The Executioner (28 page)

‘Would you like me to call the schools?’ Hopkins asked.

‘They’ll just bounce you around from person to person. Plus, I’m sure they’ll have some photographs that we’ll need to look at.’ Hunter turned and faced Garcia. ‘I’ll take the priest’s old school in Compton; you check Amanda’s one in Gardena.’

Garcia nodded.

‘I’m still running the two photographs you got from the house in Malibu against the MUPU and the Homicide databases.’ Hopkins turned to his computer and clicked his mouse a few times. Both photographs filled his screen. ‘No matches as of yet with any.’

‘Keep trying,’ Hunter said confidently and noticed a doubtful look about Hopkins. ‘Something wrong?’

‘I’ve been thinking about this. What if these two were killed a while ago? Maybe even years?’ Hopkins offered cautiously, his eyes on the photographs. ‘That’d explain why we haven’t found them yet and why there’s been no link. Maybe the killer started killing sometime ago and had to stop for some reason. Now he’s back.’ He checked his watch absent-mindedly.

‘Sonofabitch,’ Hunter said. His wide-opened eyes moved from Hopkins to the computer screen a couple of times.

‘What did I do?’ Hopkins asked nervously.

‘Those two weren’t killed a long time ago,’ Hunter said firmly. ‘They were killed within the last five months.’

Garcia frowned, struggling to keep up with his partner. ‘And how do you know that?’

‘His watch,’ Hunter said, tapping the screen.

Garcia and Hopkins leaned forward and squinted as they tried to make out the partially obscured timekeeper on the man’s left wrist. Garcia gave up after a few seconds.

‘You can’t really see the entire watch,’ he said, returning to an upright position. ‘Half of it is cut off by the edge of the picture.’

‘Sonofabitch.’ Hopkins this time. ‘It’s an LA Lakers commemorative NBA final champion’s watch. It was only released in July, after the NBA finals in June.’

‘How the hell do you know that?’ Garcia asked.

‘Because he’s got the same watch,’ Hunter said, and all eyes focused on Hopkins’s wrist. ‘Contact the morgues. Get a personal possessions’ inventory for every male body they’ve received in the past eight weeks. We find the watch, we find victim number one.’

Earlier the same morning

Despite feeling tired, he had almost no sleep during the night. The loud and constant noises that came from the adjacent room jolted him awake every time he dozed off. He should be used to them by now. Strangled male voices roaring like wounded animals accompanied by squeaky female ones screaming, ‘Harder, baby, harder.’ Those sounds invaded his room every night. At times he’d be forgiven for thinking he’d woken up during a typical Californian earthquake. The thunderous banging against his walls shook the entire room. For some reason last night’s screams sounded louder, the banging more urgent, almost violent. And it didn’t stop until way past five in the morning.

He left the seedy hotel early, as he did every day. His first stop was always the small Catholic church just a couple of blocks from where he was staying. He found it insulting that such a dirty and sleazy hotel used by prostitutes and drug pushers could be so close to a place of worship. Once he’d found what he was looking for, he’d never set foot in this city again. This was no city of angels; this was the city of sins. The city of devils.

By nine in the morning the temperature was no higher than fifty-three. Most of the people on the streets were wearing coats with their collars high around their necks. An unshaven man in a stained T-shirt and ripped jacket was sitting by the entrance to a disused shop trying to hide from the wind. He scratched his expanding stomach and drank from a bottle in a brown paper bag. Their eyes met and the tramp extended his hand, hoping for some charity. The man felt a surge of anger crawl up his spine, and he wrapped his fingers tightly around the oddly shaped metal crucifix in his pocket, fighting the urge to punch and kick the beggar until he bled. They must’ve stared at each other for half a minute. The man felt the skin on the palm of his hand rupture as the edges of the crucifix dug into his flesh. His hand became sticky with blood.

‘Thank you, Lord,’ he whispered to himself before finally breaking eye contact with the drunken man and forcing himself to carry on walking.

