The Night Stalker

Eleven

Due to the sensitivity of Hunter’s investigation, the entire operation was moved from the third to the fifth floor of Parker Center, LAPD’s Robbery Homicide Division HQ in North Los Angeles Street. The new room was spacious enough for two detectives, but with only a small window on the south wall it felt claustrophobic. When Hunter arrived, Garcia was studying the crime-scene photographs that had been placed on a large magnetic board to the right of Hunter’s desk.

‘We’re a little stuck when it comes to identifying her,’ Garcia said as Hunter fired up his computer. ‘The crime-scene team got several close-up shots of the stitches to her lips, but only one shot that shows her entire face.’ He pointed to the top photograph on the board. ‘And as you can see, it isn’t a great one.’

The photo had been taken at an angle and the left side of the victim’s face was partially obscured. ‘Apart from the video, we’ve got no pictures from the autopsy room,’ Garcia continued. ‘This is all we have to work with. If she was local to where she was found, we can’t really go around asking people and showing them a photograph of someone with her lips stitched shut. It’ll creep the hell out of everybody. And someone would no doubt talk to the media.’ He stepped back from the board.

‘Missing Persons?’ Hunter asked.

‘I got in touch with them last night, but because this is the only photo we have, and the stitches and swelling to her lips are so prominent, the face-recognition software they use won’t work. If they run this picture against their database and she happens to be in there, they’ll never get a match. We needed a better picture.’

‘Sketch artists?’

Garcia nodded, checking his watch. ‘They aren’t in yet, neither are the computer guys. But you know they can perform miracles with airbrushing and retouching, so there’s hope. The problem is, it can take a while.’

‘We don’t have a while,’ Hunter replied.

Garcia scratched his chin. ‘I know, Robert, but without an autopsy report, a DNA profile, or the knowledge of any specific physical marks that could help us identify her, we’re stuck.’

‘We’ve gotta start somewhere, and right now the only place we can start is with the Missing Persons files and those pictures,’ Hunter said, clicking away on his computer. ‘The two of us will have to go through them manually until we get something from the composite drawing team.’

‘The two of us? Manually? Are you serious? Do you know how many people get reported missing in LA every week?’

Hunter nodded. ‘On average eight hundred, but we can narrow the search down using what we already know — Caucasian woman, brunette, hazel eyes, age between twenty-seven and thirty-three. Judging by the length of the counter and the position the body was left, I’d say she was somewhere between five five and five eight. Let’s start the search with women who have been missing for anywhere up to two weeks. If we get nothing, we’ll go back further.’

‘I’ll get right on it.’

‘How about her fingerprints?’

Garcia quickly shook his head. ‘I’ve checked with Forensics. They’ve been running them against the National Automated Fingerprint ID System since last night. So far no matches. She doesn’t seem to be in the system.’

Hunter had a feeling she wouldn’t be.

Garcia poured himself some coffee from the machine on the counter. ‘Any clues from the butcher’s shop?’

Hunter had emailed himself the photo of the ceiling he’d taken with his cell phone last night. When the file downloaded, he hit the print button.

‘Yes, this.’ He showed Garcia the printout.

‘Graffiti?’ Garcia asked after studying the photograph for a moment.

Hunter nodded. ‘I took this picture while lying on the counter in the same position the victim was found.’

Garcia raised an eyebrow. ‘You lay on that?’ He pointed to the photograph of the dirty metal counter on the pictures board, but didn’t wait for a reply. ‘What exactly am I looking at here?’

‘Blended with the graffiti colors, Carlos. Look for the different lettering.’

A moment later Garcia saw it and his whole body tensed. ‘Well, I’ll be dipped in shit.’

Hidden amongst the colors and shapes, a line of small spray-painted black letters seemed out of place. It read: IT’S INSIDE YOU.