I Am Death

Seventy-five

Lopez Canyon Road, in Lake View Terrace, stretches out from Foothill Freeway all the way into the small western tip of the Angeles National Forest, before sharply bending right and reaching Kagel Canyon Road, where it finally ends. Less than a mile after the sharp right bend, a disused and uneven road forks out and to the right of it, going up a small hill. The call that Talicia had taken had come from there; more specifically, from inside an abandoned wooden building right at the top of that road.

It was past two in the afternoon when Hunter and Garcia received a second call from Doctor Snyder. He had just arrived at the crime scene and, as he entered the building, the first thing he did was reach for his phone and call the UV detectives.

Even with the sirens on, the twenty-five-mile drive that saw Hunter and Garcia cutting through South Central before hooking on to Glendale Boulevard, and finally to the western tip of the Angeles National Forest, took them an hour.

Thanks to the isolated location, and the fact that the whole of the disused road was flanked by nothing more than rough terrain and dense, impassable shrubs, the LAPD could set a perimeter right at the road’s entrance. No reporter or press van was able to get within a mile of the building.

Garcia flashed his credentials at the officers by the outer crime-scene tape, took a right and drove up the bouncy road.

‘Is this place secluded and out of the way enough for you, or what?’ Garcia asked as he parked by a forensic-van at the top of the road.

Hunter had just checked his cellphone — still no news about Mathew Hade.

As they exited Garcia’s car, Hunter took a moment to study the building.

It was a relatively small, rectangular, wooden structure, with an old-style gable roof. Entrance was through large double doors at the eastern end of it. Both Hunter and Garcia’s first impression was that the building very closely resembled a barn, with the exception that its roof wasn’t as high as one would expect it to be. The outside had once been painted white but, after years of being battered by sun and rain, only small patches of color remained. Also, as a result of their harsh contact with the elements, a few planks of wood from the south wall, the one that they were facing, were either partially missing or broken.

Three police officers stood to the right of the double doors. All three of them looked like they’d just been sick.

As Hunter and Garcia approached the yellow crimescene tape that further restricted the entrance to the building, they were greeted by a peculiar smell that came from inside — a mixture of rotten food and a sweet, metallic odor. Both detectives recognized the smell immediately because they’d been around it too many times.

Blood.

And lots of it.

They flashed their credentials at the lone officer with the crime-scene log book, who handed them a Tyvek coverall and a pair of latex gloves each.

Hunter and Garcia suited up, stooped under the yellow tape and pushed open the doors. They’d taken only two steps inside before the force of the image that met their eyes sucked all the air from their lungs, and held them fast.

They now understood why the officers outside looked like they’d been sick.

But the savagery of what stood before them wasn’t what had driven Hunter and Garcia to a stunned silence, or made their hearts skip a beat.

It was the fact that they both knew who the victim was.