A hurricane seemed to have started in her stomach as her vision blurred. The large mirrored window in front of her was substituted by grainy, flickering images. She blinked several times, trying desperately to get rid of them. She didn’t want to see them. She didn’t want to be part of any of it. But she had no choice. Again, they lasted only a few seconds, but a few seconds was all that was needed.
As the images faded, she sat shivering and crying. Her breathing came in short, fast bursts and catatonically she repeated the words ‘please, no’ over and over again.
It took her two minutes to get her breathing back to normal and another two to stop shivering. On unsteady legs she stood up and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She looked dreadful. Her hair was a mess. Her skin looked dry and badly cared for and her lack of recent sleep showed in her tired-looking eyes. She was wearing no lipstick, which made the scar on her lips more noticeable. Her coat looked dirty and old with tiny tears on the sleeves. No wonder both detectives looked at her as if she was a drug addict on a bad trip looking for some attention.
‘What am I doing here?’ she whispered to herself as if waking up from a strange dream in an unknown place. ‘I must be insane thinking someone would’ve believed me.’
She checked her watch and wondered what to do next. The detective had said that he’d send an officer to take her details, but no one had showed up yet. Maybe that was a sign. Maybe telling others about the appalling things she saw wouldn’t help them. It wouldn’t help her.
Deep down she had hopes that if she could help any of the people she saw suffering, then, maybe, the images would go away and she could go back to having a normal life. But standing there, alone, in a police interrogation room, all she had were doubts.
‘I need to get out of here, this is crazy,’ she said as her eyes rested on Hunter’s card on the table.
Forty-Three
Mike Brindle was in a crouch position next to a large white leather sofa when he noticed Hunter standing by the door. Getting to his feet, he approached the detective in silence.
Brindle had been with the Los Angeles Scientific Investigation Division for over fifteen years, but the look in his eyes told Hunter that even he hadn’t seen anything like what had happened in that room.
They stood face to face without saying a word for a while before Brindle checked his watch.
‘I guess you take the prize,’ he finally murmured through his surgical mask.
Hunter narrowed his eyes and faintly shook his head.
‘Other than “yours truly”, nobody who’s come through that door has managed over forty seconds in here before losing their dinner,’ Brindle explained.
‘I didn’t have dinner.’
‘I guess he did.’ Brindle nodded towards Garcia, who had just re-entered the room. His surgical mask was back over his mouth and nose. His face was drained of all color.
‘What in the world’s happened here, Mike?’ Hunter asked once Garcia had rejoined them.
‘A lot of pain,’ Brindle said, turning to face the enormous river rock fireplace on the south wall. Just over a foot in front of it and tied to a metal high-back armchair sat the naked body of a woman. Most of the skin on the front of her torso, arms and legs had blistered, crinkled and burst open, revealing her bloody, now burned flesh. Parts of her body had completely carbonized, displaying a crusty texture and charcoal color, but all eyes were on her face.
Garcia felt his stomach play up again as they stepped closer to the body.
The skin on her face had been burned so badly that it seemed to have melted into crumpled and clustered lumps, like hot wax. Her exposed flesh and muscle tissue had severely wrinkled and hardened, as if her face had been deep-fried. Her eyeballs had exploded inside their sockets from the intense heat.
‘From what I’ve gathered so far,’ Brindle said, carefully sidestepping the small pool of blood, urine and feces that surrounded the armchair. ‘She was brought here on Saturday evening, tied to this chair and left in front of a blazing fire. She died long ago, but the fire was never turned off.’ He pointed to the fireplace. Heat still emanated from it.
Hunter’s stare quickly moved from the dead woman to Brindle. ‘The killer . . . cooked her?’
Brindle’s lips thinned as his head bobbed down. ‘Given her proximity to the fire, more like roasted her alive.’
‘This is fucking sick,’ Garcia commented, turning his head away.
‘This is a gas fire,’ Brindle continued. ‘Which means its intensity is controlled. Worst of all, it’s constant. It won’t die down unless somebody turns it off.’
‘Was it on when the body was found?’ Hunter asked, kneeling in front of the fireplace.
‘Yes.’ Brindle nodded. ‘But on a very low setting. Just enough to—’ he bit his lip ‘—simmer her. But look at the size of this fireplace, Robert. On its higher setting, it would feel like a proper bonfire.’
Hunter cleared his eyes, took a deep breath and forced himself to study the body for a moment. Garcia stayed a few steps behind. His right hand cupped over his nose. His face screwed up as if he’d tasted something sour.
The smell of burned human flesh is quite different from that of other animals because of our diet. Humans are the only animals who eat such diverse foods as meat, vegetables, sweets and chemically altered products. The combination of their smells gets embedded in the human flesh and then released, together with several toxins when the flesh burns.
Garcia felt something start to rise in his throat again.
‘We cut her loose,’ Brindle said, noticing Hunter’s look as he studied her severed restraints. ‘And that’s the reason why the two of you are here.’
Hunter’s brow creased in anticipation.
‘We’ve been here for a while. Her body and the scene have already been photographed. The two local detectives we thought would be taking the case had seen enough. The body was ready to be taken to the morgue.’
Brindle gestured for one of the crime-lab agents to come and give him a hand. Very carefully, they moved the dead woman’s back away from the armchair’s backrest.
‘And then we saw this.’
Hunter and Garcia repositioned themselves so they could have a better look.
‘Oh fuck,’ Garcia murmured through gritted teeth, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Forty-Four
Hunter massaged his temples with the tips of his fingers, trying to rub away the headache he knew was on its way.
‘Shit,’ he said softly.
His eyes were focused on the victim’s back and neck. They had been badly scorched. But these were old burn marks. The skin had already healed, showing lumpy, leathery and irregular patches. But the surprise in both detectives’ faces wasn’t caused by the disfigurement. Halfway down her back, painted in red and about six inches long, was the number four.
‘There’s more.’ Brindle lowered her body back to the original sitting position before asking one of his agents to bring him the large evidence bag they’d collected earlier. He lifted the clear plastic bag in the air so Hunter and Garcia could have a look at its contents. Inside lay a badly burned skull.
‘This was found in the fire, after it was turned off.’
Garcia looked confused for a moment.
Hunter let out a deep sigh. ‘Father Fabian’s head?’ he asked, already knowing the answer.
‘You’ve gotta be kidding.’ Garcia’s eyes widened. Then he remembered what he’d read in the priest’s journal
