The Caller

Seventy-Six

As the door closed behind Hunter and Garcia, Dr. Susan Slater, who was standing at the far end of the living room, turned to face them. A couple of feet behind her, the same photographer who had attended the previous two crime scenes was snapping away at something they couldn’t yet see. Two other forensic agents were busy dusting surfaces at opposite ends of the room.

‘Detectives,’ the doctor said in greeting, her head tilting forward slightly. She kept her voice quiet and subdued. ‘Over here.’ She motioned them closer with a hand gesture, while at the same time signaling the photographer to take a break.

Just like the previous two crime scenes, nothing really seemed to have been disturbed. Nothing looked to be out of place either. If there had been any sort of struggle between the victim and the killer, there was no visible sign of it anywhere.

‘No dining chair this time,’ Dr. Slater said, taking a step to her left and finally allowing Hunter and Garcia to see what the photographer had been snapping at.

Both detectives stopped dead.

The victim lay naked on top of a six-seater wooden table in a crucifixion position. Her arms were wide open, pulled at the wrists by two pieces of nylon rope that had been firmly secured under the table. Her legs were also fully extended, with her ankles shackled together by a third piece of rope, but the entire scene was overshadowed by the grotesque disfiguration to her face and skull.

They didn’t need an autopsy examination to work out that several of her facial bones had been shattered. Her eyes, wide open and still full of terror, were completely bloodshot and skewed out of line, clearly indicating that her eye sockets and her cheekbones had been fractured. Her jawbone had been broken in at least three places, fissuring her lower and upper gum line and distorting her mouth completely out of place. Her ears, together with the skin on both of her cheeks, had been practically scrapped off, leaving behind a mess of dried blood and flesh. The sides of her skull had sunk in, as if someone had brought a hammer to it, with extreme prejudice.

‘You were right, Robert,’ Dr. Slater said, breaking the silence and bringing the detectives’ attention back to her. ‘Once again, the killer has changed several aspects of what at first appeared to be his MO.’

Hunter and Garcia joined Dr. Slater by the left side of the table.

‘At least a couple of his signatures are now also becoming very clear,’ the doctor continued. ‘He microwaves his victims’ cellphones and he likes to strip them naked.’

‘No sexual assault again?’ Garcia asked.

‘I haven’t checked it yet. We haven’t been here that long, but for that I’ll need to untie her legs. I was waiting for you guys to arrive because I knew you’d want to see the body in situ. But there’s no visible bruising to her thighs or groin area.’ She indicated as she spoke. ‘No scratches either, so chances are that, just like his previous two victims, he hasn’t touched her in that way.’

‘So why strip them naked?’ The question came from the photographer, who was standing across the table from them.

Everyone looked back at him.

‘Robert, Carlos,’ Dr. Slater said, nodding at the photographer, ‘this is Curtis Norton. You might remember him from the previous two scenes. He joined the team a few months ago. Transferred from Anaheim.’

‘Pardon the intrusion,’ Norton said a little timidly. He was about six feet tall, with a strong frame, a squared jaw and thick eyebrows shaped in a way that made him look like he was constantly sad. ‘I’m just curious. We never really got this sort of stuff back in Anaheim, but if the killer’s attacks have no sexual motive in them, why strip them naked?’

‘Humiliation,’ Hunter replied. He had repositioned himself at the head of the table and was carefully studying the injuries to the victim’s face and skull. ‘The technique was widely used in concentration camps during the Second World War. It’s still used today. It makes the victims feel even more vulnerable. More helpless. More frightened.’

‘Hard to imagine them feeling any more frightened than what they probably did,’ Norton commented.

‘This killer’s sadism is as psychologically brutal as it is physical,’ Hunter clarified. ‘He doesn’t only torture and murder his victims. He gets into their heads. He nurtures their fear. He toys with their emotions. That’s why he stalks them with notes beforehand. But, as we know, he doesn’t stop there either because he also likes to get into the heads of others.’

‘The people he calls,’ Dr. Slater said.

Hunter agreed in silence, as he began studying the table surface.

For a moment, Norton looked like he was about to say or ask something else, but instead he simply stepped away from the table, giving Hunter and Garcia some more space.

