I Am Death

Sixty-seven

Garcia was still in the kitchen when Hunter exited the bedroom and walked back into the living room of apartment two-eleven. He immediately spotted the two evidence bags that Garcia had left on top of the small desk by the window — one holding the red BIC Cristal pen and the other the sheets of white printer paper. As he checked them, the same splinter of excitement that had made the hairs on the back of Garcia’s neck stand on end grabbed hold of Hunter for just a millisecond, but he knew better than to let excitement cloud his objectivity. They needed to get those evidence bags to the forensics lab ASAP.

‘Robert!’ Hunter heard his partner call. ‘Come check this out.’

Hunter placed the evidence bags back on the desk and made his way into the kitchen.

Garcia was standing by the stove, with an urgent look on his face.

‘What have you got?’ Hunter asked.

Garcia flicked the book of matches Hunter’s way and he caught it midair.

‘Have a look inside,’ Garcia urged him.

Hunter thumbed it open and paused. An annotation had been made on the cover’s flipside. Hunter stared at it as if hypnotized, his heart beating just a little bit faster than a moment ago.

The annotation read — Midazolam, 2.5 mg.

‘Do you know what that is?’ Garcia asked.

‘I think it’s an anesthetic,’ Hunter replied, his eyes never leaving the text.

Though Garcia didn’t know the drug, he had guessed it to be some sort of sedative, but that wasn’t what had excited him, or kept Hunter so transfixed.

The handwriting was.

The handwriting that they both had stared at for hours on end over the past few days.

The killer’s.