The Night Stalker

Twelve

Before Garcia could ask anything further, Captain Blake entered the room without knocking.

Barbara Blake had taken over the Los Angeles Robbery Homicide Division’s leadership after the retirement of its longstanding captain, William Bolter, two years earlier. Her name had been put forward for captaincy by Bolter himself, upsetting a long list of candidates. She was an intriguing woman — elegant, attractive, with long black hair and mysterious dark eyes that never gave anything away. Despite reservations by some at the division, she had quickly gained a reputation for being a no-nonsense, iron-fist captain. She wasn’t easily intimidated, took shit from no one, and she didn’t mind upsetting high-powered politicians or government officials if it meant sticking to what she believed was right. In just a few months she had earned the trust and respect of every detective under her command.

Captain Blake and Doctor Winston’s friendship went back a long way — over twenty years. The news of his death had hit her like a sucker punch to the gut, and she wanted answers.

As she stepped into the room, she instantly picked up on the tension coming from Garcia. Her eyebrows rose. ‘What happened? Have we got something already?’

Garcia handed her the printout. ‘From the butcher’s shop.’

Just like Garcia, she didn’t see it at first. ‘What the hell am I looking at?’

Garcia pointed at the letters.

The captain’s eyes shot in Hunter’s direction. ‘This was on the wall in the shop?’

‘On the ceiling. Directly above where the victim was left.’

‘But the ceiling is covered in graffiti. Why do you think these words have anything to do with our victim?’

‘Two reasons. One, that’s not graffiti like the rest of the ceiling, that’s a handwritten message. Two, the paint was more vivid than the rest of the graffiti, too fresh.’

The captain’s eyes returned to the printout.

Hunter paused and all of a sudden started searching his desk.

‘What are you looking for?’ the captain asked.

‘The DVD with the video file we got from the morgue yesterday. I want to check something.’ He found it and popped it into his computer’s disk drive.

Garcia and Captain Blake joined Hunter by his desk.

As the video started playing, Hunter fast-forwarded it to the scene where Doctor Winston retrieved the bomb from inside the stitched victim. The player application in Hunter’s computer didn’t have a frame-by-frame function. He had to keep on clicking the play/pause button to slowly advance it to the exact spot he wanted. He watched a small segment a couple of times before turning to face Garcia and the captain.

‘His back is towards the camera, so we have to guess the correct moment,’ Hunter said, ‘but look at Doctor Winston’s arm movement right here.’

All eyes were glued to the screen.

Hunter rewound and played the sequence twice over.

‘There’s a small jerk.’ Garcia nodded. ‘As if his hand came unstuck.’

‘Exactly,’ Hunter agreed. ‘Do you have a stopwatch?’

Garcia pulled his sleeve up to reveal his wristwatch. ‘Sure.’

‘Time it. Ready? Go.’ Hunter clicked the play button. Exactly ten seconds later, the screen was filled with static.

‘A ten-second delay trigger mechanism?’ the captain said, looking at Hunter. ‘Like a grenade?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Most grenades’ trigger mechanisms have to be manually activated,’ Garcia said. ‘Who activated that one?’

Hunter rubbed his face. ‘That’s the question that’s been knocking around in my head. Whoever placed the bomb inside the victim couldn’t be sure of the exact moment of extraction. That means that the bomb couldn’t have been on a timer or have been remotely activated.’

Garcia nodded.

‘So what if in this case the trigger was held in place not by a pin like most grenades, but by the confined space where the bomb was placed?’ Hunter suggested. ‘A spring trigger of some sort, held tight by the victim’s own body.’

Garcia and Captain Blake exchanged glances as they considered it for a moment.

‘So extracting the bomb from the victim would’ve released the trigger,’ Garcia said, scratching his forehead. ‘It’s possible — and very creative.’

‘Fantastic,’ the captain said, pinching the bridge of her nose. ‘To the killer this is all just a game.’ She showed Hunter the printout again. ‘He even told us it was inside her.’

Hunter shook his head. ‘The killer wasn’t informing us, Captain.’

‘Sorry?’

‘The killer was informing the victim.’