The Caller

Three

The LAPD’s Homicide Special Section (HSS) was an elite branch of its Robbery Homicide Division. It had been created to deal solely with serial and high-profile homicide cases, and cases requiring extensive investigative time and expertise. Due to Hunter’s criminal behavior psychology background and the fact that Los Angeles seemed to attract a particular breed of sociopaths, he was placed in an even more specialized entity within the HSS. All homicides where overwhelming brutality and/or sadism had been used by the perpetrator were tagged by the department as UVC — Ultra Violent Crimes. Robert Hunter and his partner, Carlos Garcia, were the HSS UVC Unit.

The address Hunter was given took him to Long Beach, more specifically, to a three-story, terracotta building that was sandwiched between a drugstore and a corner house. Even at that time in the morning, and taking the fastest route possible, it took him nearly an hour to cover the thirty-five miles from the UCLA Campus in Westwood to the Harbor.

He saw the concentration of black and white units as soon as he exited Redondo Avenue and turned left on to East Broadway. A section of the Broadway had already been cordoned off by Long Beach PD. Garcia’s metallic-blue Honda Civic was parked just across the road from the three-story building, by a white forensics-unit van.

Hunter had to slow down to an almost crawl as he approached the cordoned-off area. In a city that barely slept, it was no surprise that a small crowed of curious onlookers had already gathered by the police tape. Most of them had their arms extended above their heads, filming away on their cellphones or tablet devices, as if they were at some sort of musical concert, all of them hoping for at least a glimpse of something. And the more gruesome the better.

Once he finally cleared the crowd, Hunter displayed his credentials to the two uniformed officers by the black and yellow crime-scene tape and parked just next to his partner’s car. As he stepped out of his beat-up Buick LeSabre, he stretched his six-foot frame against the cold early-morning wind. Menacing, dense clouds had covered the sky, hiding the stars and adding a new layer of darkness to the night. Hunter clipped his badge on to his belt and looked around slowly. The road segment that had been cordoned off by the police was about one hundred yards long, running from the intersection with Newport Avenue, all the way to Loma, the next avenue along.

The first thought that came to Hunter was that the location provided a wide selection of escape routes, with a major freeway less than a mile and a half away. But it really didn’t matter if the perpetrator was driving or not, anonymously disappearing down any of those roads wouldn’t have been a problem for anyone.

Garcia, who had been standing by a black and white unit, talking to an officer from the Long Beach Police Department, had spotted Hunter’s car as it cleared the crime-scene tape.

‘Robert,’ he called as he crossed the road.

Hunter turned to face his partner.

Garcia’s longish brown hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail. He wore dark trousers with a crisp light-blue shirt underneath a black jacket. Though he seemed wide-awake and his attire could’ve come straight out of a dry cleaner’s, his eyes looked tired and bloodshot. Unlike Hunter, Garcia usually slept well at night. Tonight, though, he’d been asleep for only two hours before he was dragged out of bed by an LAPD phone call.

‘Carlos,’ Hunter said, greeting his partner with a head gesture. ‘Sorry about the early call, buddy. So what have we got?’

‘I’m not sure yet,’ Garcia replied with a subtle headshake. ‘I got here a couple of minutes before you did. I was just trying to find out who the officer in change was when I saw you clear the police line.’

Hunter’s gaze moved from his partner and refocused on the person approaching them from behind Garcia. He was coming from the terracotta building.

‘I guess he found us,’ Hunter said.

Garcia turned on the balls of his feet.

‘You guys from Ultra Violent Crimes?’ the man asked in a voice clearly battered by years of cigarette smoking. The embroidered chevrons on the upper sleeves of his jacket told Hunter and Garcia that he was a second-level sergeant with the Long Beach Police Department. He looked to be in his late forties or early fifties. His thick peppery hair was brushed back off his high forehead, revealing a small jagged scar just above his left eyebrow. He spoke with a light Mexican accent.

‘That’s correct,’ Hunter replied as he and Garcia stepped forward to meet him. They all introduced themselves with firm handshakes. The sergeant’s name was Manuel Velasquez.

‘So what have we got here, Sergeant?’ Garcia asked.

Sergeant Velasquez chuckled at the question, but it was a nervous, full-of-hesitation chuckle.

‘I’m not really sure I could describe what’s in there in words,’ he replied, turning to face the building behind him. ‘I’m not sure anyone can. You guys are going to have to go see it for yourselves.’