‘So he could’ve used Amanda’s blood. She was right there and he wouldn’t even have needed that much to draw two small numbers on the back of the photos. Why didn’t he use her blood?’
Garcia shook his head slowly.
‘He also could’ve used Father Fabian’s blood,’ Hunter carried on. ‘He obviously had some with him to draw the number four on Amanda’s back. He wouldn’t have needed any more than a small dab for each number.’
Garcia chewed on his bottom lip as he thought about it. ‘Maybe he drew the numbers on the back of the pictures before getting to the house in Malibu,’ he suggested.
‘OK, so why not use Father Fabian’s blood? As I said, he had some with him since the Seven Saints murder.’
‘Maybe he had some blood left from the previous victims.’
‘According to the test results, it’s not Amanda’s blood, it’s not Father Fabian’s blood and it’s not the same blood as the one the killer used on the priest, the pregnant woman’s.’
‘So if your assumptions are correct and the killer really is using the blood of a previous victim to mark his next one, the blood used on the pictures wouldn’t have come from victims two, three or four.’
‘That’s right.’
Garcia leaned against his desk. His eyes studied Hunter for a brief moment. ‘I can see from the look on your face that you don’t believe the blood belongs to the first victim either.’
‘I think the killer keeps only a small amount of victim’s blood so he can number the next one. After that, my guess is that he disposes of what he has left.’
Garcia pinched his chin, his brow creased with worry. ‘If your theory is right, why is he doing it? Why is the killer using the blood of a previous victim to mark the next one?’
Hunter’s eyes widened and he felt his pulse race. ‘He’s linking them together.’
‘The killer’s linking them?’
Hunter nodded. ‘By using their blood on each other, he’s linking victims one and two together, victims two and three and victims three and four. Maybe they were all connected, we don’t know yet. But the killer’s telling us that there is a connection.’
Garcia paused for an instant as a new thought entered his mind. ‘OK, then I’ve got two questions for you. If your theory is correct, then whose blood did the killer use to number the first victim, since there was no previous one? And if you don’t think the killer used the blood of any of the victims to write the number on the back of those two photographs, where do you think the blood came from?’
Hunter stopped by the window and watched the hectic traffic outside for a moment. ‘Maybe the answer to both questions is the same.’
Garcia’s left eyebrow lifted in expectation.
‘The killer used his own blood.’
Seventy-One
Two days before the first murder
He rang the bell and stood waiting at the reception window of an old and derelict hotel in Lynwood, south Los Angeles. It was one of those hotels that rented their rooms by the hour, day, week or month. Any kind of arrangement could be reached, as long as you had the money. No questions asked.
The entry lobby was small and neglected. In fact, it looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years. There were water infiltration stains on the ceiling, cigarette burn marks on the carpet, cobwebs in every corner and the wallpaper was peeling off the walls. He thought places like this existed only in police movies, but this was exactly what he was looking for. A place where no one would notice him.
He rang the desk bell a few more times.
‘OK, OK. Keep your fucking pants on.’ The heavy, southern-accented voice came from behind the wooden partition at the back of the reception office. A few seconds later, a black girl, who couldn’t have been older than eighteen, appeared, followed by a massively overweight man. She was wearing tight blue jeans and a sleeveless yellow cotton blouse and seemed to be in a hurry to get out of there. As she unlocked the door and stepped out into the small lobby, the fat man gave her a sleazy wink while adjusting his elasticated trousers around his balloon waist.
‘Now next week you bring me the rent on time, you hear.’
The girl kept her eyes low, embarrassed, and disappeared up the narrow stairs.
‘What can I do you for?’ the fat man asked, finally coming up to the reception window. He smelled of garlic, and his greasy and thinning hair was in desperate need of a wash and cut.
‘I need a room.’
The fat man stretched his neck out of the reception window and checked the lobby – empty, except for a small suitcase by the man’s feet. When people came looking for a room in his hotel, they usually had a hooker or two hanging from their arms.
‘It’s five bucks an hour, or if you’re feeling like a stag you can get six hours for twenty dollars.’ He used his right index finger’s nail to scrape something off his front teeth.
‘I need the room for a few days. Maybe longer.’
The fat man frowned and looked at the six-foot-two guest skeptically.
‘I’ll pay cash.’
The worried look vanished as the fat man saw an opportunity presenting itself. ‘You know, Christmas is just around the corner and we’re quite busy in here, but I might be able to get you something.’
The guest waited patiently for the fat man to carry on.
‘If you wanna stay for a whole week, I can give you the room for . . .’ He paused, pretending he was calculating the correct amount. ‘Two hundred bucks.’
The guest let out a bizarre laugh, picked his suitcase up and silently made for the door.
‘Wait, wait,’ the fat man called in an urgent voice. ‘OK, I can see you drive a hard bargain. A whole week for one hundred and fifty bucks, what do you say?’
The man thought about it for a moment before pulling four hundred and fifty dollars out of his wallet.
‘I’ll take three weeks. Until New Year’s Day.’
The fat man took the money and counted it eagerly. ‘If you wanna get a real good deal, I can give you a whole month for five hundred bucks. That’s a great price.’
The man calmly returned his wallet to his back pocket and stared at the fat man.
‘OK, OK.’ He lifted his hands in surrender before pushing a guestbook through the window. ‘Just sign your name there and we’re all set.’
The man didn’t move.
Several silent uncomfortable seconds rolled past.
‘OK,’ the receptionist said, picking up on the man’s look. ‘I’ll sign you in as Jim Bob, how’s that? You’ll be the third Jim Bob we have staying here.’ He scribbled something down, threw the guestbook onto his messy desk and grabbed a key. ‘Room 34B,’ he said, handing the key over. ‘Third floor, facing the street. It’s a good room. One of the best we have.’ He let his mouth stretch into a smile, showing stained and dirty teeth. ‘If you need any entertainment.’ He gave the guest the same sleazy wink he’d given the black girl just a few minutes ago. ‘Girls, boys . . . you know what I mean. Just give me a shout. I can hook you up.’
The man wasn’t paying attention to the receptionist anymore. He needed nothing else from the fat man.
Seventy-Two
Garcia quickly checked his watch as he parked in front of the old apartment block in Montebello, east LA. He rested his head on his seat’s headrest and looked up at the many flickering Christmas lights hanging from several windows. They certainly added a lively touch to the otherwise nondescript brick building. Anna had decorated their