He stood by the side of the road waiting for the lights to turn red. Traffic was urgent. His throat felt dry and he massaged his neck, rotating his head from left to right. He caught a glimpse of something on the newspaper stand and went rigid. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped open. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He felt his whole body shiver and his heart hammer the inside of his chest with incredible ferocity. God was on his side, he was now certain of it.

High schools don’t come much larger than Gardena Senior High. Its grounds occupied half a city block. Sports were clearly encouraged. There were thirty playing courts divided among tennis, basketball and volleyball, not to mention the two baseball fields and the regulation football one that doubled as a soccer pitch. Thirty buildings hosted over a hundred student classes, and the library housed enough books to give City Hall a run for its money.

Garcia parked in one of the three large car parks inside the grounds and made his presence known at the reception desk. A thirtysomething, exotic-looking receptionist of mixed race scrutinized his badge while ignoring the ringing phone line. She peeled her eyes away from his shield, flipped a sheet of black hair over her shoulders and looked at Garcia’s face before checking her log. ‘Principal Kennedy’s very busy today.’

‘Well, so am I, honey,’ Garcia replied. ‘I won’t take much of his time, but I do need to speak to him.’

She flicked her hair once again. ‘He’s with a student’s parents, but he’s supposed to be finished in about five minutes.’

‘Five minutes I can wait.’

Six minutes later, Principal Kevin Kennedy welcomed Garcia into his office. He was a serious-looking man in his late forties, as tall as Garcia but better built, with dark hair combed back Dracula-style. His face looked honest and trustworthy. The kind of face high school students would respect. He wore stylish thin-rimmed glasses and a crisp and well-fitting light gray suit. He welcomed Garcia with a warmish smile and a firm handshake.

‘Please have a seat, detective,’ Principal Kennedy said, indicating one of the black leather chairs in front of his large rosewood desk. Garcia scanned the spacious office. There were pretty paintings and framed degrees on the walls. Dozens of tiny primitive figures adorned several wooden shelves. Two metal filing cabinets sat to the left of the principal’s desk. The large window on the east wall overlooked the main students’ playing area outside. Kennedy stood by it.

‘I’m sorry about keeping you waiting,’ he said, giving Garcia a sympathetic smile with a nervous edge. ‘Even though the students broke for Christmas vacation five days ago, things are still a little crazy, made more hectic by the fact that today is the last day of the faculty. You’re lucky that you came in today; tomorrow you would’ve found nobody here. So, how can I help you, detective?’

Garcia explained about Amanda Reilly and how keen they were to find any information concerning the people she used to hang out with when she was a student at Gardena High. Principal Kennedy pressed a few keys on his computer keyboard and repositioned his monitor so Garcia could have a better look.

‘We’ve migrated many of our past students’ records into an electronic database,’ he explained, ‘but not all. At least not yet. It’s a slow, expensive and lengthy process and it requires manpower, something that at the moment we’re experiencing a shortage of.’ Another edgy smile. ‘Anyway, our records wouldn’t mention her friends. This is pretty much all I have on this Amanda Reilly.’

Garcia read the information on Kennedy’s computer screen. It revealed nothing that Hopkins hadn’t yet found out. ‘How about yearbooks?’ he asked.

Principal Kennedy pushed his glasses up his nose. His expression didn’t fill Garcia with hope. ‘We used to have a section in our library dedicated to yearbooks,’ he explained. ‘We had a copy from every year, but a few years ago they started disappearing.’

‘Stolen?’

‘That’s what we figured. The problem is some kids steal out of habit. It’s not because they really want or need the particular item they’re stealing.’

Garcia smiled.

‘I’m sorry,’ Kennedy said half embarrassed, remembering he was talking to a detective. ‘I guess you know all this already. Anyway, most of our old yearbooks were taken.’

‘You didn’t order new copies?’

‘Yes, once.’

Garcia leaned back in his chair. ‘Stolen again?’

