The Executioner (26 page)

‘Those weren’t the real victims; they were pictures of the victims. Suppose the killer kills a victim and goes away with just enough blood to be able to number his next one. He’s not counting on the number washing off or somehow disappearing and having to redraw it.’ He pressed a few keys on his keyboard. ‘So when the killer finds himself in a situation where he has to use photographs to reclaim victims one and two, he’s fresh out of victims’ blood.’

Garcia considered this. ‘So he adapts and has to use the same blood to mark both photos.’

Hunter stopped dead and faced Garcia. ‘He didn’t use their blood,’ he murmured.

‘What?’

‘The killer was at a crime scene when he left both pictures on the mantelpiece.’

‘Yeah, so?’

‘So he could’ve used Amanda’s blood. She was right there and he wouldn’t even have needed that much to draw two small numbers on the back of the photos. Why didn’t he use her blood?’

Garcia shook his head slowly.

‘He also could’ve used Father Fabian’s blood,’ Hunter carried on. ‘He obviously had some with him to draw the number four on Amanda’s back. He wouldn’t have needed any more than a small dab for each number.’

Garcia chewed on his bottom lip as he thought about it. ‘Maybe he drew the numbers on the back of the pictures before getting to the house in Malibu,’ he suggested.

‘OK, so why not use Father Fabian’s blood? As I said, he had some with him since the Seven Saints murder.’

‘Maybe he had some blood left from the previous victims.’

‘According to the test results, it’s not Amanda’s blood, it’s not Father Fabian’s blood and it’s not the same blood as the one the killer used on the priest, the pregnant woman’s.’

‘So if your assumptions are correct and the killer really is using the blood of a previous victim to mark his next one, the blood used on the pictures wouldn’t have come from victims two, three or four.’

‘That’s right.’

Garcia leaned against his desk. His eyes studied Hunter for a brief moment. ‘I can see from the look on your face that you don’t believe the blood belongs to the first victim either.’

‘I think the killer keeps only a small amount of victim’s blood so he can number the next one. After that, my guess is that he disposes of what he has left.’

Garcia pinched his chin, his brow creased with worry. ‘If your theory is right, why is he doing it? Why is the killer using the blood of a previous victim to mark the next one?’

Hunter’s eyes widened and he felt his pulse race. ‘He’s linking them together.’

‘The killer’s linking them?’

Hunter nodded. ‘By using their blood on each other, he’s linking victims one and two together, victims two and three and victims three and four. Maybe they were all connected, we don’t know yet. But the killer’s telling us that there is a connection.’

Garcia paused for an instant as a new thought entered his mind. ‘OK, then I’ve got two questions for you. If your theory is correct, then whose blood did the killer use to number the first victim, since there was no previous one? And if you don’t think the killer used the blood of any of the victims to write the number on the back of those two photographs, where do you think the blood came from?’

Hunter stopped by the window and watched the hectic traffic outside for a moment. ‘Maybe the answer to both questions is the same.’

Garcia’s left eyebrow lifted in expectation.

‘The killer used his own blood.’

Two days before the first murder

He rang the bell and stood waiting at the reception window of an old and derelict hotel in Lynwood, south Los Angeles. It was one of those hotels that rented their rooms by the hour, day, week or month. Any kind of arrangement could be reached, as long as you had the money. No questions asked.

The entry lobby was small and neglected. In fact, it looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years. There were water infiltration stains on the ceiling, cigarette burn marks on the carpet, cobwebs in every corner and the wallpaper was peeling off the walls. He thought places like this existed only in police movies, but this was exactly what he was looking for. A place where no one would notice him.

He rang the desk bell a few more times.

‘OK, OK. Keep your fucking pants on.’ The heavy, southern-accented voice came from behind the wooden partition at the back of the reception office. A few seconds later, a black girl, who couldn’t have been older than eighteen, appeared, followed by a massively overweight man. She was wearing tight blue jeans and a sleeveless yellow cotton blouse and seemed to be in a hurry to get out of there. As she unlocked the door and stepped out into the small lobby, the fat man gave her a sleazy wink while adjusting his elasticated trousers around his balloon waist.

‘Now next week you bring me the rent on time, you hear.’

The girl kept her eyes low, embarrassed, and disappeared up the narrow stairs.

‘What can I do you for?’ the fat man asked, finally coming up to the reception window. He smelled of garlic, and his greasy and thinning hair was in desperate need of a wash and cut.

‘I need a room.’

The fat man stretched his neck out of the reception window and checked the lobby – empty, except for a small suitcase by the man’s feet. When people came looking for a room in his hotel, they usually had a hooker or two hanging from their arms.

‘It’s five bucks an hour, or if you’re feeling like a stag you can get six hours for twenty dollars.’ He used his right index finger’s nail to scrape something off his front teeth.

‘I need the room for a few days. Maybe longer.’

The fat man frowned and looked at the six-foot-two guest skeptically.

‘I’ll pay cash.’

The worried look vanished as the fat man saw an opportunity presenting itself. ‘You know, Christmas is just around the corner and we’re quite busy in here, but I might be able to get you something.’

The guest waited patiently for the fat man to carry on.

‘If you wanna stay for a whole week, I can give you the room for . . .’ He paused, pretending he was calculating the correct amount. ‘Two hundred bucks.’

The guest let out a bizarre laugh, picked his suitcase up and silently made for the door.

‘Wait, wait,’ the fat man called in an urgent voice. ‘OK, I can see you drive a hard bargain. A whole week for one hundred and fifty bucks, what do you say?’

The man thought about it for a moment before pulling four hundred and fifty dollars out of his wallet.

‘I’ll take three weeks. Until New Year’s Day.’

