The Caller

Thirty-Two

Hunter had stayed behind in his office after Garcia had left. Even though he wasn’t very prolific with Facebook, Twitter, or any other social media network, he wanted to dig a little deeper into the personal profiles of Karen Ward, Tanya Kaitlin and Pete Harris. He began by carefully rereading all forty-six comments under Pete Harris’s Facebook post about ‘brainlaziness’. Still none stood out, with the exception of Tanya Kaitlin’s comment, explicitly admitting that she didn’t know a single phone number by heart. Sure, Karen Ward’s killer could’ve come across that same information through a number of different methods, making that whole post nothing more than just a coincidence, but Hunter had never really believed in coincidences, especially in this case, where Karen had asked Tanya a very direct question — Really? Not even mine? What a great best friend you are lol.

Hunter spent the next hour and a half click-jumping from one profile to another, reading posts and looking at photos and uploaded images. The more he read, the more images he looked at, the more surprised he became. In short, people were laying their lives bare over the Internet for anyone who cared to read about it, and even though most social media sites tended to offer quite extensive security settings, a lot of people still chose to ignore them.

By 9.30 p.m., Hunter’s eyes were watering from squinting at his computer screen. He needed to get out of that office.

Hunter’s biggest passion was single malt Scotch whisky. Back in his apartment, tucked in a corner of his living room, an old-fashioned drinks cabinet held a small but impressive collection of single malts that would probably satisfy the palate of most connoisseurs. Hunter would never consider himself an expert on whisky but, unlike so many, he at least knew how to appreciate its flavor and quality, instead of simply getting drunk on it, though sometimes getting drunk worked just fine.

He thought about going home, where he could indulge in as much single malt as he wished without breaking the bank, but he quickly debated if staying in tonight was such a good idea.

Hunter lived alone. No wife. No girlfriends. He’d never been married, and the relationships he had rarely lasted longer than just a few months, sometimes a lot less. The pressures that came with being a detective with the LAPD’s UVC Unit, and the commitment the job demanded, always seemed too much for most to understand and cope with. He didn’t mind being by himself. Living alone didn’t bother him either, but he was still human and sometimes the loneliness of his small apartment was the last thing he needed. Tonight was one of those nights.

Los Angeles nightlife was arguably one of the liveliest, craziest, and most exciting in the world. The spectrum of choice was almost interminable, going from luxurious and trendy nightclubs, where the rich and famous mingled with Hollywood stars, to themed bars and dingy, sleazy underground lounges and parties, where the freaks came out to play. Whatever mood, crazy or not, you found yourself in, you were sure to find a place in LA to suit it. Tonight, Hunter was in the ‘stiff but quiet drink’ mood.