Chris Carter - The Executioner

‘Why don’t you wait here?’ Hunter suggested, pulling a pair of latex gloves over his hands. ‘I’ll check the fireplace.’

‘That sounds like a plan,’ Garcia replied, exhaling a long breath.

Pulling the collar of his shirt up like a mask to cover his nose and mouth, Hunter approached the room’s south wall and the fireplace. Fingerprint powder was everywhere. The armchair Amanda Reilly had been tied to had been taken away for further forensic examination. The once-beautiful living room now felt like a torture chamber, and it made the hairs on the back of Hunter’s neck prickle. He took a deep breath and moved the focus of his flashlight onto the large fireplace. It was decorated with several figurines, four color-coordinated vases and two candleholders, but Hunter’s attention was on the two silver-plated picture frames. One at each end of the mantelpiece. The frames themselves looked pretty common, probably standard issue in any department store. Hunter first checked the one at the far right. There was a gap between the frame and the wall of about eight inches, enough for him to check the back without having to pick it up – nothing out of the ordinary. He checked the second frame, and again found nothing. Finally, he picked them both up.

The photographs weren’t of Dan Tyler or his wife. The first one he examined showed a woman with a pretty smile sitting comfortably on a black leather sofa. A glass of red wine in her right hand. She was attractive in a high-maintenance way; short blond hair, way too much makeup and enigmatic baby-blue eyes. There was something arrogant about her. The second photograph was of a man leaning casually against a white wall. Slender, with neatly trimmed fair hair and unexpressive hazel eyes, he was dressed in a light green T-shirt and faded blue jeans. At first look, there was nothing extraordinary about any of those two characters. But who were they?

‘Everything OK in there?’ Garcia called from the door, startling Hunter.

‘Yeah, yeah. Gimme a minute.’

Turning one of the frames over, Hunter slowly lifted the four security clips that held its back in place. All of a sudden he felt cold. As if someone had opened a window in the room, allowing a chilling draft in. He looked up, his eyes and flashlight searching the room – nothing but the putrid smell of death.

‘Carlos, are you still out there,’ he called firmly.

‘Yeah, what’s up?’ He coughed a couple of times before poking his head through the door.

‘Nothing. Just keep an eye out.’

Something in Hunter’s voice worried Garcia and his hand instinctively moved towards his gun. He pointed his flashlight down the eerie corridor and listened attentively for a long moment – nothing.

Hunter returned his attention to the picture frame. Carefully, he pulled the back cover of the first one apart. As it came unattached, his eyes rested on the underside of the photograph.

‘Oh fuck!’

Hunter closed his eyes for a moment as adrenalin rushed through him.

He put the first frame down and quickly reached for the second one and repeated the process of lifting the security clips. Even though he was certain of what he’d find, Hunter held his breath as he slowly pulled the back cover apart.

‘Sonofabitch.’

‘Everything alright in there, Robert?’ Garcia called, concerned. ‘Have you found the pictures?’

Hunter slowly searched the dark room again. A luxurious room, now forever tainted with evil. The sickening smell was starting to burn at his nostrils and cause havoc in his stomach. He needed to get out of there.

‘Did you find anything?’ Garcia asked as Hunter stepped out of the room.

‘Yeah, I’ll show you outside,’ Hunter replied, pulling his shirt from over his nose and mouth. ‘I need to get some fresh air.’

‘Amen to that.’

Outside, Hunter faced Garcia. ‘I found these.’ He handed his partner both photographs. ‘Those are the photos that were in the picture frames Dan Tyler said shouldn’t be here.’

Garcia studied them carefully for a moment. ‘Who are they?’ He shook his head.

Hunter took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘Take a look at the back.’

Garcia turned them over and his pulse surged under the skin of his neck. ‘You’re shitting me.’

‘Apparently not.’

Garcia stared at the photos again. Their faces now taking on a whole new meaning.

It was late by the time they left Malibu. Hunter checked in with Hopkins and told him to meet them at Footsie’s in North Figueroa Street.

Take all the snobbish fakery out of most Los Angeles bars and you might be left with Footsie’s. Just a small, cozy drinking joint with a few pool tables, a comfortable lounge with half-circle red leather booths, a jukebox playing classic rock and a friendly and relaxed atmosphere. Footsie’s was one of Hunter’s favorite drinking spots.

Hopkins was already there, nursing a single shot of Jack Daniel’s when Hunter and Garcia arrived. ‘What can I get you guys?’ he offered.

‘It’s OK.’ Hunter gave him a subtle nod. ‘I’ll get these, Ian.’

‘I’ll have whatever you’re having, as long as it’s single malt,’ Garcia said. ‘I’ll be right back.’ He pointed to the men’s restroom door.

A booth emptied at the back of the bar and Hunter told Hopkins to grab it before someone else did.

He ordered two single shots of Laphroaig with a cube of ice each. The person standing next to him at the bar was reading through a copy of the LA Daily News , and as he flipped a page something caught Hunter’s attention. The headline on the small article read SLASHER CLAIMS SECOND VICTIM. Hunter craned his neck awkwardly and skimmed through the article before the man flipped the page again. A second prostitute had been found dead inside a squalid room in South Gate. Her hands had been tied together in front of her, her fingers interlaced in a prayer position. Just as the first victim a few days ago, she was found naked, on her knees with her throat cut open. The press had already nicknamed the killer the Slasher. ‘ This city’s out of control ,’ Hunter thought as he took his drinks and joined Garcia and Hopkins at their booth.

‘Are you guys OK?’ Hopkins asked with concern, noticing a heavy air about both detectives.

Hunter had a sip of his Laphroaig and swirled it around in his mouth until its strong alcohol started to burn the edges of his tongue. He placed four evidence bags on the table. The first two containing the disassembled picture frames, the other two the photographs. Hopkins’s brow lifted and Hunter explained about their meeting with Dan Tyler and why they went back to check the misplaced pictures.

‘So who are these two?’ he asked skeptically.

Garcia reached for the evidence bags with the photographs and turned them over. Hopkins’s eyes widened and he let out an excited gasp. On the back of the man’s photograph, written in blood and about six inches long, was the number one. On the back of the smiling woman’s, the number two.

Hopkins kept his eyes on the photographs for a while, his jaw half open. ‘I don’t get it.’ He locked eyes with Hunter. ‘Why would the killer do this? I mean, why would he leave the pictures of the first two victims on the fireplace? Obviously, he knew that sooner or later we’d find them.’

Hunter sat back and ran his fingertips over his whiskey tumbler rim. ‘He wants to make sure we know these two victims are his. He doesn’t want their murders attributed to someone else. He’s a proud killer.’

Hopkins twisted uncomfortably in his seat. The world of the evilly sick was going way over his head.

‘So where are these two victims?’ he asked after a moment’s silence. ‘And if they’d been numbered like Father Fabian and Amanda Reilly, why don’t we know about them?’