I Am Death

Sixty-four

By the time they cleared the four flights of stairs that took them up to the second floor, the building superintendent looked like he was about to go into cardiac arrest. His forehead was dripping with sweat and his breathing was so labored he sounded like an asthmatic Darth Vader.

‘Are you OK?’ Hunter asked as Moreno finally reached the second-floor landing. It had taken him almost two minutes to get through fifty steps.

‘Hijo de perra.’ Those words came out as a gasp. ‘Yeah... I’m fine, ese... ’ he finally replied, in between deep breaths, while holding on to the wall. ‘I just need a moment.’

‘Yeah, you look fine,’ Garcia observed. ‘You sound fine too.’

Once again, Moreno simply ignored the sarcastic comment.

Down the short corridor in front of them, a door opened just enough for someone to peek outside, quickly shutting again a second later.

‘OK,’ Moreno said, standing up straight and wiping his forehead with the palm of his hand. ‘Let’s just get on with this. The two of you walking these corridors is bad for business, comprendes? You guys even smell like cops.’

Garcia frowned at Hunter before quickly bringing his left forearm to his nose, smelling it, then doing the same to his right one.

‘You mean, we’re making the place smell nice?’ he said.

Moreno looked back at him, a reply almost materializing on his lips, but then he thought better of it.

Apartment two-eleven was the first door on the left as they entered the hallway. Moreno was about to slide his master key into the lock when Hunter grabbed his arm, gesturing for him not to. He pulled the building super to one side, moving him away from a direct line with the front door.

‘We knock first,’ Hunter whispered.

‘Why, ese? I told you, he’s not here.’

‘That may well be, but we still knock first.’

Hunter pulled Moreno away so that the two of them were standing against the wall to the left of the door. Garcia did the same, but on the right side.

Hunter knocked three times.

No answer.

Another three knocks.

Still no answer.

‘See? I told you, ese.’

‘OK.’ Hunter nodded. ‘You can use your key now.’

As Moreno unlocked the door and pushed it open, it creaked just as loudly as the one down at the entrance lobby.

From the outside, they could only see as far as the light that seeped in from the hallway allowed them to, which wasn’t far. Most of the room lay in shadow as all the curtains were drawn shut.

‘Lights?’ Hunter asked, once again pulling Moreno back a few steps.

‘On the wall.’ Moreno indicated from outside. ‘To the right of the door.’

Garcia reached in and flipped the switch.

At the center of the ceiling, a bulb flickered twice before coming on, bathing the small room in crisp, bright light.

‘Mathew Hade?’ Hunter called from the door.

No reply.

‘Mathew Hade?’ Hunter called again. ‘This is the LAPD. We would like to ask you a few questions.’

There was no one there.

As both detectives finally stepped inside, they paused, their eyes searching the room. It smelled slightly of bleach and disinfectant, with a hint of orange, as if somebody had spring-cleaned it not that long ago.

Intrigued, Garcia turned and checked the number on the door again — 211. They were indeed in the right apartment.

The room was completely bare, save for a simple wooden desk by the window on the north wall, a single chair and a two-drawer cabinet to the left of it. There was no sofa, no rug, no table and chairs, no TV, nothing hanging from the walls, none of the items one would expect to see in a living room.

‘Like I said, ese,’ Moreno said again. ‘He’s not here. I haven’t seen him for several days.’

‘It looks like he’s never been here,’ Garcia said, still looking around.

The living room offered two other doors, one that led to a small kitchen and the other to the bedroom and the bathroom.

While Garcia walked over to the window to pull open the curtains, Hunter moved into the bedroom. It was just as bare as the living room, with a single bed pushed up against the east wall, a bedside table with no drawers and a twodoor wooden wardrobe.

There was no bedding on the bed, as if no one had ever slept there. Resting against the wardrobe were an empty plastic bucket and a string mop.

Hunter grabbed a pair of latex gloves from his pocket before pulling open the wardrobe doors.

Empty.

One drawer at the bottom of it.

Also empty.

Hunter got down on his knees and took a look under the bed and the wardrobe.

There was nothing there. There was nothing anywhere.

He lifted the mattress and checked under it.

Clear.

He ran his hand across the top of the wardrobe.

Nothing but what was expected — dust.

He pulled the wardrobe away from the wall and checked behind it.

Nothing on the wall.

Nothing on the back of the wardrobe.

Hunter reached for the plastic bucket and checked inside it. Completely dry. Not even a drop of water. He brought the bucket to his nose. It carried the same faint smell of bleach and disinfectant with a hint of orange as the living room.

Hunter put the bucket down and checked the string mop. There was still a little bit of moisture on its strings. It smelled identical to the bucket, only not as faint. Hunter guessed that it had been used no more than four, maybe five days ago.

He returned the mop to its place, turned and stepped into the small, white-tiled bathroom. There was a washing basin on the left with a fixed mirror on the wall above it. The toilet was against the wall opposite the basin, with the shower enclosure to its right. On the basin, Hunter found a shaving razor and a half-used tube of toothpaste — no toothbrush. The piece of soap inside the shower enclosure looked like it had only been used a couple of times. There were no towels of any sort inside the bathroom, paper or otherwise. No toilet paper either.

Hunter paused in front of the mirror and stared at his tired reflection for a moment, as though if he stared at it long and hard enough, the mirror would either tell him a story or reveal the reflection of who had last been standing before it.

Neither happened.

Hunter returned to the bedroom.

There was no doubt that apartment two-eleven was nothing more than a crash pad, a place Mathew Hade used from time to time and for only a day or so at a time. This was not where he lived — and if he really was who they were looking for, it certainly wasn’t the place where he kept his victims.