minute. Maybe it took James all these years to gather the courage to finally act out his fantasy.’
‘And we know our killer doesn’t mind waiting,’ Garcia said.
The phone on Captain Blake’s desk rang. She answered it on the third bell.
‘What?’ she barked.
As she listened her eyes darted towards Hunter.
‘Shit! Seal the entire place and keep everyone else away from that building, do you hear me? And I mean
Forty-One
The abandoned preschool was located in Glassell Park, Northeast Los Angeles. Cracked walls, broken windows, subsiding floors, cobwebs, and crumbling wooden doorframes was all that was left of the once bustling single-story building. Instead of cartoon characters, gang graffiti now decorated the walls both outside and inside. Several police vehicles and a forensic crime-scene van took over the parking lot to the right of the school. The press had parked all over the place. Reporters and photographers, together with an ever growing crowd of onlookers were being held back at the twenty-five-yard perimeter line created by yellow crime-scene tape and numerous officers.
Hunter, Garcia and Captain Blake got out of the car, sidestepped the crowd and quickly stooped under the tape, approaching the two police officers standing by the main building’s entrance. They were both silent.
‘Sorry, sir, but I got orders from high up not to let anyone in there for now,’ the most senior of the two officers said, acknowledging both detectives’ badges.
‘I gave that order,’ Captain Blake replied firmly, displaying her credentials.
Both officers immediately stood to attention.
‘Captain,’ a short, overweight male reporter with thick glasses and a terribly disguised bald patch called from the pack. ‘What’s going on? Who is the victim? Why are you here? Care to give the people of Los Angeles some information?’ His questions ignited an onslaught of frantic shouts from everyone.
All Los Angeles crime beat reporters knew that LAPD captains didn’t usually attend crime scenes, no matter what division or bureau they were from. When they did, there was always a reason. And it was never good news. When the captain of the LAPD Robbery Homicide Division turned up at a crime scene, something was definitely wrong.
Captain Blake ignored the questions and returned her attention to the officer. ‘Were you first response?’
He nodded but avoided her eyes.
‘C’mon, Captain, give us something. Why are you here? What’s going on in there?’ The bald reporter insisted.
Captain Blake still paid no attention. ‘Who else other than Forensics has seen the body?’
‘Only me and my partner, ma’am, Officer Gutierrez.’ He tilted his head in the direction of the building behind him. ‘He’s inside, guarding the entrance to the basement.’
‘No one else?’ she pressed.
‘No one else, ma’am. We got a call from dispatch earlier to come down here and investigate a 911 call — someone claiming to have found a body. We radioed Homicide and Forensics as soon as we walked into that room. We got our orders back almost immediately — not to let anyone else in. Forensics are the only ones we’ve allowed through.’
‘The body is in the basement?’ Hunter asked.
‘Yes, at the end of the corridor turn left and you’ll be in the old kitchen. At the back of it you’ll see a few steps that’ll take you down to a storage room. The body is in there.’ His next words came out no louder than a whisper. ‘What in God’s earth. .?’
Minutes later, Hunter, Garcia and Captain Blake found Officer Gutierrez at the back of the old kitchen, guarding the steps to the storage room just like his partner had said. His youthful face couldn’t hide the shock of what he’d seen down in that room.
The cement staircase going down to the basement was worn out, narrow and steep, illuminated by a single light bulb that hung from the water-infiltrated ceiling above the landing at the top. With each step they took, the smell of disinfectant grew stronger. Brilliant forensic light seeped through the rusty metal door at the bottom. As they approached it, Hunter felt his blood rush and warm his skin as if he’d just stepped out into the baking sun. He opened the door, and all he saw was blood.
Forty-Two
Doctor Hove was standing by the far wall talking to her lead Forensics agent, Mike Brindle. They were both wearing white Tyvek coveralls. A stainless steel table occupied the center of the large room. The concrete floor was covered in sticky, coagulated blood. Not splashes and sprinkles, but thick, vampiric pools of it. A few small and delicate bloody handprints traced a short trajectory from the table to the ghostly pale, naked body of a brunette woman lying on her back just a few steps from the door. Her arms had been carefully placed by her side, her legs stretched out.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Captain Blake murmured, bringing a hand to her mouth as she felt her stomach churn.
The woman’s lips had been stitched shut, and though her torso and legs were caked in blood, the black, thorn-like stitches to her lower body were clearly visible.
Doctor Hove approached them in silence and Hunter shot her a questioning look.
The doctor nodded in confirmation. ‘Judging by what we have in this room, I’d say it’s the same killer,’ she said in a hushed voice.
Hunter and Garcia did their best to avoid stepping into the pools of blood and approached the body on the floor. Captain Blake stayed by the door. Hunter crouched down and examined what he could of the woman without touching her. Garcia did the same but his eyes kept returning to her once attractive face, as if something was bothering him. A few seconds later he frowned at Hunter. ‘Jesus, she’s a carbon copy of Laura Mitchell. They could’ve been sisters.’
Hunter nodded. He’d noticed the uncanny resemblance from the door.
Captain Blake pinched the bridge of her nose, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She knew exactly what that meant.
Hunter turned to Doctor Hove. ‘Is this how you found the body?’
‘No,’ Mike Brindle replied, stepping closer. ‘We photographed everything and then turned her over. Her body was facing down; right cheek against the floor, facing left towards the wall. Her left arm was extended as if she was reaching for something. Her position gave us the impression that she was probably crawling towards the door, but lacked the strength to get there.’
Hunter’s eyes wandered the room again, taking in more of the scene. ‘The handprints?’
‘They’re hers,’ Brindle confirmed. ‘The few bloody sneaker shoeprints you saw on the floor outside and on the steps going up haven’t been confirmed yet. But judging by the runaway smear pattern in some of them, I’d say they belong to the scared teenager who dialed 911 — anonymously, he left no name and no address.’ He paused and his stare returned to the woman on the floor. ‘Rigor mortis started not long ago, but the heat and humidity in this room could have delayed it for up to five hours, maybe a little more.’
‘So she definitely died today?’ the captain asked.
Brindle nodded.
Garcia’s attention went from the body to the large distribution of blood on the floor. ‘She’s got no wounds I
