The Night Stalker

Fifteen

The results of the chemical tests done on the spray paint used on the ceiling of the butcher’s shop came in by 2:00 p.m. and threw up nothing special. The paint came from a can of Montana Tarblack — probably the most popular brand of spray paint in the USA. Every graffiti artist in the country used it. The handwriting analyses confirmed what Hunter already suspected — the killer had used his non-writing hand to spray the words onto the ceiling. Simple, but effective. Hunter had requested that the whole room be dusted again, and this time they should include the ceiling. Every print found was to be run through the National Automated Fingerprint ID System.

Hunter leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and gently ran the tip of his finger up and down the bridge of his nose. His brain kept trying to make sense of such a senseless act.

If there had been no bomb, if the victim had been found simply stitched shut, Hunter would have a steadier psychological path to follow. The stitches to the mouth on their own would have suggested the possibility of a retaliation kill — a lesson being taught. The victim might have said something she shouldn’t have — about the wrong person, to the wrong person, or both. The act could have been performed as a way to symbolize shutting her up.

The stitches to her mouth and lower body together would have upped the stakes to a possible sexual or love betrayal and revenge. If you can’t keep your mouth and legs shut, I’ll shut them for you. That would’ve clearly placed a deceived husband, boyfriend or lover right at the top of their list of persons of interest. And that possibility was still pretty much alive in Hunter’s mind. But he still had the bomb to deal with. Why place a bomb inside the victim? Experience also told him that the overwhelming majority of what were considered crimes of passion were spur-of-the-moment acts, generated by irrational anger and an almost total loss of control. Very rarely did it come in the form of a planned, calculated and brutal vengeance act.

One possibility that kept nagging Hunter was that there could have been more than one perpetrator, more specifically, a gang. Crimes like this one weren’t beyond the scope of certain gangs in Los Angeles. Some were notorious for their violence and their bad-ass, don’t-fuck-with-us attitude. Sending a warning to other gangs in the form of brutal beatings and murders happened more often than the mayor of Los Angeles would care to admit. These gangs also had a direct link to gun trafficking. Getting hold of a ready-made bomb, a grenade, or materials to make their own wouldn’t have been a problem. The victim could’ve belonged to some gang leader. Some of them liked to think of their women as possessions. If she’d betrayed him, especially if she did it with a rival gang member, this could have been their way of blowing her off.

And then there was the possibility that the stitches carried no symbolism whatsoever. As Captain Blake had suggested, they could simply be dealing with an extremely sadistic killer, someone who enjoyed hurting people for the sheer pleasure of it. And Hunter knew that if that were the case, more victims would follow.

‘The Missing Persons files we requested should be with us in the next forty-five minutes or so,’ Garcia said, coming off the phone and dragging Hunter away from his thoughts.

‘Great. You can start going over them if I’m not here.’ Hunter reached for his jacket. There was only one person he knew in LA who’d have knowledge of guns, explosives, trigger mechanisms and gangs. It was time to call in some favors.