Chris Carter - The Caller

‘You don’t need to be.’

The waitress came back with their drinks and, for the next fifteen minutes, they talked and laughed about different subjects, none of them related to their jobs. They were just about to order a second round when Hunter’s phone rang.

Tracy looked at him dumbfounded, failing to stop the disbelieving smile that came to her lips. She could barely believe that it was happening again.

Hunter took the call and listened for a moment.

‘I’m on my way,’ he said as he locked eyes with Tracy. The look in them explained more than words could ever do.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, getting up.

Tracy stood up with him, took a step closer and kissed his lips.

‘Call me, OK?’

Garcia had just arrived at the address he’d been given when he saw Hunter’s car appear at the top of the road. He waited for his partner to park before meeting him by the police perimeter.

‘Is this guy trying to break a record, or what?’ he said, lifting the yellow crime-scene tape for Hunter to stoop under it. ‘Three victims in five days?’

Garcia’s anger didn’t reflect off the killer’s actions. It reflected off their failure to advance their investigation. Hunter knew this because he felt the same anger inside him. While they barely had anything worth pursuing, the ‘video-call’ killer was claiming victims at the speed of light.

Suddenly, Garcia paused and frowned at Hunter.

‘What?’ Hunter asked.

‘Is that red lipstick on your lips?’

‘What?’ He wiped his lips with the back of his right hand. It came back red.

‘It is lipstick.’ Garcia gave his partner a cheeky smile. ‘Were you on a date?’ The surprise in Garcia’s voice was real. ‘You never told me you were going on a date.’

‘It wasn’t exactly a date.’ Hunter used a paper tissue to wipe his lips clean and quickly moved the subject away from him and Tracy. ‘So, what info do we have on the new victim?’

‘Her name was Gwen Barnes,’ Garcia said, reading from his cellphone. ‘ Dr. Gwen Barnes — thirty-eight years old. Born and raised right here in Los Angeles — Hawthorne.’

‘Married?’

‘Divorced. No kids. Ex-husband, Kevin Malloy, lives in Pomona. We don’t have much on him yet.’

‘How long were they married for?’ Hunter asked.

‘Umm...’ Garcia thumb-scrolled the information on his cellphone screen. ‘Four and a half years. They got divorced just over two years ago.’ He thumb-scrolled back up before continuing. ‘Dr. Barnes ran her own small psychotherapy practice in downtown LA — West Ninth Street.’

‘How long had she been living at this address?’

‘Practically since her divorce.’ Garcia paused, made a face and shrugged at Hunter. ‘That’s it. That’s pretty much all we’ve got on her at the moment. Operations hadn’t had much time to dig things up. We’ll have a more comprehensive file on her by tomorrow afternoon.

‘Who did the killer call this time?’

‘The victim’s only sister,’ Garcia replied. ‘Erica Barnes.’

‘Is she local?’

‘Not that far. She lives in Carson.’

‘Are you guys with the UVC Unit?’ an LAPD sergeant asked, coming up to them. He was about five-foot-ten, with bony shoulders and skinny arms. His dark hair was cut short and neat. His eyes, which were just as dark as his hair, were shaped like sideways teardrops.

‘That’s us, yes,’ Garcia said, facing him and displaying his credentials. Hunter did the same.

‘I’m Sergeant Prado from the West Bureau, Wilshire Area Division.’ He spoke with a light Puerto Rican accent.

They all shook hands and began making their way towards the single-story, green-fronted house at the end of the street.

‘Two of my men were first response here tonight,’ the sergeant explained, pointing at two young and pallid-looking uniformed officers by a black and white unit. ‘I’ve got to tell you, this isn’t the quietest of neighborhoods, meaning that we get our fair share of violent homicides, but somebody did a job on that poor woman in there in a way I’ve never seen before. And I take it you’ve heard about the crazy nine-one-one call that came in, right? Apparently whoever did this called the victim’s sister and made her watch over a video-call. Is that sick enough for you guys at UV, or what?’

As they got to the front porch, two media vans rounded the corner at the top of the road.

‘The wolves are here,’ Sergeant Prado said, jerking his chin at the vans.

Brian Caldron wasn’t lying when he told Mr. J that Hunter and Garcia trusted no one when it came to the UVC Unit’s investigations. The press paid people inside the LAPD for information, and they paid well. That was the main reason why they keep their investigations off line. When it came to crimes, nothing sold more papers or increased the number of viewers nationwide like a serial-killer story, not even crimes involving Hollywood celebrities. But with the killer now claiming his third victim, keeping the story from leaking to the press had become a virtual impossibility, despite the UVC Unit’s efforts. It was now all just a matter of time. The best they could was to try to keep the story under control. The LAPD press office would probably issue an official statement soon. Their key concern now was to keep the details from being exposed.

‘Other than you and the two first-response officers,’ Hunter asked Sergeant Prado, ‘who else has walked the scene?’

‘Forensics. That’s it. No one else.’

‘And who else here knows about the nine-one-one call.’

‘No one except myself,’ he replied. ‘None of the details were passed on by dispatch.’

Hunter fixed the sergeant with a firm stare, but before he was able to say anything, Sergeant Prado nodded, lifting both hands.

‘Yeah, yeah, Detective, not a word to the press. I know the drill. This isn’t my first time, you know.’

They got to the front of the house and an agent handed both detectives the customary sealed bags containing a disposable white coverall each. In solemn silence, Hunter and Garcia suited up, signed the manifesto, and stepped into the house.

As the door closed behind Hunter and Garcia, Dr. Susan Slater, who was standing at the far end of the living room, turned to face them. A couple of feet behind her, the same photographer who had attended the previous two crime scenes was snapping away at something they couldn’t yet see. Two other forensic agents were busy dusting surfaces at opposite ends of the room.

‘Detectives,’ the doctor said in greeting, her head tilting forward slightly. She kept her voice quiet and subdued. ‘Over here.’ She motioned them closer with a hand gesture, while at the same time signaling the photographer to take a break.

Just like the previous two crime scenes, nothing really seemed to have been disturbed. Nothing looked to be out of place either. If there had been any sort of struggle between the victim and the killer, there was no visible sign of it anywhere.

‘No dining chair this time,’ Dr. Slater said, taking a step to her left and finally allowing Hunter and Garcia to see what the photographer had been snapping at.

Both detectives stopped dead.

The victim lay naked on top of a six-seater wooden table in a crucifixion position. Her arms were wide open, pulled at the wrists by two pieces of nylon rope that had been firmly secured under the table. Her legs were also fully extended, with her ankles shackled together by a third piece of rope, but the entire scene was overshadowed by the grotesque disfiguration to her face and skull.

They didn’t need an autopsy examination to work out that several of her facial bones had been shattered. Her eyes, wide open and still full of terror, were completely bloodshot and skewed out of line, clearly indicating that her eye sockets and her cheekbones had been fractured. Her jawbone had been broken in at least three places, fissuring her lower and upper gum line and distorting her mouth completely out of place. Her ears, together with the skin on both of her cheeks, had been practically scrapped off, leaving behind a mess of dried blood and flesh. The sides of her skull had sunk in, as if someone had brought a hammer to it, with extreme prejudice.