees. ‘You’ve got to clean that up before
it gets infected. Here.’ He reached inside his breast pocket and handed Ricky a couple of paper tissues. ‘Use this for now, but we need to wash it with disinfectant soap and warm water
pretty sharpish.’

Ricky took the tissues and dabbed them against the palms of his hands.

With the fall, his rucksack had opened, scattering his books on to the sidewalk.

‘Oh!’ the man said, first helping Ricky to his feet, then helping him collect his books. ‘You go to Morningside? So does my son.’ He paused as he handed one last book
back to the boy, looking rather surprised. ‘You’re an eighth grader?’

Still in silence, Ricky nodded carelessly.

‘Really? You look like you’re about ten.’

‘I’m eleven,’ Ricky replied, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

‘Sorry,’ the man said, acknowledging his mistake and backpedaling as quickly as he could. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you in any way, but still. You’re quite young for
eighth grade? My son is ten, and he’s just finishing fourth grade.’

Ricky placed the last book back into his rucksack. ‘I entered school one year earlier than most kids, and because of my grades they made me skip sixth grade.’ This time there was
pride in his words.

‘Wow! That’s amazing. So I’m in the presence of a real child prodigy here.’

Ricky finished clearing the blood from his hands before looking down at his bike and its twisted front wheel. ‘Shit!’

‘That’s pretty damaged,’ the man agreed. ‘I don’t think you’re going to be riding anywhere else on that bike today.’

Ricky looked like he didn’t know what to do. The man read the boy’s uneasiness.

‘Listen,’ he said, consulting his watch. ‘I’m a little late to pick my son up from school so I have to go, but if you like, you can wait here and on our way back John and
I can give you a ride back to your house. I’ll be five minutes. How does that sound?’

‘Thanks, but I’ll be OK. I can’t go home like this anyway.’ Ricky began dabbing the paper tissues against the scratches on his knees.

The man’s eyebrows arched in surprise. ‘Why not?’

‘If I turn up at home bleeding, with a broken bike, that gang of kids will look like heavenly angels compared to what my father will do to me.’

‘What, really? But it wasn’t your fault. They ganged up on you.’

‘That doesn’t matter.’ Ricky looked away. ‘Nothing ever matters.’ The hurt in the boy’s voice was palpable.

The man observed Ricky for an instant as he picked his bike up from the ground.

‘OK, how about if John and I drive you home? I’ll then speak with your father myself and tell him what happened. I’ll tell him that I saw everything and that none of it was
your fault. He will listen to an adult.’

‘I told you, it won’t make any difference, OK? Nothing ever makes any difference. Thank you for your help, but I’ll be fine.’ Ricky started limping away, dragging his
bike.

‘Hey, wait up, kid. If you’re not going home, where are you going, limping and dragging that heavy thing behind you? You really need to clean those wounds up properly.’

Ricky carried on walking. He didn’t look back.

‘OK, I’ve got a better idea. Hear me out,’ the man said, taking a couple of steps toward Ricky. ‘My boy, John, is a nice kid. A little quiet, but a nice kid, and he could
seriously use a friend – and it looks like, right now, so could you. I can load your bike into the back of my car, we pick up John from Morningside, and I’ll drop you guys at his
mother’s place. It’s not that far from here. She’s got a swimming pool and all. And she can also attend to your hands and knees.’

The words ‘swimming pool’ made Ricky finally pause and look back at the man.

‘I can then quickly run your bike to a shop. The same shop where I got John’s bike. I’m sure they can fix that wheel in no time.’

Ricky looked like he was measuring his options.

The man checked his watch again. ‘C’mon!’ He pressed his lips together for a moment. ‘Look, I’ll be honest with you, all John does when he’s not in school is
read comic books and play games . . . alone. Here . . .’ the man reached for his wallet, took out a photograph, and showed it to Ricky. ‘You might’ve seen him around
school?’

Ricky squinted as he looked at the photograph of a skinny kid with short, light-brown hair.

‘Maybe. I’m not sure.’

The man didn’t look surprised. Junior high students would never mingle with elementary ones. Not even outcasts like Ricky Temple.

‘Anyway,’ the man continued. ‘He really, really could use a friend. I know that he’s only in fourth grade, but he’s a smart kid, he really is, and he’s got
loads of games that I’m sure you’ll be into as well. You guys could play together.’ He gave Ricky a moment. ‘C’mon, you’ve got nothing to lose, and I’ll
get your bike fixed for you, what do you say?’

Ricky scratched his chin.

One more quick look at his watch. ‘OK, so just wait right here for five minutes. I’ll go pick up John and come back. You can meet him first, then you decide.’

‘He likes comic books?’ Ricky asked.

The man chuckled. ‘That’s putting it mildly.’

Ricky shrugged. ‘He sounds like he could be a cool guy.’

‘He is. He really is.’

‘OK then,’ Ricky conceded.

The man smiled and carried Ricky’s bike across the road. After placing it in the back of his car, he got into the driver’s seat.

‘We still have to get those hands and knees properly cleaned up,’ the man said as he geared up and got the car in motion. He turned right, then at the end of the block he swung
left.

Ricky frowned as the man drove past the entrance to Morningside school.

‘You just missed the school.’ Ricky turned to look at the driver.

The man was looking at him with an evil smile on his lips.

‘Relax, kid.’ His voice had changed. Gone were the warmth and the soft tones, substituted by a firm, cold and throaty voice.

‘There’s nothing anyone can do for you now.’

The crammed, open-plan space that formed the LAPD’s Robbery Homicide Division was located just down the hall from Hunter’s office. There were no flimsy partitions
or silly booths separating the messy labyrinth of desks. Identification was made either by desk nameplates, when they could be seen, or by shouting a detective’s name and waiting to see who
would raise their hand and shout back ‘right here’.

Even at that time in the morning, the RHD sounded and looked like a beehive, alive with movement and buzzing with incomprehensible noise that seemed to come from every corner.

Captain Barbara Blake’s office was at the far end of the floor. It wasn’t a large room by any means, but it was spacious enough. The south wall was taken by bookshelves overflowing
with hardcovers, the north one by a few framed photographs, commendations and achievement awards. The east wall was a floor-to-ceiling panoramic window, looking out over South Main Street. Directly
in front of her mahogany twin desk were two bourbon-colored, Chesterfield leather armchairs. A rectangular black and white rug centered the room.

Hunter gave the door three firm knocks. A second later, he heard a voice from inside say, ‘Come in.’

Captain Blake was sitting behind her desk, with the phone receiver held firmly to her left ear.

‘I couldn’t care less how you do it,’ she said into the mouthpiece, lifting a hand at Hunter, ushering him inside and indicating that she’d be two seconds. ‘Just
get it done . . . today.’ She slammed down the phone.

At least in here, nothing has changed,
Hunter thought.

Barbara Blake had been captain of LAPD’s Robbery Homicide Division for the past five years. Upon taking over from the previous captain, it hadn’t taken her long to establish a
reputation as a no-nonsense, iron-fist leader. She certainly was an intriguing woman – tall, elegant and very attractive, with long black hair and piercing dark eyes that could either calm
you or make you shiver with a simple stare. Nothing and no one intimidated her.