Chris Carter - The Executioner

‘I’ve never seen her in here before,’ he replied, running a hand over his goatee.

‘She looks like a maneater to me,’ Hunter said without breaking eye contact with the brunette.

The barman grabbed a glass and started polishing it. ‘She could eat me any time.’

Hunter gave the barman a friendly wink. ‘OK, here goes nothing.’ He made his way towards the brunette’s table.

‘Thanks for the drink. It’s very kind of you,’ Hunter said, taking the seat directly in front of her.

She gave him a dentist’s magazine smile. ‘It’s no problem. It’s good to find a man who appreciates a real drink.’

Hunter noticed she was drinking the same as he was.

‘You’re a Scotch drinker?’

‘I like my drink strong.’

She had a sip of her single malt under Hunter’s watchful eye.

‘I’m Robert,’ he said, extending his hand.

‘I’m Claire, Claire Anderson.’

They shook hands, and Hunter noticed how smooth her skin felt.

‘Do you come here often?’ she asked.

‘Not really. I needed a drink tonight, and I didn’t feel like going to a hip or noisy place. They serve good single malt in here, and the atmosphere is… sedated. How about you?’

‘I come in here every once in a while. My apartment’s just a block from here.’

‘Great location, but this isn’t really a reporter’s drinking joint, is it?’ he said casually.

Her smile didn’t disappear. It simply morphed into a more believable one. ‘I guess you’ve recognized me, then?’

‘Your hair is different. Curlier. But I remember you from the Seven Saints church. You asked me if I was attributing the murder to a serial killer even before I had a look at the crime scene.’

Claire arched her eyebrows, accepting it. ‘So, now that you’ve seen the crime scene, do you think it could be the work of a serial killer?’

‘You started so well,’ Hunter said, shaking his head disappointedly. ‘Buying me a drink and all. Wasn’t there supposed to be a little bit of sweet-talking, maybe even flirting, before the questions start?’

‘We can do that if you like.’

‘I think that would be better.’

‘So what would you like to sweet-talk about, Detective Hunter?’

‘You can call me Robert. It’s OK.’

‘So what would you like to sweet-talk about, Robert?’

‘Let’s start with this.’ He leaned forward, reached for her glass and poured its contents into his own. ‘What do you really drink?’

She regarded him for a second. ‘How do you know Scotch isn’t my drink?’ A tone of defiance in her voice.

Hunter cocked his eyebrows.

She held his gaze for a second before her lips broke into a new smile. ‘OK, you got me. Gin and tonic.’

A moment later Hunter came back to the table with a tall, icy glass of G &T.

‘Thanks,’ she said before sipping her drink. ‘Let’s try this again, shall we?’ She offered her hand. ‘I’m Claire.’

‘Oh, so you did give me your real name?’

She nodded.

Hunter made no effort to shake her hand this time. ‘So which paper are you with?’

Claire put her hand down without looking offended. ‘The LA Times .’ She thought about it for a second. ‘Actually, I’m on a trial period.’

‘Oh, I see. And you’re thinking that maybe a serial killer story would provide the key you need to cruise through your trial period with flying colors.’

‘It wouldn’t hinder my chances, let’s put it that way.’

Hunter had another sip of his drink. ‘Unfortunately, I don’t think I can help you.’

‘C’mon, Robert. I just need a little lead. Something that the other reporters don’t have. And that won’t be difficult since no one has anything.’

‘That’s because there’s nothing to have.’

‘Are you joking? Someone decapitated a priest and shoved a dog’s head down his neck. The killer practically painted the church with blood. That’s the behavior of a deranged psychopath, not a one-off killer, and you know it. The whole thing was well planned. I think he’s gonna do it again or he’s done it before. What do you think?’

Hunter smiled. ‘That’s clever. Trying to induce me into a comment by disguising the question as your own opinion. Did you learn that in journalism class?’

Claire ran her left hand through her hair. ‘Two semesters of psychology at Idaho State University.’

‘You’re from the potato state?’

‘There’s more to Idaho than just potatoes,’ she replied, unamused.

‘I’m sure there is.’

‘I’ve also read your book.’

Hunter looked up, allowing the silence to stretch. ‘I’ve never written a book,’ he shot back, shaking his head.

‘OK, your PhD thesis on criminal behavior and conduct. It was made into a book and it’s still mandatory reading at the FBI’s NCAVC.’ Claire noticed Hunter’s questioning look. ‘I dated an FBI trainee,’ she explained indifferently. ‘Your thesis makes for very intense reading, but it’s extremely good. No wonder every FBI profiler has to study it. I’m surprised they don’t have you as a lecturer.’

She’s switching tactics , Hunter thought. She’s gone for the flattering approach now .

‘I did a quick check-up on you as well,’ she continued. ‘A prodigy, a whiz kid. You attended Mirman School for the Gifted, sped through university and got your PhD when you were twenty-three – impressive. How does someone like you end up as a detective instead of a millionaire?’

Guns and Roses started playing on the jukebox.

‘My life story won’t make a bestseller.’

‘I’m not looking to write one,’ she replied casually. ‘But about your book, I’m intrigued. I was particularly fascinated by the part about ritualistic murderers. I really do believe your theories are right on the money, but there’s something that bothers me.’

‘And what would that be?’

‘Unless you’ve drastically changed your mind, or you’re willing to contradict your own thesis, I know you don’t believe the church murder was a one-off. Am I right?’

‘See, there you go again,’ Hunter replied. ‘Pushing your thoughts onto me and expecting me to agree or disagree with them.’

‘C’mon, Robert. Let me work this story with you. I’ll do a great job. I can make you famous.’

Hunter chuckled, crossed his legs and let his arms slump down onto his knees. ‘Famous?’

‘You’re a great detective. I know it because I researched you. Your track record when it comes to catching criminals, especially tough ones, is outstanding, but no one except a handful of people knows that. You deserve recognition. Los Angeles is in desperate need of a hero.’

Hunter had a slow sip of his Scotch. Claire Anderson was certainly very good at the flattering game; he had to give her that. ‘I’m happy the way I am,’ he replied. ‘I don’t wanna be a hero. And I don’t need to be famous.’

‘You’re happy? I don’t buy that.’

Hunter crossed his arms. ‘I like my life the way it is. I like being-’

‘A loner?’

Hunter kept silent.

‘OK.’ Claire leaned forward and placed both elbows on the table. ‘Off the record, answer me this, not as a cop but as a criminal psychologist just to quench my curiosity.’

Hunter arched his left eyebrow with interest. ‘Off the record?’

‘Yes. I promise.’

‘Shoot.’

‘Let’s suppose you weren’t investigating this case, but simply studying it. If you had to create a profile of the killer judged solely on what you saw inside the Seven Saints church. Wouldn’t that profile indicate an UNSUB that’ll probably offend again, or has already offended in the past, or both?’