The fat man took the money and counted it eagerly. ‘If you wanna get a real good deal, I can give you a whole month for five hundred bucks. That’s a great price.’

The man calmly returned his wallet to his back pocket and stared at the fat man.

‘OK, OK.’ He lifted his hands in surrender before pushing a guestbook through the window. ‘Just sign your name there and we’re all set.’

The man didn’t move.

Several silent uncomfortable seconds rolled past.

‘OK,’ the receptionist said, picking up on the man’s look. ‘I’ll sign you in as Jim Bob, how’s that? You’ll be the third Jim Bob we have staying here.’ He scribbled something down, threw the guestbook onto his messy desk and grabbed a key. ‘Room 34B,’ he said, handing the key over. ‘Third floor, facing the street. It’s a good room. One of the best we have.’ He let his mouth stretch into a smile, showing stained and dirty teeth. ‘If you need any entertainment.’ He gave the guest the same sleazy wink he’d given the black girl just a few minutes ago. ‘Girls, boys . . . you know what I mean. Just give me a shout. I can hook you up.’

The man wasn’t paying attention to the receptionist anymore. He needed nothing else from the fat man.

Garcia quickly checked his watch as he parked in front of the old apartment block in Montebello, east LA. He rested his head on his seat’s headrest and looked up at the many flickering Christmas lights hanging from several windows. They certainly added a lively touch to the otherwise nondescript brick building. Anna had decorated their first-floor apartment window with fake snow, glowing blue lights and an old Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer stuffed toy whose nose was more pale pink than red. But it was her favorite childhood memento. She’d had it since she was four.

Garcia had called her from the office to let her know he’d be home in time for dinner tonight, something that’d become a luxury lately. They’ve been together since their senior year in high school, and Garcia couldn’t have asked for a more supportive wife. She knew how much he loved being a detective. She’d seen how hard he’d worked for it and how dedicated he was. She understood the commitment and the sacrifices that came with the job, and she’d accepted them as if they were her own. But despite her strength and everything Garcia had told her, Anna sometimes felt scared. Scared that one day she’d get that phone call in the middle of the night telling her that her husband wouldn’t be coming home. Scared that the things Garcia saw on a day-to-day basis were changing him inside. No matter how mentally fit anyone is, there’s only so much savagery one can stomach. There’s only so much psychological abuse one can take before becoming detached. She’d read that somewhere, and she believed every word of it.

Anna was sitting comfortably on their blue fabric sofa when Garcia came into the living room carrying a nicely arranged bouquet of red roses and a bottle of white wine. She looked up from the book she was reading and gave him the same welcoming smile that made his heart beat faster and turned his legs to jelly every time.

He smiled back.

Anna had an unconventional but mesmerizing kind of beauty. Her short black hair complemented her striking hazel eyes and her heart-shaped face perfectly. Her skin was creamy smooth, her features delicate, and she had the firm figure of a high school cheerleader.

‘Flowers?’ She placed her book on the coffee table and stood up. ‘What’s the occasion?’

Garcia looked at her, and Anna saw a glimpse of something sad in his eyes. ‘No special occasion. I just realized that it’s been a while since I brought you flowers. I know how much you like them.’

Anna took the bouquet from his hands and kissed him softly. She thought about asking if everything was really OK, but she knew she’d just get the same answer. Garcia was always OK. No matter what was going on in his mind, no matter how tough his day had been, he’d never worry her.

Because of Garcia’s new aversion to grilled steak, Anna had prepared her grandmother’s famous lasagne al forno, and the meal was nicely complemented by the Pinot Grigio Garcia had bought. They had fruit salad and vanilla ice cream for dessert, and he helped her clear the table when they were done. In the kitchen, he turned on the hot tap and started washing the dishes while Anna sat at the small breakfast table finishing her wine.

‘Can I ask you something, babe?’ he said casually, without locking eyes with her.

‘Sure.’

‘Do you believe a person can see things that happened to other people without being there?’

She frowned at the question. ‘What? I don’t follow.’

Garcia finished washing the last plate, dried his hands on the flowery dish cloth and turned towards his wife. ‘You know, some people say they can see things. Things that happened to other people. Sometimes people they don’t even know.’

‘Like a vision?’ She said the words slowly.

‘Yeah, something like that, or a dream of some sort.’

Anna had another sip of her wine. ‘Well, that’s definitely a very strange question, coming from you. I know you don’t believe in things like that. Are we talking psychic people here?’

Garcia took a seat next to Anna and poured them both a little more wine. ‘Do you believe in things like that?’

Anna stared at her husband, trying to read his expression. They had a very healthy relationship with very few arguments and plenty of frank conversations about most things, but Garcia never offered anything about his job or any of the investigations he worked on. Even without him saying so, she knew the question he’d just asked was much more than simple curiosity.

‘Do you remember a girl called Martha?’ she asked, leaning back on her chair.

Garcia squinted.

‘Strange girl from high school. Short chestnut hair, thick rimmed glasses, awful dress sense. She was a bit of a loner, always sat by herself right at the far end of the canteen.’

‘Doesn’t ring a bell,’ Garcia admitted.

‘She was one year below us.’ Anna snapped her fingers as she remembered something. ‘She was that junior girl who got bathed in ketchup and mustard by those stuck-up bitches from our class, remember? During that barbecue party in the football field?’

‘Damn, I remember that,’ Garcia said, widening his eyes. ‘Poor girl. She was covered from head to toe.’ He hesitated for a second. ‘Didn’t you help her out that day?’

Anna nodded. ‘Yeah, I helped her clean up. I lent her some clothes and took her to a Laundromat. She made me promise not to tell her parents – ever. We talked a few times after that, but she was very shy. Very hard to be friends with.’