Chris Carter - The Executioner

‘Oh yes.’ A quick nod. ‘Quite a few, actually. And with the internet and the hundreds of clandestine drug sites, very easy to obtain.’

‘Still-’ Captain Blake cut in, shaking her head ‘-why intu-bate him?’

‘Because whatever the killer used probably also paralyzed his diaphragm,’ Hunter deducted. ‘He would’ve suffocated because he wouldn’t have been able to breathe. The killer needed him alive.’

‘That’s exactly what I was thinking,’ Doctor Winston concurred. ‘The tube fed him oxygen and kept him alive while the killer inflicted as much pain as anybody could possibly take.’

Captain Blake’s cell phone rang and they all tensed. She moved to a corner of the room, and her conversation didn’t last longer than a few seconds.

‘You’re in,’ she said to Hunter as she rejoined the group. ‘Clayton pulled a few strings and got you a prisoner’s interview with Peter Elder in CCI first thing tomorrow morning, seven o’clock.’ Her gaze returned to Darnell Douglas’s body. ‘We’ve gotta find the motherfucker who did this, and fast.’

After spending most of the night at the new crime scene with Doctor Winston, Hunter left for the California Correctional Institution State Prison in Tehachapi at 4:30 a.m. Garcia, on the other hand, had headed back to Parker Center at around 10:00 p.m. Hunter had asked him to come up with everything he could on Darnell Douglas, their new victim.

The information Garcia had gathered was patchy, but good enough to supply Hunter with what he was looking for.

Darnell hadn’t gone to Compton or Gardena High, but as a teenager he’d lived just two streets away from Brett Stewart Nichols. That information flooded Hunter with excitement. His street gang theory was starting to come together.

Hunter had watched as Doctor Winston and two other crime-lab agents went through the laborious and painstaking process of extracting the two hundred and fifty blood-filled syringes from Darnell’s body. Even though he wasn’t expecting any results, Hunter knew that each syringe had to be tested for fingerprints. The doctor told him that he’d have the autopsy results by the time Hunter was done with his interview in CCI.

The evening had started slowly and, as it progressed, all hope of it picking up was evaporating fast. Honey had been walking her beat in West Hollywood for the best part of three hours. So far, she’d managed to make only twenty-five measly bucks by blowing a hairy, curry-stinking driver on the backseat of his cab. Customers were getting harder to find. Street prostitution was risky and it paid badly, but for some older girls, or the ones who were too hooked on something to join one of the many escort services, massage parlors or named pimps scattered all over Los Angeles, there was no other alternative.

At twenty-one, Honey couldn’t really be considered too old, but seven years of heavy heroin abuse had destroyed her once-beautiful features. She was too skinny, with sunken eyes, pitted skin, cracked lips and a distant, dozy gaze.

Honey was born Aisha Kemp in South Pasadena. Her beautiful golden-brown skin earned her the nickname ‘Honey’ even before she was able to walk. But if it’s true that children learn by copying what they see, her fate had been sealed very early in her life.

Her father was an alcoholic who’d smoke crack cocaine in their living room while rocking baby Honey to sleep. Her absent mother was a street hooker who’d do anything for her next fix. The rows in their house were violent and constant and no one cared when hungry Honey cried. Honey experienced her first hangover before her tenth birthday, and got high for the first time just after it. At thirteen she lost her virginity to a group of street kids, and by the age of fourteen needles had become her new best friends.

Just like her mother, Honey quickly found out that her habit was an expensive one. When she told him she had no money, her street dealer offered her a hit in exchange for her spreading her legs for him and his friends. She simply smiled and nodded.

Suddenly, at the age of fifteen, Honey was propelled into a whole different world. A world where people were prepared to pay for the pleasures she could give them. She was a fast learner, and one of the first things she learned was that the fewer limits she had, the more customers and money she could get. Honey soon gained a reputation for being game for just about anything – pain, filth, submission, domination, abuse, humiliation, nothing was ever too bizarre. But that lifestyle, together with her excessive drinking and daily hits, took its toll on her body in just six years.

By the age of twenty, her skin had lost its smoothness and glow; her weight had plummeted into an almost anorexic state and her hair was so thin she couldn’t go anywhere without a wig. Even with all the makeup she applied, no one would really consider her an attractive woman. The big payers didn’t search the streets for company. They called agencies and sex dealers from the comfort of their hotel rooms or the back of their limousines. At twenty-one, Honey was left with only the drunk, dirty and stingy street sex seekers.

The drizzling rain only made matters worse, and Honey was already accepting that twenty-five dollars was all she’d be taking home today. Not enough for her daily fix, but she was hoping maybe Cliff would be willing to work something out. She knew exactly what he liked.

She had just re-applied her red lipstick and kissed the excess onto a paper tissue when she noticed a man in his forties checking her out from across the street. She smiled but got no reply. The man looked away timidly. Money bells started ringing in Honey’s ears as she recognized the man for what he was – an out-of-town tourist. She waited for him to make eye contact with her again, which he did in five seconds flat. Honey was an expert at the flirting game, and within a minute she’d gotten the inviting smile she was looking for. She took off her coat, perked up her perfectly round breasts and checked her cleavage before crossing the road.

‘Hello,’ she said in her lilting twang as she approached the tourist. ‘I’m Honey.’ She offered her hand.

‘Hello, Honey.’

‘Wow, you have fantastically strong hands,’ she said in an overly seductive voice. ‘I bet you’re all muscular under those clothes, aren’t you?’

He tilted his head sideways gently, too shy to agree.

‘I’d love it if you showed it to me.’ A sexy wink. ‘Maybe I can show you what I have under my clothes too.’ She gave him a little twirl. ‘Would you like that?’

‘I think so.’ He smiled, crinkles appearing in the corners of his eyes. ‘I’ve only got a hundred dollars.’ He looked embarrassed.

Ye s . She reached for his hand. ‘A hundred dollars can buy you a lotta pleasure with Honey, babe.’

The room was illuminated only by a tacky, pink-neon Playboy bunny lamp, and everything about it was cheap. The flowery wallpaper, the dark chocolate carpet, the tasteless prints on the walls, the dirty drapes that hung from the windows and the bed that looked like it’d cave in if one more couple had sex on it.

‘I’m just gonna go into the bathroom and get cleaned up, babe,’ Honey said, running a hand softly over the tourist’s cheek. ‘When I come out, I hope you won’t be wearing these many clothes. I know I won’t be.’

Honey counted her money again. She knew better than to get paid at the end of it all. She made that mistake once, and all she got for her troubles was a black eye and a bloody lip.

She fixed her wig, checked her makeup and got rid of her clothes. Her underwear wasn’t new. She couldn’t even remember the last time she bought new underwear, but it was clean and she knew she wouldn’t have it on for much longer. ‘Let’s go to work, girl,’ she said to her reflection, pouting her lips.