The Night Stalker

‘Homicide? Look, I don’t like going through switchboards. Give me a number where I can contact you directly.’ The tension in his voice had morphed into anxiety.

‘Why don’t you give me your number?’

‘If you wanna play games, suit yourself. Goodbye, Detective.’

‘OK.’ Hunter stopped him again. ‘We’ll play it your way.’ He gave Smith his number and the line went dead. Hunter quickly pressed a button on his cell phone and got the Special Operations switchboard again. ‘Tracy, are you there?’

‘I’m here, Detective.’

‘Tell me you’ve got something.’

‘Sorry, Detective, whoever this guy is, he really ain’t stupid. He’s using a pre-paid cell phone. Either a very cheap one with no GPS chip, or he knows how to deactivate them.’

Hunter knew the logic of how GPS chip phones worked. They emitted a locator beacon every fifteen or so seconds, similar to the ones used by airplanes. GPS satellites could then very quickly pin the phone location down to the nearest fifteen to twenty feet. It was obvious James Smith knew that too.

‘How about triangulation?’ Hunter asked.

‘As I said before, this guy ain’t dumb, Detective. He was on the move during the call. And I mean he was moving fast. The phone was immediately switched off once he disconnected.’

‘Shit!’ Hunter ran a hand through his hair. He knew that triangulation is the most accurate method of locating a cell phone that doesn’t send out a position signal. A live cell phone is in continual relay with surrounding cell phone towers to ensure they get the best signal available. Triangulation works by identifying the three towers receiving the strongest signal from the phone and drawing their coverage radius. At the point where the three orbits intersect, that’s where the phone is located. Its accuracy depends on how close together the three signal receiving towers are. In a city like Los Angeles, where there are simply hundreds and hundreds of cell phone towers, the accuracy can be almost as precise as with a GPS chip. And that’s where the being on the move problem comes from. In Los Angeles, cell phone towers are relatively close together. The process of triangulating can take as long as ten to fifteen minutes. If during that process the cell phone in question moves out of range of one of the three triangulating towers and into the range of a new one, the whole process fails and it has to start again from the beginning. If James Smith was calling from a moving car or even a bus, his signal would be constantly jumping from tower to tower in the space of minutes. Triangulation would be virtually impossible. Tracy was right. James Smith was no first-timer.

‘OK, Tracy, here’s what I want you to do. .’

Sixty-Two

It was one of those Los Angeles spring mornings that made people happy to be alive. Crisp blue skies, gentle winds, and temperatures not higher than twenty-two degrees Celsius. People just couldn’t help but smile. It was on days like these that every detective in the force wished the LAPD issued unmarked convertibles. In the absence of those, Garcia’s Honda Civic would do. At least it had air conditioning, something that Hunter’s ancient Buick didn’t.

On their way to Century City and the A & E TV network studios, Garcia came level with a scarlet red convertible BMW with its top down. A short-haired brunette with her eyebrows plucked to the thinnest of lines had her head resting on the driver’s shoulder. He was a brawny man with a bullet head polished to shine, wearing a gym vest that looked two sizes too small for his frame. Hunter observed them for a minute. The woman seemed completely loved up. She brushed her fingers through her hair casually, and for an instant she reminded him of Anna, Garcia’s wife.

‘Would you ever hurt Anna?’ Hunter asked, suddenly turning to face Garcia.

The question was so surprising and out of character that Garcia had to do a double take and almost swerved. ‘What?’

‘Would you ever physically hurt Anna?’

‘That’s what I thought I heard you say. What the hell, Robert? Is that question for real?’

A few seconds went by. If Hunter was joking, he wasn’t giving anything away.

‘I guess that means no, then,’ Hunter said.

‘It means hell no. Why would I ever hurt Anna? Physically or any other way?’

Garcia had met Anna Preston in high school. She was a sweet girl with an unusual beauty. Garcia fell in love almost immediately. It took him ten months to gather the courage to ask her out though. They started dating during their sophomore year and Garcia proposed straight after their graduation. Hunter didn’t know of a couple whose love for and dedication to each other matched theirs.

‘No matter what happened, no matter what she did,’ Hunter pressed, ‘you wouldn’t hurt her, in any way?’

The confusion stamped across Garcia’s face intensified. ‘Have you lost your mind? Listen to me. No matter what she does, no matter what she says, no matter what anything — I would never hurt Anna. She’s everything to me. Without her, I don’t exist. Now what in the world are you trying to say, Robert?’

‘Why?’ Hunter’s voice sounded even. ‘Why wouldn’t you ever hurt her? No matter what she did. . or said. . or anything. .’

Garcia had been Hunter’s partner for almost four years, since he had joined the RHD. He knew Hunter wasn’t a conventional detective. He could figure things out faster than anyone Garcia had ever met. Most of the time, no one even understood how he did it until he explained, and then it all seemed so simple. Hunter listened a lot more than he spoke. When he did speak, not everything he said made sense at first, but in the end, everything always slotted into place like a jigsaw puzzle. But sometimes Garcia had to admit Hunter seemed to inhabit a different dimension to everyone on this planet. This was one of those times.

‘Because I love her.’ Unconsciously, Garcia’s words came out coated in tenderness. ‘More than anyone or anything in this world.’

‘Exactly.’ A smile stretched across Hunter’s lips. ‘And, I think, so does our killer.’

Sixty-Three

The traffic began to unclog, but Garcia was still anesthetized by Hunter’s words. Anxious drivers started sounding their horns behind them. The more impatient ones were already shouting abuse out of their windows. Garcia disregarded them and edged forward slowly in his own time. His attention was still on Hunter.

‘Please tell me there’s sense behind the madness. What are you saying, Robert? That the killer is in love with my wife?’

‘No, not with Anna,’ Hunter replied. ‘But what if the killer thinks he’s in love with all his victims.’

Garcia’s eyes narrowed as he thought about it. ‘What, both of them?’

‘Yes.’

‘At the same time?’

‘Yes.’

‘And we’re not talking obsessed fan love?’

‘No.’

His eyes narrowed further. ‘If he’s really in love with them, why would he kill them in such a brutal way?’

‘I didn’t say he was in love with them,’ Hunter clarified. ‘I said he thinks he’s in love with them. But what he’s really in love with is their image. Who they represent, not who they are.’