Kennedy nodded. ‘We thought about reordering them one more time, but the printing company we used for several of our early yearbooks burned down a few years ago.’

Garcia let out a defeated sigh.

‘A lot of them were stolen, but not all. Let me check if we’re in luck.’ Kennedy reached for the phone on his desk and dialed the library internal line, replacing the receiver on its cradle after a quick conversation. ‘Mrs. Adams, our librarian, will check and let us know. Can I offer you a drink in the meantime? Coffee, water?’

Garcia declined with a quick head shake.

The phone on Principal Kennedy’s desk rang and he answered it promptly. His conversation was restricted to – ‘OK’ and ‘I see’.

‘I’m sorry.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘That whole decade is gone, not a single yearbook left.’

Garcia pinched the bridge of his nose as he wondered what to do next.

The phone rang again. Kennedy excused himself and answered it. He looked at Garcia and lifted both eyebrows. ‘That’s a good idea, Mrs. Adams. Thank you.’

‘Some hope?’ Garcia asked.

‘Mrs. Adams suggested you take a look at the basement storage rooms in the main building. I forgot about them. We keep a lot of very old stuff there. Mrs. Adams reminded me that there are boxes and boxes of old photographs taken by the photography clubs. The ones that didn’t make the yearbooks.’ He smiled confidently. ‘I’d say that’s your best bet.’

Garcia’s eyes lit up. ‘How do I gain access to them?’

‘You need to talk to old Mr. Davis. He might even help you look through them. He’s been the janitor here at Gardena High for over forty years. He still takes care of the gardens. He’s the only one who’ll have the keys to the old storage rooms.’

‘Where can I find him?’ Garcia asked, standing up.

‘He lives in the staff quarters, number 3C if I’m not mistaken.’ Kennedy intuitively gestured towards the large window. ‘You can try his door, but today is his day off. If he’s not around, try the Roosevelt Memorial Park. It’s about a five-minute walk from here.’

Garcia’s brow creased. ‘Memorial Park?’

Kennedy nodded. ‘His wife is buried there. He spends most of his free time talking to her.’ He shrugged as if that was a crazy thing to do.

Darnell Douglas observed the man checking out the raven-black Cadillac Escalade in the lot with eager eyes. He’d been a cars salesman for fifteen years, and if there was one thing he was proud of, it was his ability to split the real buyers from the bull-shitters just by looking at them. And the tall gentleman wearing the dark, expensive-looking overcoat was as real as they got.

Darnell quickly checked his reflection against the shop window. He was a good-looking black man with a shaved head and a perfectly trimmed goatee over a squared jaw. He centered his blue and white checked tie and made his way towards the customer.

This one is all mine
. ‘It’s a beauty, isn’t it?’ he said, giving the customer a welcoming but not overenthusiastic smile.

The man nodded and walked around to the front of the car.

‘It’s only got four thousand miles on the clock. The owner had to get rid of it. Financial problems.’

The customer walked over to the driver’s door and pulled it open. Both the exterior and interior were in pristine condition.

‘It still has that new car smell, doesn’t it?’ Darnell said, but kept his distance. He knew good buyers didn’t like to be crowded. He waited a few more seconds before offering a new piece of information. ‘The great thing is that this is a new car with a used-car price tag.’

‘OK to sit inside?’ the man finally asked in a Texan twang.

‘Of course.’ Darnell nodded. ‘You won’t find a more comfortable car. Cadillacs are the American Rolls-Royces.’

The man took a seat and held the steering wheel with both hands just like a kid in a playground. A pleased smile graced his lips for a split of a second and Darnell knew he had him.

‘What kind of mileage do I get with this?’ the man asked, his hands still on the wheel.

‘Twelve miles per gallon in the city, nineteen on the highway.’

‘Really?’

‘I’m telling you, this bad boy rocks.’

The smile returned to the man’s lips.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ Darnell said, coming up to the open driver’s door. ‘I’ll go get the keys and we can take this baby for a spin. What do you say?’