Seventy-Eight
The digital clock on Hunter’s microwave read 3:42 a.m. when he stepped back into his apartment and closed the door behind him. He wasted no time walking into every room and turning on all the lights. For now he just didn’t want any more darkness. He was tired, but for the first time he welcomed insomnia. He wasn’t sure he’d have the strength to deal with the nightmares he knew would come as soon as he closed his eyes.
After the body had been removed and taken to the morgue, Hunter and Garcia had spent a long time looking around the old depot, especially the room upstairs. It was a large chamber, which had probably been used as one of the main storage areas. Two of the walls were lined from floor to ceiling with long wooden shelves. A large carpenter’s workbench occupied the center of the floor. As Brindle had said, it had been raised about a foot off the ground by wooden blocks. There was so much garbage and debris around the place, Forensics could take weeks analyzing it, and maybe months to process it all. The exact same words as before — IT’S INSIDE YOU — had been spray-painted onto the ceiling, just like in the butcher’s shop. If there’d been any tire tracks on the soft ground outside, the rain did a good job of washing them away.
The homeless man who’d found the body was in his late sixties, frail and undernourished. He’d walked a long way, hoping to have a roof over his head for the night and escape the rain that he had smelled in the air an hour before it started. He never saw anyone around the old depot. Just the girl lying on the floor, naked, with her mouth stitched up like a ragdoll. He never touched her. He never even got close to her. And by the time Hunter talked to him, he still hadn’t stopped shaking.
It had been exactly seven days since they had found the body of Laura Mitchell. Kelly Jensen’s body was discovered three days after that, and now they had a new unidentified female victim. Counting Doctor Winston and the young Forensics assistant who died in the explosion in the autopsy room, they had five victims in one week. Hunter knew that while their investigation was moving at a snail’s pace, the killer was sailing with the wind.
In the kitchen, Hunter poured himself a glass of water and drank it down in large gulps, as if trying to put out a fire somewhere inside him. He was sweating as if he’d just run five miles. He reached for his cell phone and dialed Whitney Myers’ number before walking over to his living room window. The rain had only stopped ten minutes before. The sky was dark and dull. Not a single star.
‘Hello. .’ Myers answered after a single ring.
‘It’s not her. .’ His voice was heavy. ‘It’s not Katia.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive.’
An uneasy pause.
‘Do you know who she is?’ Myers pushed. ‘Is she on the MP list?’
‘No, she’s not on the list. But she looks familiar.’
‘Familiar? In what way?’
‘I think I’ve seen her before. I just can’t think where.’
‘Police environment. .?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Court of law. .? Witness. .? Victim. .?’
‘No, somewhere else.’
‘A bar. .?’
‘I don’t know.’ Hunter ran his hand through his hair and let his fingertips rest at the back of his neck. Unconsciously they traced the contour of his ugly scar. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met her or seen her on the streets or in a bar or anywhere like that. I think I’ve seen a picture of her. Maybe in a magazine or an advertisement. .’
‘She’s that famous?’
‘I don’t know. I might be wrong. I’m wracking my brain here trying to remember, but I’ve got nothing, and I’m dead tired.’
Myers said nothing.
Hunter moved away from the window and started pacing his living room.
‘If you get me a photo of her, maybe I can help,’ Myers offered.
‘No one will recognize her from the crime-scene photos. She’s been dead for over twelve hours. The killer could’ve dumped her there yesterday, or even the day before. We were lucky that a homeless drifter wanted to use the place for shelter tonight, or else she could’ve been decomposing by the time we got to her.’ Hunter paused by his bookcase, absentmindedly browsing through the titles. His eyes stopped as he reached the fifth book on the top shelf. ‘Shit!’
‘What? What happened?’
Hunter ran his hand over the spine of the book.
‘I know where I’ve seen her before.’
Seventy-Nine
Hunter had to wait until 7:30 a.m. to find out for certain who the latest victim was. The central branch of the Los Angeles Public Library on West 5th Street could easily be called Hunter’s home away from home, he spent so much time in there. Its opening time was 10:00 a.m., but he knew most of the staff, and he knew that one of them in particular, Maria Torres from Archives, was always there very early.
Hunter was right. He’d seen the victim’s face before. He’d passed her picture many times as he walked through the Arts, Music and Recreation department on the library’s second floor. One of her CDs,
From the library, Hunter made it to the LA morgue twenty minutes after Doctor Hove had called him saying she was done with the autopsy. Garcia was already there.
The doctor looked more than exhausted. No amount of make-up could disguise the black circles under her eyes, and they looked as if they’d sunken deeper into her skull. Her skin looked tired, with the pallor of someone who hadn’t seen the sun in months. Her shoulders were hunched forward, as if she was having trouble carrying the invisible weight on them.
‘I guess none of us had much sleep,’ Garcia said, noticing Hunter’s heavy-looking eyelids as he joined them by the entrance to the autopsy room. ‘I tried you at home. .’
Hunter nodded. ‘I was in the library.’
Garcia pulled a face and checked his watch. ‘Ran out of books at home?’
‘I knew I’d seen the victim before,’ Hunter said. ‘Her name is Jessica Black.’ He pulled a CD case from his pocket.
Garcia and Doctor Hove took turns looking at the cover.
‘There’s another picture inside,’ Hunter said.
The doctor pulled the cover booklet out and flipped it open. Inside there was a full body picture of Jessica. She was standing with her back against a brick wall. Her guitar resting against it by her side. She had on a sleeveless black shirt, blue jeans and black cowboy boots. The tattoo on her right shoulder was clearly visible. Doctor Hove didn’t need to check it again. She knew it was exactly the same tattoo the victim on her autopsy table had on her shoulder. She’d looked at it for long enough.
‘I just found out about her fifteen minutes ago,’ Hunter explained. ‘I called Operations from the car and asked them to get me an address and whatever else they can on her. We’ll check it after we leave here.’ He nodded at Garcia who nodded back. ‘Missing Persons don’t have her,’ he continued; ‘she was never reported missing.’
Silence took over as they entered the autopsy room and paused by the examination table. All eyes settled on Jessica’s face. The stitches had been removed from her lips, but the scars where they’d dug so deep into her skin
