Chris Carter - The Executioner

Pasquier let out an animated but strange laugh. ‘You tried to seduce him? Oh Claire. Robert certainly saw you coming a mile away. He doesn’t fall for those tricks.’

‘I could’ve used that information a few days ago,’ she replied, looking around the newsroom. Everyone looked busy staring at computer screens or talking on telephones.

‘I’ll tell you what, let’s go talk someplace else,’ Pasquier said, rolling his chair away from his desk and standing up. He scowled sadly at the large room. ‘This place depresses me. It’s full of university geeks who know shit about journalism.’

‘Hey.’ Claire tried to look offended. ‘I’m a university geek.’

‘Yeah, but you’re hot .’ He winked at her.

The cafeteria was in the mezzanine floor of the building. The food was by any standard crap, typical slop under heat lamps. A wall of vending machines offered just about anything, from apples to slightly bruised bananas, pie slices, yogurts, salads, candy bars and, obviously, triangular sandwiches.

‘Can I buy you anything?’ Pasquier offered, nodding at the machines.

‘I’ll have a coffee.’

Pasquier bought a pastrami and cheese sandwich from one of the machines and ordered two coffees at the counter. The food was so bad the place was almost deserted, and they easily found a vacant beige Formica table. He took a large bite of his sandwich and used a paper napkin to wipe some mayonnaise off his chin.

‘What do you have?’ he asked.

Claire had a sip of her coffee and met Pasquier’s gaze. ‘No one’s talking, but I know that what we’re dealing with is a serial killer, maybe a ritualistic one. Savage in a way we’ve never seen before. This guy is different.’

‘If no one’s talking, how can you know that?’ He dropped four sugars in his coffee.

‘I don’t know.’ She shook her head and looked away. ‘Intuition, maybe. A gut feeling.’

‘I see.’ He had another bite of his sandwich and spoke with his mouth full. ‘You said you think this killer is different – different how?’

‘Just look at the facts, Matt. What sort of killer decapitates a priest inside his own church and shoves a mutt’s head down the corpse’s body? What sort of killer takes almost two days cooking his victim alive in front of a fireplace?’ Claire tucked her hair behind her ears using both hands. Pasquier liked when she did that. He thought it very charming. ‘They are keeping the bodies under strict lock and key. I can’t get a picture, but I heard the killer melted Amanda Reilly’s face.’

Pasquier queried with his eyes.

‘Amanda Reilly was the second victim.’ Her forehead creased. ‘Do you read our paper?’

‘Not lately. No good reporters to read.’

‘Oh, very funny.’

‘You see, the difference between you and most of the other deadbeat reporters on this paper is that you still have that intuition you just talked about. That gut feeling.’ He smiled and Claire pointed out that he had a piece of lettuce stuck to one of his teeth. He used his little finger to scrape it off. ‘And that’s probably because you’re a nice country girl. You didn’t grow up in a metropolis where money talks and bullshit runs the marathon.’ He did his best to forge a country accent. ‘Us folks here in the big cities have forgotten all about intuition, guts and what it is to do somet’ing just ’cos we loves doing it.’

‘Aw damn, mister, intuition and them guts on its own don’t help me none.’ In contrast, Claire’s country accent was perfect.

Pasquier laughed and swallowed the rest of his food down. ‘You won’t get a peep out of Robert Hunter. He’s a city folk with a country man’s heart. The only cop I know who actually likes his job. And he certainly doesn’t like reporters.’

Claire played with her hair again. ‘Well, I’m open to suggestions. There’s no way I’m giving up on this.’

A wicked smile spread across Pasquier’s face. ‘I was hoping you’d say that. OK, here’s what you’ve got to do…’

Downtown LA’s financial district is just south of Bunker Hill and north of South Park – this is where LA’s instantly recognizable skyline resides. The area concentrates around Fifth, Sixth, South Flower and Figueroa Streets and remains the southland’s most influential financial and business center. Tyler Financial Services had their office on the seventeenth floor of number 542 South Flower Street.

Dan Tyler sat in the elegant leather chair behind his mahogany desk. He was a kind-looking man in his forties. His brown hair, graying at the temples, was neatly combed back, and the strong lines that shaped his strangely attractive face indicated strength, experience, self-confidence and a degree of suffering. He wore an elegant dark suit and a pale blue shirt complemented by a gray striped tie. His dark brown eyes sat behind thin-rimmed glasses. His office bore the trappings of his profession – expensive-looking furniture, an impressive bar at the corner, several framed photographs on the walls and three interlinked computer monitors on his desk that were constantly displaying the stock market flow. His secretary announced the arrival of the two detectives, and he stood up to greet them by the door.

Dan Tyler showed them inside, indicating the two armchairs in front of his desk and offering both detectives a drink – they declined.

‘I know this is an awkward situation, Mr. Tyler,’ Hunter began. ‘We’ll try to get through it as fast as we can.’

‘Call me Dan, please,’ Tyler said, taking his seat behind his desk. His voice was serene and pleasant, like a storyteller’s.

Hunter quickly explained that it would still be a few days before the house in Malibu was released by forensics.

Tyler nodded. He knew that putting the house back on the market now wasn’t a clever idea.

‘The house didn’t look like an investment property,’ Hunter said. ‘Did you used to live there?’

‘Yes. For many years.’

Hunter noticed a distinct tone in Tyler’s voice and allowed a few silent seconds to go by before nodding towards a silver-framed photograph on Tyler’s desk. An attractive woman with windswept hair and an infectious smile standing by a swimming pool. A beautiful black dog was asleep by her feet. ‘Was that taken at the house?’ he asked, recognizing the pool.

Tyler looked at the photograph. ‘Yes,’ he said with a mixture of pride and sadness.

Hunter intuited the woman in the picture was the source of the sadness. ‘Is that your wife?’

Tyler looked back at him. ‘Kate. Yes.’ A pause. ‘She passed away.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Hunter said and sensed that Tyler’s emotional wound was still raw. ‘Recently?’

‘Twelve months ago.’ He pressed his lips together. ‘It feels recent to me.’

‘I understand.’

Tyler took a deep breath. ‘A lot of people say that, but surviving the woman you love-’ he gave Hunter a quick head shake ‘-I guess it’s something you have to live through to really understand. We were married twenty years.’ Tyler’s eyes were back on the picture.

‘And the house in Malibu was your home?’ Hunter asked.

‘It was her pride and joy,’ Tyler said, nodding. ‘We built it from scratch. Kate was involved in every aspect of the architectural design. It was her dream house. She chose every piece of furniture, every curtain, every color, every detail. Kate’s in every inch of that house.’ Tyler paused and looked down at his clasped hands. ‘After she was gone, I just couldn’t live there anymore. I tried for a while but…’ His eyes drifted away. ‘Without realizing, I used to find myself talking to the walls, curtains, pictures…’ He smiled. ‘I don’t need the house or anything else to remind me of what Kate and I had.’