The Night Stalker

Three

Garcia made the trip from East LA to the Los Angeles County Department of Coroner in North Mission Road in record time.

Their confusion doubled as they approached the entrance to the coroners’ parking lot. It was blocked off by four police vehicles and two fire engines. More police cars were inside the lot. Several uniformed officers were moving around chaotically, shouting orders at each other and over the radio.

The media had descended upon the scene like ravenous wolves. Local TV and newspaper vans were everywhere. Reporters, cameramen and photographers were doing their best to get as close as they could. But a tight perimeter had already been established around the main building, and it was being strictly enforced by the LAPD.

‘What the hell is going on here?’ Hunter whispered under his breath as Garcia pulled up by the entrance.

‘You’ll have to move along, sir,’ a young policeman said, coming up to Garcia’s window and frantically gesturing for him to drive on. ‘You can’t—’

He stopped as soon as he saw Garcia’s badge. ‘I’m sorry, Detective; I’ll clear a path right away.’ He turned to face the other two officers who were standing next to their vehicles. ‘C’mon guys, make way.’

Less than thirty seconds later, Garcia was parking his Honda Civic just in front of the stairway that led up to the main building.

Hunter stepped out of the car and looked around. A small group of people, most of them in white coats, were huddled together at the far end of the parking lot. Hunter recognized them as lab technicians and coroner staff.

‘What happened here?’ he asked a fireman who had just come off the radio.

‘You’ll have to ask the chief in charge for more details. All I can tell you is that there was a fire somewhere inside.’ He pointed to the old hospital-turned-morgue.

Hunter frowned. ‘Fire?’

Certain arson cases were also investigated by the HSS, but they were rarely considered UV. Hunter had never been assigned as the lead detective in any of them.

‘Robert, over here.’

Hunter turned and saw Doctor Carolyn Hove coming down the steps to greet them. She’d always looked a great deal younger than her forty-six years. But not today. Her usually perfectly styled chestnut hair was disheveled, her expression solemn and defeated. If the Los Angeles County Coroner had ranks, Doctor Hove would be second in command, just under Doctor Winston.

‘What in the world is going on, Doc?’ Hunter asked.

‘Absolute hell. .’