priest.’
‘When did he apply for seminary?’ Hunter asked.
‘A year and a half after graduating. For someone who was such a bad boy, something certainly changed his mind.’
‘Did he go to seminary here in LA?’
Hopkins checked his sheet. ‘Nope, he went to St John’s Seminary College in Camarillo. I called them, but without a warrant they won’t disclose a thing.’
‘I don’t think we’ll need his seminary records. What was his high school attendance like?’ Hunter queried.
‘Funny you asked.’ Hopkins chuckled. ‘Abysmal, really. He certainly liked skipping classes.’
‘Let me see that sheet,’ Hunter said, extending his hand. ‘How about Amanda Reilly?’
‘She didn’t go to the same school; she didn’t live in Compton. She went to Gardena Senior High.’
‘That school is massive,’ Garcia commented.
‘She lived in Gardena?’ Hunter asked, lifting his eyes from the sheet in his hands.
Hopkins nodded. ‘That’s right, until she dropped out of school and got involved with real estate.’
‘Hold on.’ Hunter lifted his hand. ‘Gardena isn’t very far from Compton. What was Amanda’s attendance like when she was in school?’
‘Not great either. Just like Brett, she skipped a lot of classes.’
‘How old was she when she dropped out?’
‘Because she flunked tenth grade twice . . . eighteen.’
‘Around the same age as Father Fabian,’ Hunter announced. ‘Where did she live?’ Hunter walked over to the large LA neighborhood map on the east wall.
Hopkins checked his sheet. ‘South Ainsworth Street in Gardena.’
Hunter found the street and placed a red pin on the map before checking the sheet with Father Fabian’s information. He used a blue pin to mark the street where the priest lived when young. They all paused and stared at the map.
‘Shit,’ Garcia noted, ‘they were only six blocks away from each other.’
Seventy-Six
Garcia and Hopkins moved closer to study the map.
‘Same-age kids like to hang out together. They could’ve been part of the same street group,’ Hopkins suggested.
‘Not many LA neighborhoods mix well,’ Garcia countered, ‘and Compton is certainly one of those that don’t. Especially with Gardena.’
Hunter responded with a head tilt. ‘Yeah, but we’re talking twenty-five years ago. Things weren’t so bad then. We didn’t have as big a gang problem as we have today. Neighborhoods mixed a lot better in those days.’
‘That’s true,’ Hopkins admitted.
Hunter kept his eyes on the map for a while longer before checking his watch. ‘This is the best we’ve got, so let’s drop by their old schools and see what else we can find out, ask around a little, check their archives,’ he said, gesturing for Hopkins to hand him the sheet with Amanda’s information.
‘Would you like me to call the schools?’ Hopkins asked.
‘They’ll just bounce you around from person to person. Plus, I’m sure they’ll have some photographs that we’ll need to look at.’ Hunter turned and faced Garcia. ‘I’ll take the priest’s old school in Compton; you check Amanda’s one in Gardena.’
Garcia nodded.
‘I’m still running the two photographs you got from the house in Malibu against the MUPU and the Homicide databases.’ Hopkins turned to his computer and clicked his mouse a few times. Both photographs filled his screen. ‘No matches as of yet with any.’
‘Keep trying,’ Hunter said confidently and noticed a doubtful look about Hopkins. ‘Something wrong?’
‘I’ve been thinking about this. What if these two were killed a while ago? Maybe even years?’ Hopkins offered cautiously, his eyes on the photographs. ‘That’d explain why we haven’t found them yet and why there’s been no link. Maybe the killer started killing sometime ago and had to stop for some reason. Now he’s back.’ He checked his watch absent-mindedly.
‘Sonofabitch,’ Hunter said. His wide-opened eyes moved from Hopkins to the computer screen a couple of times.
‘What did I do?’ Hopkins asked nervously.
‘Those two weren’t killed a long time ago,’ Hunter said firmly. ‘They were killed within the last five months.’
Garcia frowned, struggling to keep up with his partner. ‘And how do you know that?’
‘His watch,’ Hunter said, tapping the screen.
Garcia and Hopkins leaned forward and squinted as they tried to make out the partially obscured timekeeper on the man’s left wrist. Garcia gave up after a few seconds.
‘You can’t really see the entire watch,’ he said, returning to an upright position. ‘Half of it is cut off by the edge of the picture.’
‘Sonofabitch.’ Hopkins this time. ‘It’s an LA Lakers commemorative NBA final champion’s watch. It was only released in July, after the NBA finals in June.’
‘How the hell do you know that?’ Garcia asked.
‘Because he’s got the same watch,’ Hunter said, and all eyes focused on Hopkins’s wrist. ‘Contact the morgues. Get a personal possessions’ inventory for every male body they’ve received in the past eight weeks. We find the watch, we find victim number one.’
Seventy-Seven
Earlier the same morning
Despite feeling tired, he had almost no sleep during the night. The loud and constant noises that came from the adjacent room jolted him awake every time he dozed off. He should be used to them by now. Strangled male voices roaring like wounded animals accompanied by squeaky female ones screaming, ‘Harder, baby, harder.’ Those sounds invaded his room every night. At times he’d be forgiven for thinking he’d woken up during a typical Californian earthquake. The thunderous banging against his walls shook the entire room. For some reason last night’s screams sounded louder, the banging more urgent, almost violent. And it didn’t stop until way past five in the morning.
He left the seedy hotel early, as he did every day. His first stop was always the small Catholic church just a couple of blocks from where he was staying. He found it insulting that such a dirty and sleazy hotel used by prostitutes and drug pushers could be so close to a place of worship. Once he’d found what he was looking for, he’d never set foot in this city again. This was no city of angels; this was the city of sins. The city of devils.
By nine in the morning the temperature was no higher than fifty-three. Most of the people on the streets were wearing coats with their collars high around their necks. An unshaven man in a stained T-shirt and ripped jacket was sitting by the entrance to a disused shop trying to hide from the wind. He scratched his expanding stomach and drank from a bottle in a brown paper bag. Their eyes met and the tramp extended his hand, hoping for some charity. The man felt a surge of anger crawl up his spine, and he wrapped his fingers tightly around the oddly shaped metal crucifix in his pocket, fighting the urge to punch and kick the beggar until he bled. They must’ve stared at each other for half a minute. The man felt the skin on the palm of his hand rupture as the edges of the crucifix dug into his flesh. His hand became sticky with blood.
