The Executioner

Hundred and Two

Hunter sat patiently at the metal table inside the small, all-white, private visiting room in the California Correctional Institution State Prison in Tehachapi. He heard the shuffle of chains being dragged across the corridor floor outside before the door to the room opened. The first person to walk in was a Hulk of a guard. His muscles about to rip through the fabric of his tightly stretched XXL uniform. His size dwarfing the person behind him, a pale-skinned, average-height man dressed all in white.

The same piece of chain that bound the man’s hands together in front of his body ran a loop around his waist and continued down to his ankles, giving him just enough length to perform a geisha step. His hair was cut short, but Hunter noticed it was graying at the temples. His lips weren’t as full as they were on the yearbook picture. A badly healed scar graced his left cheek. His eyes were still cat-like, but they’d lost all the menace in them. He stopped at the door and frowned as he saw Hunter.

‘Who the fuck is this cherry, Dubal?’ he asked Hulk guard, who shrugged indifferently before ushering the prisoner inside and sitting him across the table from his visitor.

‘If you need anything, I’ll be right outside,’ Dubal said before allowing the thick door to slam shut behind him.

Peter Elder sat with his hands on his lap, his chin low and his shoulders slumped forward, but his eyes studied Hunter like a predator studied its prey.

‘You must be a very important cop,’ he said in a low voice.

Hunter was leaning back on his chair. His posture relaxed. ‘Why’s that?’

Elder smiled, revealing badly cared-for teeth. ‘This ain’t normal visitation hours; this ain’t the normal visitation room. That’s why I’m all chained up. Usually they just cuff my hands behind my back, but it’s a long walk from the Security Housing Unit and they don’t take any chances in here. You’ve gotta be somebody with weight and want something from me real bad to pull this room.’

‘My name’s Robert Hunter. I’m a detective with the Los Angeles Homicide Special Section.’ Hunter showed him his badge.

‘I don’t give a shit about who you are or where you come from, cop. What I wanna know is what the fuck you want with me?’

Hunter studied the man in front of him for several silent seconds. ‘Your help,’ he said calmly.

Peter laughed loudly and placed his hands on the table. His chain rattling loudly against the metal. ‘Why the fuck would I wanna help you, cop?’

Hunter understood that among inmates there was an unwritten rule that they should never help a cop. To them it was like betraying a brotherhood, snitching, jumping sides, and if other inmates found out, the consequences would be lethal. If Hunter wanted Peter Elder’s help, he had to play his cards just right.

‘Not help me. Help your friends.’

Elder’s eyebrows arched. ‘Friends?’ He chuckled. ‘Have you been smoking, cop? I’ve been in here for fourteen years, all of them spent in SHU.’ He talked with no modulation. Every word was delivered in the same monotone as the last. ‘I don’t socialize. I’m isolated from everything and everyone. Even my mail is restricted. All the friends I have live inside my head, cop.’

‘The friends I’m talking about go way back. Way before you got in here.’

Elder looked up, interested.

‘Do you remember a kid from Compton High called Brett Stewart Nichols?’

Elder leaned back in his chair with a hint of a smile. For an instant his gaze became distant, as if the past was playing before his eyes. When he spoke, there was a certain lift in his tone. ‘This is about Brett?’

‘Partially.’

‘And that means what, exactly?’

Hunter took his time as he told Elder a slightly modified version of what had happened. ‘We believe this killer is after your old group of friends.’

‘From Compton High?’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘Would you fucking stop talking in riddles, cop. It’s messing with my head. What does “not necessarily” mean?’

From a plastic folder Hunter produced the Gardena High photo with the four girls. ‘These girls weren’t students at Compton High.’ He pushed the picture across the table. ‘Do you recognize any of them?’

Elder stared at the photo for a long while before shaking his head. ‘Nope,’ he said coldly.

Hunter knew he was lying, but played along. ‘I thought maybe some of these girls used to hang out with you and Brett after school.’ He pulled the picture back and observed as Elder’s eyes reluctantly broke away from it. ‘The killer’s killed two of them.’

‘Which two?’ The question came automatically. A nervous reflex from a concerned person.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Hunter shook his head. ‘If these girls didn’t hang out with you, then it doesn’t matter. We’re done here.’ He made as if he was getting up.

‘Wait a second.’ Elder leaned forward. His voice a touch more urgent. ‘Let me see that picture again.’

‘Why?’

‘It was a long time ago, cop. My brain has forgotten a lot. Maybe if I look at it again…’

Hunter slowly pushed the picture back towards Elder. This time the inmate held it with his chained hands. Hunter observed Elder. The way his eyes moved from one girl to another. There was no doubt his gaze concentrated mostly on the girl who was second from the left – Amanda Reilly.