Hunter grew up as an only child to working-class parents in Compton, an underprivileged neighborhood of South Los Angeles. His mother lost her battle with cancer when he was only seven. His father never remarried and had to take on two jobs to cope with the demands of raising a child on his own.
From a very early age it was obvious to everyone that Hunter was different. He could figure things out faster than most. School bored and frustrated him. He’d finished all of his sixth-grade work in less than two months and just for something to do he’d sped through seventh-, eighth- and even ninth-grade books. Mr Fratelli, the school principal, was amazed by the child prodigy and arranged an appointment at the Mirman School for the Gifted in Mulholland Drive, North West Los Angeles. Doctor Tilby, Mirman’s psychologist, ran him through a battery of tests and Hunter was pronounced ‘off the scale
By the age of fourteen he’d glided through Mirman’s high-school English, History, Biology and Chemistry curriculum. Four years of high school were condensed into two and at fifteen he’d graduated with honors. With recommendations from all of his teachers, Hunter was accepted as a ‘special circumstances’ student at Stanford University. The top psychology university in America at the time.
In spite of Hunter’s good looks, the combination of being too thin, too young and having a strange dress sense made him unpopular with girls and an easy target for bullies. He didn’t have the body or the aptitude for sports and preferred to spend his free time in the library. He read – chewed up books with incredible speed. He became fascinated with the world of criminology and the thought process of individuals dubbed ‘evil’. Maintaining a 4.0 Grade Point Average during his university years had been a walk in the park, but he soon grew tired of the bullying and of being called ‘tooth-pick boy’. He decided to join a weights gym and started taking martial art classes. To his surprise, he enjoyed the physical pain of the workouts. He became obsessed with it and within a year the effects of such heavy training were clearly visible. His body had bulked up impressively. ‘Tooth-pick boy’ became ‘fit boy’ and it took him a little less than two years to receive his black belt in karate. The bullying stopped and all of a sudden girls couldn’t get enough of him.
By the age of nineteen Hunter had already graduated in Psychology and at twenty-three he received his PhD in Criminal Behavior Analysis and Biopsychology. His thesis paper titled ‘An Advanced Psychological Study in Criminal Conduct’ had been made into a book and it was now mandatory reading at the FBI National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime (NCAVC).
Life was good, but two weeks after receiving his PhD Hunter’s world was turned upside down. For the past three and a half years his father had been working as a security guard for the Bank of America branch in Avalon Boulevard. A robbery gone wrong turned into a Wild West gun-fight and Hunter’s father took a bullet to the chest. He fought for twelve weeks in a coma. Hunter never left his side.
Those twelve weeks sitting in silence, watching his father slip away little by little each day transformed Hunter. He could think of nothing else but revenge. That’s when the insomnia started. When the police told him that they had no suspect, Hunter knew they’d never catch his father’s killer. He felt utterly helpless and the feeling disgusted him. After the burial, he made a decision. He wouldn’t only study the minds of criminals anymore. He’d go after them himself.
After joining the police force, he quickly made a name for himself and moved through the police ranks at lightning speed making detective for the LAPD at the early age of twenty-six. He was soon recruited by the Robbery-Homicide Division, being paired up with a more senior detective – Scott Wilson. They were part of the Homicide Special 1 Division, dealing with serial killers, high-profile and other homicide cases requiring extensive time.
Wilson was thirty-nine at the time. His six-foot-two build was complimented by three hundred pounds of muscle and fat. His most distinctive feature was a shining scar that graced the left side of his shaved head. His menacing look had always played in his favor. No one would mess with a detective that looked like a pissed-off Shrek.
Wilson had been in the force for eighteen years, the last nine of them as a detective for the RHD. At first he’d hated the idea of being paired up with a young and inexperienced detective, but Hunter was a fast learner and his powers of deduction and analysis were nothing short of astounding. With every case they solved Wilson’s respect for Hunter grew. They became the best of friends, inseparable on and off the job.
Los Angeles had never lacked in gruesome and violent homicides, but it did lack in detective numbers. Wilson and Hunter frequently had to work on up to six different cases at once. The pressure never bothered them; on the contrary, they thrived on it. Then a Hollywood celebrity investigation almost cost them their badges and their friendship.
The case had involved Linda and John Spencer, a well-known record producer who’d made a fortune after producing three consecutive number one rock albums. John and Linda had met at an after-show party and it had been one of those flash romances, within three months they were married. John had bought a magnificent house in Beverly Hills and their marriage seemed to have come straight out of a fantasy book, everything looked and felt perfect. They loved entertaining, and at least twice a month they’d throw an extravagant party by their piano- shaped swimming pool. But the fantasy story didn’t last long. By the end of their first year of marriage the parties had started to die down together with the romance. Public and domestic rows became a common thing as John’s drug and alcohol addiction took over his life.
One August night, after another heated argument, Linda’s body was found in their kitchen with a single .38 caliber revolver shot to the back of the head, execution style. There was no sign of a struggle or break in, no defense wounds or bruises on Linda’s arms or hands. The evidence found in the crime scene together with the fact that he had disappeared after his argument with Linda made John Spencer the primary and only suspect. Hunter and Wilson were assigned to the case.
John was only picked up days later drunk and high on heroin. In his interrogation he didn’t deny he’d had another row with his wife that night. He’d admitted their marriage had been going through a rough phase. He remembered the argument and leaving the house angry, agitated and drunk, but what he couldn’t remember was what had happened to him for the past few days. He had no alibi. But he also sustained that he would never hurt Linda. He was still crazy in love with her.
Homicide investigations involving celebrities in Hollywood had always attracted a lot of attention and the media was quick to create their own circus – ‘FAMOUS AND RICH PRODUCER MURDERS BEAUTIFUL WIFE IN JEALOUS RAGE.’ Even the mayor was calling for a swift resolution to the case.
The prosecution showed that John did own a .38 caliber revolver, but it had never been found. They also had no problem getting witnesses to testify to all the public rows John and Linda used to have. In most cases, John did all the yelling while Linda just cried. Establishing that John Spencer had an aggressive temper had been child’s play.
Wilson was convinced of John’s guilt, but Hunter was sure they had the wrong man. To Hunter, John was just a scared kid who had got rich too fast, and with the money and fame came the drugs. John had no history of violence. In school he’d been just another regular geeky-looking kid – torn blue jeans, strange haircut, always listening to his heavy metal music.
Hunter tried reasoning with Wilson many times.
‘OK, so he had rows with his wife, but you find me a marriage without them,’ Hunter argued. ‘In none of those rows had he ever hit or hurt Linda.’
‘Ballistics proved that the bullet that killed her came from the same stash found in John Spencer’s office desk drawer,’ Wilson shouted.
‘That doesn’t prove he pulled the trigger.’
‘All the fibers found on the victim came from the same clothes John was wearing the night we found him. Ask anyone who knew the couple. He had a foul temper on him, shouting at her all the time. You’re a psychologist. You know how these things escalate.’
‘Exactly, they escalate. Gradually. It doesn’t usually just jump from heated arguments to shooting someone in the back of the head in one single step.’
‘Look Robert, I’ve always respected your assessment of a suspect. It has guided us in the right direction many times, but I also like to follow my gut. And my gut tells me this time you’re wrong.’
‘The guy deserves a chance. We should carry on with the investigation. Maybe there’s something we missed.’
‘We can’t carry on.’ Wilson laughed. ‘It ain’t up to us to make that decision. You know better. We’ve done our
