I Am Death

Seventy

Garcia pulled into an empty space in the Police Administration Building parking lot, shut off the car’s engine and checked the screen display on his cellphone for the tenth time since he’d gotten out of bed that morning. It showed nothing. No missed calls. No text messages.

Even without confirmation from the forensics lab, what they’d found yesterday in Mathew Hade’s apartment was enough to send alarm bells ringing everywhere. An APB had been sent out to every police station and sheriff’s department in the Los Angeles area. A design expert from the LAPD IT Division had used the mugshot they had of Mathew Hade and created a series of variations to the way he might now look, adding different hairstyles, hair colors and facial hair. A note was added to the APB alerting everyone to keep in mind that the subject had, very possibly, become quite skillful with makeup and disguise and that the images were to be used mainly as guidelines.

After a lengthy meeting with Hunter and Garcia, Captain Blake authorized an around-the-clock surveillance operation on Mathew Hade’s apartment. The first LAPD Special Investigation Section team had been dispatched to the address last night.

The LAPD SIS was an Elite Tactical Surveillance squad that had existed for more than forty years, despite efforts from various human rights and political groups to shut it down. The reason for such efforts was that their kill rate was higher than that of any other unit in the department, including SWAT. SIS teams were mainly used to stealthily watch apex predators — individuals suspected of violent crimes who would not cease until caught in the act. Masters of disguise and surveillance, every SIS officer was an expert in close-quarters combat as well as a distinguished marksman. Their main tactic was to wait to observe a suspect committing new crimes before moving in to make arrests. Due to the fact that most suspects would not surrender without a fight, lethal force was often used. With that in mind, all SIS teams for this operation were under specific orders that if Mathew Hade was sighted, he was not to be approached. Their job was to keep him under surveillance and not lose him until the detectives in charge of the investigation got there.

As Garcia took the elevator up to the fifth floor, he checked his phone one more time.

Still nothing.

He’d been at his desk for less than a minute when Hunter pushed open the door and stepped inside. Despite how exhausted Hunter looked, Garcia picked up something else in his expression — a mixture of doubt and excitement.

‘Have you heard anything?’ Garcia asked, instinctively peeking at his cellphone yet again. He had nothing.

‘Not yet, have you?’

Garcia shook his head. ‘Nothing from the SIS team, the sheriff’s department or any other LAPD station. I’m just about to check emails, but if we had anything from forensics I’m sure Doctor Snyder would’ve already called one of us.’

‘I’ve received nothing either,’ Hunter confirmed, also checking his cellphone. His ‘silent’ switch was off and his ringer volume was cranked up to the maximum. ‘But I’d like you to have a look at something and tell me if I’m losing my mind or not,’ he added, returning his phone to his pocket and approaching the picture board.

‘OK.’ Garcia swiveled his chair around, intrigued.

‘This morning,’ Hunter began. ‘I thought I saw something on the note that I hadn’t picked up before.’

The intensity with which Hunter delivered his statement made Garcia get to his feet.

‘And what was that?’ He joined Hunter by the board.

‘What does the killer call himself?’ Hunter asked.

Garcia frowned. ‘What?’

‘On the notes, what does the killer call himself?’

Garcia looked at all three notes on the board before his gaze moved back to Hunter.

‘Death,’ he replied, flipping his palms up, as people do when giving an obvious answer.

‘So why doesn’t he sign them as “Death”?’

Garcia’s expression was one of total confusion.

‘OK, maybe you have lost it, Robert. That’s exactly how he signs his notes.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ Hunter came back. ‘He signs them “I am death”, not just “Death”. Why?’

Garcia regarded the notes again. ‘What? I’m not sure I’m following you?’

‘Just look at them, Carlos.’ Hunter tapped the board. ‘They all end with the phrase “I am death”, not just the word “death”. No other killer who has ever taunted the police with notes or messages has done that — Jack the Ripper, the BTK Killer, the Zodiac Killer, Son of Sam, whoever, it doesn’t matter: they all signed their notes with just a name, not a sentence.’

Garcia pondered this for a moment before accepting it. ‘OK, fine, but what difference does it make?’

‘Probably none, if not for what he wrote in his last message.’ Hunter indicated the note.

‘I see that,’ Garcia said, lifting his hands again in a surrendering gesture. ‘But I’m still not sure where you’re going with this, Robert.’

‘This guy likes to play,’ Hunter said. ‘We all know that by now. The notes are part of his game and, if we are correct in our assumption, he considers himself too smart for us. Actually, too smart for anyone. Playing a game against someone who is so much inferior to him is no fun. And he wants to make this fun.’

‘OK,’ Garcia agreed.

‘At first, you believed this could be his way of being funny or sarcastic, remember? But what if he isn’t being funny? What if he really is giving us a clue?’

The blank stare on Garcia’s face remained.

‘Look at this,’ Hunter said. ‘He wrote: “the clues are in the name”.’ He emphasized the word ‘in’ and at the same time tapped it on the board with his index finger. ‘Not the name. He also uses the word “clues”, not clue, indicating that there’s more than one.’

Garcia looked at the note again. This time, his expression showed concentration.

‘In it,’ Hunter said again and paused.

Garcia kept his attention on the board, a few dots just starting to connect in his mind. ‘In it... You mean, like an anagram?’

‘Precisely,’ Hunter said, his voice just a little more excited than a moment ago. ‘But don’t look only at the word “Death”. Look at the whole sentence. “I am Death” — that’s how he signs every note. That’s what he placed inside Nicole Wilson’s throat. That’s what he left us at Sharon Barnard’s crime scene.’

Without waiting for Garcia to start trying combinations, Hunter picked up a marker, wrote the sentence ‘I am death’ on an empty space on the board and, as he used a letter from that phrase, he crossed it off the original sentence. When he was done, he put the marker down.

Garcia had been following everything with the utmost attention. When Hunter stopped, Garcia looked at what he had written, then back at the original sentence, then back to the board.

Without noticing, his jaw had dropped open.

‘No fucking way.’