The Executioner

Sixty

It was late by the time they left Malibu. Hunter checked in with Hopkins and told him to meet them at Footsie’s in North Figueroa Street.

Take all the snobbish fakery out of most Los Angeles bars and you might be left with Footsie’s. Just a small, cozy drinking joint with a few pool tables, a comfortable lounge with half-circle red leather booths, a jukebox playing classic rock and a friendly and relaxed atmosphere. Footsie’s was one of Hunter’s favorite drinking spots.

Hopkins was already there, nursing a single shot of Jack Daniel’s when Hunter and Garcia arrived. ‘What can I get you guys?’ he offered.

‘It’s OK.’ Hunter gave him a subtle nod. ‘I’ll get these, Ian.’

‘I’ll have whatever you’re having, as long as it’s single malt,’ Garcia said. ‘I’ll be right back.’ He pointed to the men’s restroom door.

A booth emptied at the back of the bar and Hunter told Hopkins to grab it before someone else did.

He ordered two single shots of Laphroaig with a cube of ice each. The person standing next to him at the bar was reading through a copy of the LA Daily News, and as he flipped a page something caught Hunter’s attention. The headline on the small article read SLASHER CLAIMS SECOND VICTIM. Hunter craned his neck awkwardly and skimmed through the article before the man flipped the page again. A second prostitute had been found dead inside a squalid room in South Gate. Her hands had been tied together in front of her, her fingers interlaced in a prayer position. Just as the first victim a few days ago, she was found naked, on her knees with her throat cut open. The press had already nicknamed the killer the Slasher. ‘This city’s out of control,’ Hunter thought as he took his drinks and joined Garcia and Hopkins at their booth.

‘Are you guys OK?’ Hopkins asked with concern, noticing a heavy air about both detectives.

Hunter had a sip of his Laphroaig and swirled it around in his mouth until its strong alcohol started to burn the edges of his tongue. He placed four evidence bags on the table. The first two containing the disassembled picture frames, the other two the photographs. Hopkins’s brow lifted and Hunter explained about their meeting with Dan Tyler and why they went back to check the misplaced pictures.

‘So who are these two?’ he asked skeptically.

Garcia reached for the evidence bags with the photographs and turned them over. Hopkins’s eyes widened and he let out an excited gasp. On the back of the man’s photograph, written in blood and about six inches long, was the number one. On the back of the smiling woman’s, the number two.

Hopkins kept his eyes on the photographs for a while, his jaw half open. ‘I don’t get it.’ He locked eyes with Hunter. ‘Why would the killer do this? I mean, why would he leave the pictures of the first two victims on the fireplace? Obviously, he knew that sooner or later we’d find them.’

Hunter sat back and ran his fingertips over his whiskey tumbler rim. ‘He wants to make sure we know these two victims are his. He doesn’t want their murders attributed to someone else. He’s a proud killer.’

Hopkins twisted uncomfortably in his seat. The world of the evilly sick was going way over his head.

‘So where are these two victims?’ he asked after a moment’s silence. ‘And if they’d been numbered like Father Fabian and Amanda Reilly, why don’t we know about them?’

Hunter had another long, slow sip of his Scotch. ‘Why do you think?’

Hopkins’s eyes reverted back to the photos on the table. Hunter could almost hear him thinking. ‘Maybe the numbering thing is something the killer only started doing after victim number two,’ Hopkins offered tentatively.

‘Go on,’ Hunter urged him.

‘Of course he couldn’t go back and number the first two bodies. This is the best he could do, given the circumstances.’

‘Why would the killer only start numbering from victim number three on?’ Garcia asked.

‘I’m not sure.’ Hopkins gave him a slight shrug. ‘Maybe he never thought of it at first. Maybe he expected the police to realize the first two victims were killed by the same person, and that never happened.’

‘It’s a good theory,’ Hunter said, giving Hopkins an approving nod.

‘Yeah, but I don’t buy it,’ Garcia said, shaking his head. ‘We know this killer is extremely organized and methodical. He plans his kills to the very last detail, leaving nothing to chance. He’s proven that with Father Fabian and Amanda Reilly.’

‘That’s right.’ Hunter nodded.

‘Such an organized killer wouldn’t change his plan halfway down the line. I’d say he’s been numbering them from the word go.’

‘OK,’ Hunter agreed. ‘So going back to the question, where are these two victims? And why don’t we know about them?’

‘Maybe we just haven’t found them yet,’ Garcia ventured, leaning forward. ‘The order in which they were killed isn’t necessarily the order in which they’ll be found. Maybe they’re still missing, locked inside a car trunk somewhere or in a ditch up in the mountains.’

‘That’s possible,’ Hunter agreed, stretching his neck. ‘There’s just one thing that bothers me about that theory. The killer made no effort to hide the bodies of victims three and four. They were found the day after they were killed. So why would he hide the bodies of victims one and two in a car trunk or up in the mountains somewhere? It doesn’t go with his MO. He wants us to know about them.’

‘That’s why he left the pictures on the fireplace.’ Hopkins half stated it, half questioned.

‘Exactly,’ Hunter confirmed. ‘He wants to be credited with their murder.’

They all went silent for a few seconds.

‘What do you think, Robert?’ Hopkins asked eagerly. ‘Why don’t we have victims one and two yet?’

Hunter watched a long-legged brunette approach the jukebox on the corner, slide a few quarters into it and make a selection. An old Skid Row song started playing.

‘I think you hit on a very good point in your theory,’ Hunter said to Hopkins.

‘Which point was that?’ he asked, intrigued.

‘The fact that the killer couldn’t go back to the bodies. That’s why he used the photos. The bodies have already been found.’