At the door Reed’s eyes narrowed and a look of recognition came over his face. ‘Wait a second. Now I remember where I’ve seen you two before. You were in the paper yesterday. The Tarot Cops, right? Something to do with enlisting the help of a young girl who claims to be psychic.’
‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers,’ Garcia shot back.
‘A priest was killed, isn’t that right?’ Reed continued. ‘Decapitated? The papers are calling the killer the Executioner. You said Brett became a Catholic priest. Was he the one who was killed?’ A flicker of satisfaction flashed in his eyes.
Hunter zipped up his jacket and nodded. ‘Yes, Brett Stewart Nichols was savagely murdered.’ He waited for a reaction from Reed but got none. ‘Thanks for your time and help, Mr. Reed.’
‘All the best with your investigation, detective.’ Reed closed the door calmly. A satisfied smile spread across his thin, ascetic face.
Outside, Hunter reached for his phone and called Hopkins again. ‘Ian, listen, there’s one more thing I need you to investigate . . .’
Ninety-Two
Today was an important and proud day for young police officer Shauna Williams. It was her first-ever solo patrol.
Shauna was born in Inglewood, a tough neighborhood in southwestern LA. The youngest of four siblings, she was also the only girl. In school, contrary to all her brothers, she was dedicated and studious. Her grades only occasionally fell under B+. Tall and athletic, Shauna played shooting guard for the basketball team and third base in varsity softball. She was the first and only of all four Williams to ever graduate from high school. Maybe, if things had turned out differently, she would’ve also been the first in her family to have ever gone to university.
Shauna knew her brothers were involved in bad things, she just didn’t know how bad. It’s hard to grow up in an underprivileged neighborhood in a city like Los Angeles and not be affected by the crazy gang culture that rules the streets. Being African-American, for some reason, seemed to make it even harder. She’ll never forget the night she opened the door to a couple of police officers who’d come to give her parents the worst news any parent can ever get. All three of her brothers had been gunned down inside a stolen vehicle in what looked to be a gang retaliation hit. She had just turned nineteen.
Shauna gave up her dream of university and months later, after passing the recruitment tests, she joined the LAPD academy.
The six months of rigorous training that followed didn’t bother her and Shauna graduated top of her class. Her ambition was to make detective or the SWAT team.
Shauna was assigned to the West Bureau Pacific Division and paired up with a more experienced officer, twelve years her senior. She’s been out of the academy for only five months, but she was a quick learner, very intelligent and extremely focused. Lieutenant Cooper thought it was time Shauna did a few rounds by herself, and when her partner called in sick this morning, Cooper saw it as the perfect opportunity.
Shauna received a call from dispatch about a teenage disturbance near Marina Del Rey, just a few blocks away from where she was. The disturbance turned out to be nothing more than a couple of drunken kids making a mess and burning off steam near an abandoned construction site. Shauna was able to tactfully and quickly de- escalate the situation. As she returned to her vehicle, something caught her eye. A black Cadillac Escalade half hidden behind the unfinished building. She remembered an All Points Bulletin that circulated the day before about a black Cadillac car that’d been taken out from a dealer’s in West Hollywood for a test drive and never went back. She checked her in-car computer – the plates matched.
Shauna called dispatch requesting more information and was told that the salesman, an African-American citizen named Darnell Douglas, had taken the car out for a quick test drive with a potential buyer. They had no information on who the customer was. No dangerous warnings had been issued. Shauna told dispatch that she was going to investigate.
The car’s bodywork was intact – no bumps, no scratches. It didn’t look to have been involved in any sort of accident. The doors were all locked. Shauna used her flashlight to illuminate the car’s interior through the tinted windows – nothing suspect. The car was parked on a cemented area. No footprints showed around the vehicle.
Calling dispatch again, Shauna told them she was going into the building to make sure neither Darnell nor the unidentified customer were inside and in need of assistance. She’d call them back if she found anything.
The first room was large and full of construction debris. The air inside was heavy with the pungent fragrance of urine.
‘Hello?’ she called in a loud and firm voice. ‘Anyone in here?’
No sound. Thick, once-clear plastic sheets had been used as a cheap substitute for doors. Shauna used her flashlight to push the ugly drapes aside and moved into the next room.
‘Darnell, are you in here? LAPD. Anyone in need of assistance?’
Nothing.
Shauna cautiously moved deeper into the abandoned building. The further she went, the darker it got, the staler the air became – another empty room, and then another, and then another. Everything was quiet, but instinct told her something was wrong. She was about to go back when a gust of wind shifted a dirty plastic sheet door at the entrance to a room on the south wall. She caught a glimpse of something and her skin crawled.
Cop training took over, and Shauna reached for her gun before nervously moving towards the door in baby steps.
‘Hello, Darnell?’
No reply.
‘LAPD. Anyone in there?’
Silence.
Using her flashlight, she lifted the plastic sheet and stepped inside.
Shauna vomited five seconds later.
Ninety-Three
Debbie Howard, Amanda Reilly’s old school friend and the possible second victim of the Executioner Killer, was an only child. She was brought up by her mother after her father left when she was eight years old. Her mother never remarried and now lives in an old people’s home dedicated to dementia sufferers.
Just like Amanda Reilly, Debbie grew up in Gardena. She finished high school in 1986 and moved to Seattle shortly afterwards to study at Washington State University – School of Law. She graduated with honors and immediately landed a job with Foster Harvey, one of the largest law firms in the Pacific Northwest. Five years after joining the firm she married William Clark, an attorney and associate of Foster Harvey. Their marriage lasted only three and a half years. After her quick divorce, Debbie decided to leave the company and Seattle behind and head back to Los Angeles. Her record as a lawyer spoke for itself, and after passing the California bar exam she was offered a job with the Los Angeles District Attorney’s office – Antelope Valley branch.
Debbie was intelligent, ambitious, pushy and a fierce opponent in a court of law. Since moving back to California, she tried and convicted over five hundred criminals, their offences ranging from misdemeanors to felonies and capital crimes. Two years ago she met, fell in love and married Jonathan Hale, a very successful architect. She was found dead in their home in the city of Lancaster two weeks ago. There was no mention of a number drawn onto her body.
By the time Hunter and Garcia got back to their office, Hopkins had already gathered all the information into a neatly typed two-page report.
‘How did she die?’ Hunter asked, checking the report.
‘According to the detective I spoke to from the LA County Sheriff’s Department, she was found dead inside
