Chris Carter - I Am Death

‘That’s not what the note says, Captain,’ Hunter came back.

Captain Blake glared at him. ‘Is it not?’

‘No. The note says that before the sun rises tomorrow, which is today, someone else will see it and feel it too. He’s talking about the monster that he has become. He’s telling us that before the sun came up today, someone else would have suffered and died by his hands. The note says nothing about the victim being delivered to us. If he decides to do the same thing he did with Nicole Wilson and call it in via the switchboard, that call could come in this afternoon, tomorrow, next week, or any time after that. We’re dancing to his tune here, Captain, and he can change the beat any time he likes.’

Mulling those words, Captain Blake reached for her cup of coffee and had a sip.

‘And no,’ Hunter added, ‘I don’t believe that he sent the mayor that note with the intention of fucking with us. The Polaroid and the victim’s mutilated body are proof that he’s more than serious.’

Captain Blake was about to say something else when the phone on her desk rang.

‘Give me a sec,’ she said as she took the call.

No words were needed. The look in her eyes as she stared back at her detectives told them all they needed to know.

The killer wasn’t bluffing.

The house was in a pleasant-looking cul de sac down a small private road in Venice, just a couple of blocks away from Venice Beach. It was painted white, with blue-framed windows, a hipped roof, and a small front yard that seemed to be in urgent need of some attention. A knee-high, white wooden fence surrounded the property, which was set back from the road, isolating it even more from its neighbors. But the fence was there simply for decoration, not security. It wouldn’t stop anyone from getting to the house, or moving around toward its backyard. Access to every door and window was kid’s play.

There was a single garage to the right of the house, but the only cars on the driveway were a police vehicle and a forensics van. Despite the house being tucked away at the end of a private and very quiet road, the crowd of curious onlookers that had gathered outside the police perimeter was already substantial and seemed to be growing fast.

Garcia pulled up by one of the three black and white units that were parked on the street, just outside the house. The press was also there, crowding up the area even more.

A couple of reporters recognized the UV Unit detectives as they stepped out of Garcia’s car and immediately started shouting questions from across the road.

They fell on deaf ears. Without even turning to acknowledge them, Hunter and Garcia simply flashed their credentials at the two policemen guarding the perimeter’s edge and stooped under the yellow crime-scene tape.

A third police officer who was standing to the left of the house’s front porch saw the two new arrivals and began making his way toward them.

‘You guys from the UV Unit?’ he asked as he got closer.

The officer was in his early forties, with natural suntanned skin, a cleft chin and a thick, black horseshoe mustache, which he clearly dedicated a lot of upkeep time to. His eyes were as dark as night, but the look in them was hesitant, scared even.

‘Yes, that’s us,’ Garcia replied, indicating the badge clipped to his belt. Hunter did the same.

‘I’m Sergeant Perez, with West Bureau,’ he said, extending his hand.

Both detectives shook it and introduced themselves.

‘West Bureau took the nine-one-one call earlier today,’ the sergeant informed them. ‘I was first response. First through the door.’

They began moving toward the house.

‘OK, so what do we have in there?’ Garcia asked.

Sergeant Perez stopped walking and allowed his worried expression to shift from Garcia to Hunter.

‘I’m not actually sure I know how or what to call it.’ His tone of voice was cautious. His gaze settled on the house before him and he gave both detectives a subtle, disbelieving headshake. ‘I’ve been an officer for over twenty years, all of them with the LAPD. God knows I’ve attended crime scenes words wouldn’t be able to describe, and nothing can erase them from my memory. But in there —’ he nodded his head again in the direction of the house — ‘nothing I’ve ever seen comes close. Inhumane is the only word I can think of. Way beyond sadistic.’

That explains the heavy press presence, Hunter thought. Word of the sort of violence used by the perpetrator had obviously been leaked to the media, which wasn’t surprising. Not only did they scan police radio frequencies 24/7, but they also paid informers inside the force for that sort of intelligence, and they paid well.

They reached the front porch, where a couple of forensic agents were hard at work. The first was checking the wooden floorboards for footprints or any sort of residues that could’ve been left behind. The second one was dusting the door handle and frame. A couple of bloody handprints were clearly noticeable against the door’s light-blue color.

‘Anonymous nine-one-one call?’ Hunter asked.

To their surprise, Sergeant Perez shook his head.

‘Nope. The victim’s housemate found the body,’ he said, tilting his head toward the black and white unit parked in the driveway. The unit’s passenger door was open. Sitting on the passenger seat with his feet on the ground, his elbows resting on his knees and his face buried in the palms of his hands was a tall, thin man who looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties. His short, dark-brown hair was completely disheveled, and he was wearing what was undoubtedly an air steward’s uniform. Part of his white shirt and the front of his dark-blue jacket seemed to be covered in blood.

‘His name is Thomas Hobbs,’ Sergeant Perez continued, reading from the notepad he’d retrieved from his police belt. ‘Twenty-three years of age. Born and raised here in Los Angeles, Pomona Valley. He shares this house with one other person, Sharon Barnard, who, according to Mr. Hobbs, and he had to base this conclusion purely on the jewelry she wore, appears to be the victim. They both work for US Airways.’

‘Wait a second,’ Garcia interrupted. ‘Appears to be the victim?’

Garcia was six-foot two. Perez was five-foot six. The sergeant had to look up to meet the detective’s stare.

‘I guess you’ll understand when you walk in there.’

Garcia shot a worried glance at Hunter.

‘Mr. Hobbs had been away for a day and a half,’ Sergeant Perez explained. ‘This morning he was head steward on a flight from San Francisco back to LA. He wasn’t feeling too well, so after he landed he decided to leave his car at LAX and take a cab home. He found the victim as soon as he opened his front door.’

The sergeant shifted his weight from foot to foot.

‘Unsurprisingly, the sight was way too much for him and he collapsed. That was before he made the nine-one-one call.’ Perez flipped a page on the notepad. ‘As he passed out, he fell forward and into his living room. That explains the blood on his clothes. He’s still in shock so getting any coherent information out of him at the moment is a monstrous task, but you’re welcome to try it if you like. It took me half an hour to get these few details.’ He wiggled the notepad he was holding.

‘Any information on the “possible” victim?’ Hunter asked.

‘Very little,’ Perez replied, consulting his notepad again. ‘Name is Sharon Barnard. Twenty-two years old. Also born and raised here in LA. We did a quick check with US Airways. She finished her last shift — a return flight to Kansas City — yesterday afternoon. She landed at LAX at seventeen twenty-five. We have no indication that she went anywhere else once she left the airport, so we’re assuming that she came straight home. With rush-hour traffic and without stopping anywhere for groceries or anything, she would probably have got home some time between eighteen thirty hours and nineteen hundred hours.’