Twenty
The special operations room was spacious and well lit. Two metal desks already equipped with computer terminals and telephones occupied the center of the room. A fax machine sat on a small wooden table in the corner. A large, nonmagnetic marker board and a half-empty bookcase covered most of the west wall. In the opposite corner was an old-fashioned cork-board. It was mounted onto wheeled pedestals and stood next to two battered gray metal filing cabinets.
Crime-scene photos and witnesses’ statements had already been placed on Hunter’s desk ready to be organized. He fired up his computer as a knock came at the door.
‘It’s open,’ Hunter called.
Officer Ian Hopkins stepped into the room carrying a brown paper envelope.
‘Detective Hunter. These are the photographs you asked me to take of the crowd in front of the church yesterday.’ He handed the envelope to Hunter.
Garcia had forgotten all about that.
There were twenty-five pictures in total. Hunter spread them on his desk, bending over to look at each one attentively for a few seconds.
‘Do you think the killer could’ve been watching from the crowd?’ Hopkins asked with a hint of excitement.
‘It’s possible,’ Hunter agreed, his eyes moving to another photograph.
‘If you don’t mind me asking, detective, why would he do that?’ Hopkins’s curiosity increased.
‘It’s basic human nature. We all want recognition for things we’ve done. Many killers enjoy watching the drama of the aftermath of their actions unfold. They’re very proud of their work.’
‘Proud?’ Hopkins smiled nervously. ‘That’s pretty sick.’
‘Serial killers usually are,’ Garcia commented from his desk.
‘Serial killer?’ Hopkins asked a little too enthusiastically. ‘Was that the work of a serial killer yesterday?’
Garcia laughed.
Hunter kept his eyes on the photos.
‘Do you think the killer is in one of those photos, Detective Hunter?’ Hopkins insisted.
‘It was already raining by the time you took these.’ Hunter shook his head. ‘Everyone had either a hood on or an open umbrella. If he is, we wouldn’t know.’
‘I messed up,’ Hopkins said, running his hand through his hair. ‘I should’ve gotten closer, shouldn’t I?’
Hunter turned and faced him. ‘It’s not your fault the rain came down, Officer . . .?’
‘Hopkins, sir. Ian Hopkins.’ He extended his hand and Hunter shook it firmly.
‘You did what I asked you to do, Officer Hopkins.’
Hopkins gave Hunter an unconvincing smile. He felt he should’ve done better.
‘How long have you been a cop, Ian?’ Hunter asked, studying Hopkins.
‘Three months this week, sir,’ he answered proudly.
‘Do you like it?’
‘Yes, very much.’
‘Yesterday, was that your first crime scene?’
‘No, sir. A couple of gang shootouts and an armed robbery. All of them with fatal victims.’
‘At the church yesterday,’ Hunter continued, ‘I know you were very curious to have a look at the crime scene. Why didn’t you?’
‘Because my orders were to stay outside and deal with the onlookers. And then to take some pictures of them.’ He gestured to the photos on Hunter’s desk.
Hunter glanced at Garcia and they exchanged an unspoken agreement. ‘OK, how’d you like to carry on helping with this investigation?’
Hopkins’s eyes lit up.
‘That’d be fantastic . . . sir.’ He couldn’t believe his luck. To police officers a serial-murder case is the champagne of homicides, and he’d just been given a VIP invitation to join the party.
‘OK. Captain Blake said she’d assign an officer to us. I’ll request you.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘I’m not sure
‘I don’t like
Hunter smiled. ‘Good, so let’s start with you dropping the “sir” crap. I’m Robert and this is Carlos.’ Hunter gestured towards Garcia. ‘Are you any good with computers? I mean, internet searching, research, that sort of stuff?’
‘Yeah, I’m very good at it.’
‘Great. I’ll introduce you to Jack Kerley, the main guy in our IT unit. He’ll get you set up.’
‘OK, that sounds great to me.’
‘One more thing,’ Hunter said, stopping Hopkins before he left the room. ‘This case and everything related to it is to be discussed with no one other than Carlos and myself, do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’ He nodded eagerly before reaching for the door.
The phone on Hunter’s desk rang.
‘Detective Hunter.’
It was Doctor Winston. ‘Robert, I’ve got the results of the autopsy together with a few of the lab tests. I can email them to you, but . . .’
Hunter sensed the uneasiness in the doctor’s voice. ‘It’s OK. We’ll be right over, doc.’
Twenty-One
In the Los Angeles lunchtime traffic, it took them over twenty-five minutes to cover the two miles between the RHD headquarters and the LACDC. Doctor Winston was waiting for them in room 2B, the same autopsy room they were in earlier.
‘So what have you got for us, doc?’ Hunter asked, covering his nose with his right hand.
‘Would you like a mask, Robert? We’ve got plenty,’ Doctor Winston said, reading Hunter’s discomfort.
‘No, I’m fine, but if we could speed this up, it’d be great.’
‘OK, follow me.’ The doctor walked up to the stainless-steel table. Hunter and Garcia followed. The headless priest’s body had been washed clean. The familiar Y incision that ran from the front of each shoulder to the pubic bone had already been sewn shut. Large black stitches stuck out of the ghostly-white flesh like poisonous thorns.
‘Fingerprints have confirmed that the victim is indeed Brett Stewart Nichols, aka Father Fabian. Time of death is estimated to be somewhere between 10:00 p.m. and midnight on Wednesday.’
Hunter nodded. ‘Closing time at the church.’
‘Except for where the head’s been severed, the body is clean of traumas,’ the doctor said, putting on a new pair of latex gloves. ‘Decapitation didn’t occur after death. In layman’s terms, it was the cause of death. Now here’s the interesting fact: there’s nothing to indicate that the victim’s been restrained. No abrasions or marks on the wrists or ankles.’
‘Was he sedated?’ Hunter asked, bending down to look at the neck stump.
A slight head shake. ‘Toxicology came back negative for any type of anesthetic.’
‘Why do you think he could’ve been sedated?’ Garcia turned to Hunter.
‘Most people would put up a fight if they were about to be beheaded.’
Doctor Winston agreed with a nod. ‘With no defensive wounds, we know the priest didn’t fight back. It’s not easy to decapitate a moving target.’
‘Could the priest have been knocked unconscious?’ Garcia asked.
‘That’s a possibility I’ve considered,’ Doctor Winston replied, circling the table to the other side. ‘Without the
