Two
Christmas was a week or so away and Los Angeles was embracing the festive spirit. Streets and shop windows everywhere were decorated with colorful lights, Santa Clauses and fake snow. At 5:30 a.m. the drive through south Los Angeles felt eerily calm.
The white front of the small church glowed against the tall, naked California walnut trees on either side of the arched wooden doorway. Picture-postcard scenery. Except for the police officers swarming around the building and the yellow crime-scene tape that kept curious onlookers at a safe distance.
Dark clouds had started to gather as Robert Hunter stepped out of the car, stretched his body and blew onto his hands before zipping up his leather jacket. Bracing himself against the strengthening cold Pacific wind and studying the sky, Hunter knew that rain was no more than a few minutes away.
The Homicide Special Section (HSS) of the LAPD Robbery-Homicide Division is a specialized branch. It deals with serial killers and high-profile homicide cases requiring extensive time and expertise. Hunter was its most accomplished detective. His young partner, Carlos Garcia, had worked hard to make detective, and he’d done it faster than most. First assigned to the LAPD Central Bureau, he’d spent a few years busting gang members, armed robbers and drug pushers in northeast LA before he was offered a position with the HSS.
As Hunter clipped his badge onto his belt, he spotted Garcia talking to a young officer. Despite the early hour, Garcia looked bright and alert. His longish, dark brown hair was still damp from his morning shower.
‘Weren’t we supposed to have today off?’ Garcia said under his breath as Hunter approached them. ‘I made plans.’
Hunter nodded a silent ‘good morning’ at the officer, who returned the gesture. ‘We’re Homicide Special, Carlos.’ He tucked his hands into his jacket pockets. ‘Words like “day off, pay rise, holiday and vacation” don’t apply to us. You should know that by now.’
‘I’m learning fast.’
‘You been inside yet?’ Hunter asked as his pale blue eyes focused on the church.
‘I just got here.’
Hunter faced the young officer. ‘You?’
Six foot two and well built, he ran a hand through his short-cropped black hair nervously under Hunter’s attentive eye. ‘I haven’t been inside either, sir, but apparently it isn’t a pretty sight. See those two over there?’ He pointed to two pale-faced police officers standing to the left of the church. ‘They were first response. I heard it took ’em less than twenty seconds to come running out puking their guts all over the place.’ He mechanically checked his watch. ‘I got here five minutes after they did.’
Hunter massaged the back of his neck, feeling the rough, lumpy scar on his nape. His eyes scanned the crowd already gathered behind the yellow tape. ‘Do you have a camera with you?’ he asked the officer, who shook his head, frowning.
‘How about a phone cam?’
‘Yeah, my personal cell phone’s got a cam. Why?’
‘I want you to take a few pictures of the crowd for me.’
‘The crowd?’ the officer asked, confused.
‘Yeah, but do it discreetly. Pretend you’re taking crime-scene pictures of the outside of the church or something. Try to get the whole crowd. And from different angles. You think you can do that?’
‘Yeah, but . . .’
‘Trust me,’ Hunter said calmly. ‘I’ll explain later.’
The officer nodded eagerly before reaching inside the police vehicle for his cell phone.
Three
‘The vultures are already here,’ Garcia observed as they approached the yellow tape. Behind them, reporters were pushing their way to the front of the crowd, their camera flashes exploding every few seconds. ‘I think they get the call before we do.’
‘They do,’ Hunter confirmed, ‘and they pay very well for the information too.’
The policeman standing behind the tape nodded as Hunter and Garcia stooped under.
‘Detective Hunter,’ a short, round and bald reporter called out. ‘Do you think this is a religious kill?’
Hunter turned to face the squad of reporters. He understood their apprehension. Inside that small church someone had been robbed of his or her life, and they all knew that if Robert Hunter had been assigned to the case, the murderer had used overwhelming violence to do it.
‘We just got here, Tom,’ Hunter answered evenly. ‘We haven’t even been inside yet. At this point you probably know more than we do.’
‘Could this be the work of a serial killer?’ A tall, attractive brunette asked. She was wearing a thick winter coat and holding a small tape recorder. Hunter had never seen her before.
‘Did I stutter?’ he murmured, looking at Garcia. ‘I’m gonna say it slower this time for those of you who have trouble keeping up.’ He stared straight at the brunette. ‘We-just-got-here. We-haven’t-been-inside-yet. And you guys know the drill. If you want any information, you’ll have to wait for the official police press conference. If there
The brunette met Hunter’s stare before disappearing towards the back of the crowd.
A crime-lab agent waited on the worn stone steps of the church’s entrance, ready to hand Hunter and Garcia white Tyvek coveralls.
As they stepped inside, they were hit by the smell. A combination of perspiration, old wood and the sharp, metallic odor of blood.
Two long rows of red oak pews were separated by a narrow aisle that ran from the entrance to the steps at the altar. On a busy day, the Seven Saints Catholic Church could receive close to two hundred worshippers.
Its small interior was brightly lit by two large forensic powerlights mounted on separate metal pedestals. In their unnatural brilliance everything was harsh and clinical. At the end of the aisle three crime-lab agents were photographing and dusting every inch of the altar and the confessional on the right-hand side.
The door closed behind them. Hunter felt the anxiety that came with the first steps into every new murder scene.
Hearing their approach, the crime-lab agents paused and looked up uneasily. The two detectives walked towards them, stopping at the altar steps.
Blood was everywhere.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Garcia murmured, covering his mouth and nose with both hands. ‘What the hell is that?’
Four
Winter in the City of Angels is mild compared with most of the USA. Temperatures rarely go below fifty degrees Fahrenheit, but for Los Angeles residents that’s certainly cold enough. By 5:45 a.m. a cold drizzle had started. Police officer Ian Hopkins wiped his cell phone on the sleeve of his uniform jacket before snapping another picture of the observers outside the church.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ asked Justin Norton, one of the two officers first at the scene.
‘Taking pictures,’ Hopkins replied facetiously.
‘Why? Do you have a morbid fetish for crime scenes or something?’
‘Homicide Special asked me to do it.’
Officer Norton looked at Hopkins sarcastically. ‘Well, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but the crime scene is that way.’ He used his thumb over his shoulder to point to the church behind him.
‘The detective doesn’t want pictures of the church. He wants pictures of the crowd.’
A worried frown this time. ‘Did he tell you why?’