‘This is insane,’ Garcia commented, studying the victim’s injuries as he tried to visualize what had happened. ‘What did he do this time, put her head in a vise?’

‘That would be a pretty good guess,’ Dr. Slater confirmed, before explaining: ‘The types of fractures inflicted to her facial bones,’ she said, indicating the victim’s eye sockets, jawline and cheekbones, ‘couldn’t have been caused by an impact instrument, or by hand, or by smashing her face against a harder surface. All of those methods would’ve also caused lacerations, of which we have none. These fractures were caused by slowly applying hundreds upon hundreds of pounds of pressure to her skull until the bones cracked inside her. That’s why we have these injuries right here on the sides of her face. That’s why her skin was practically scrapped off. The jaws of whatever device was used were probably serrated.’

‘The table is clean of scratches,’ Hunter said. ‘No marks at all around where her head is located. A commercial table, bench, or drill-press vise, the type you can easily by from a hardware store, would’ve left grooves, marks, scratches... something on the table surface, but we’ve got nothing. Whatever he used, he either created himself, or had it made.’

Through the corner of his eyes, Hunter saw Norton scratch the back of his neck and look away.

Suddenly, the front door was pushed open again and a man who looked to be in his mid-forties stepped into the house. To everyone’s surprise, he wasn’t wearing the mandatory Tyvek coverall, which gave away the fact that he wasn’t part of Dr. Slater’s team. His hair was short, dull and uncombed, and the expression in his eyes, as they circled the room and paused on the body on the table, was one of pure shock.

Hunter immediately realized that he was someone known to the victim, but what he couldn’t figure out was how the man had been able to get through the wall of cops outside. He quickly moved towards him, blocking his path and his line of vision.

‘Sir, this is an LAPD crime scene. You can’t be in here.’

Disregarding Hunter’s words, the man lifted his head, trying to look over the detective’s shoulders. Hunter moved with him.

‘Sir? Did you hear what I said? Who are you?’

The man reached for something that was clipped on to his belt — an LAPD detective’s badge.

‘I’m Detective Julian Webb with the Central Bureau, Rampart Area Division.’

With over ten thousand officers and more than three thousand civilian staff, the LAPD was the third-largest municipal police department in the United States, just behind the cities of New York and Chicago. Linked to the LAPD, which officially was the police department that served only the city of Los Angeles, were over forty-five other municipal law-enforcement agencies, each with their own hierarchy of command, including officers, detectives, sergeants and captains. In total, the aggregated municipal law-enforcement agencies that formed the LAPD served an area of 498 square miles, and a population of over three and a half-million people. With such a large police department, it was no surprise that neither Hunter nor Garcia had ever crossed paths with Detective Webb.

Hunter and Garcia frowned at the badge. The Central Bureau, Rampart Area Division served the areas of Echo Park, Pico-Union and Westlake. Gwen Barnes’ house was located in Mid-City, which fell under the jurisdiction of the West Bureau, Wilshire Area Division.

‘Mid-City is way out of your jurisdiction, Detective,’ Hunter said. ‘How come you’re here and so quickly? Did you know the victim?’

Detective Webb was still trying to look past Hunter.

Hunter locked eyes with him. ‘Detective?’

‘Gwen and I were out on a date earlier this evening,’ Webb finally replied. ‘I was forced to cut the date short, but I promised her I would come back when I was done. That’s why I’m here.’ His eyes left Hunter’s and moved first to Garcia, then to Dr. Slater. ‘This can’t be true. I dropped Gwen back here less than three hours ago. I walked her to her door. How can this have happened? I should’ve listened to her. I should’ve believed her.’

Webb’s last few words made everyone pause.

‘What do you mean by that?’ Hunter asked.

Silence.

‘Detective?’ Hunter’s voice was commanding. ‘What do you mean by — you should’ve listened to her... you should’ve believed her?’

Once again, Webb matched his stare. ‘The note... the bracelet...’

All of a sudden, before anyone could question Webb further, everyone’s attention was grabbed by a loud female voice that was fast becoming hysterical. The voice was coming from just outside the front door.

Hunter immediately realized what was happening.

‘The victim’s sister,’ he said as he signaled Garcia to handle Detective Webb. A second later he was rushing out of the house.