The Night Stalker

Ninety-Four

Garcia stood across the room from the unmade bed, staring at the mess of clothes and objects on the floor.

Mark Stratton, Jessica Black’s boyfriend, had cut short his band’s pre-tour and come back to LA in the early hours of the morning. Garcia accompanied him to the morgue so he could positively identify her body.

No matter how physically or mentally strong anyone is, seeing a loved one lying naked on a cold metal morgue’s body-tray will cut through their defenses. Despite all the stitches having been removed, Jessica’s face seemed to have frozen with an expression of terror and pain. Mark didn’t have to ask if she’d suffered.

His legs gave away within seconds of him being in the room, but Garcia managed to grab him before he hit the floor.

Hunter had told Mark over the phone that there was a possibility that Jessica had been abducted from inside their own apartment. He explained that it was very important that the police and a forensic team had a look at it as soon as possible. It was also very important that he didn’t disturb anything. It didn’t quite work that way.

Since Mark had come off the phone to Hunter late yesterday, he hadn’t stopped shaking. He had incessantly called his home number and Jessica’s cell phone, leaving message after message. He just couldn’t think straight. Emotions took over and he had lost it, destroying his hotel room in anger and frustration.

Without knowing what had happened, the rest of his band had to kick his door in and hold him down. It took the tour manager a couple of hours to get things organized, including a flight back to LA. By then Mark was tramp-drunk, and at the airport he wasn’t allowed to board the plane.

‘Aviation rules,’ explained the young woman at the airline counter. ‘He’s way too inebriated to fly. I’m sorry.’

That had been the last daily flight back to Los Angeles. In the end, they had to hire a private plane to take him back.

After a cab dropped him by his private condo, Mark, still half-drunk, stumbled rather than walked through his front door. At that moment all hope of things not being disturbed inside his apartment was lost. He didn’t stop calling Jessica’s name for hours, walking from room to room, turning lights on and off as if she would suddenly magically appear. He opened her wardrobe and rummaged through her clothes. He emptied drawers and cupboards. He lay down on their bed, hugged her pillow and cried until he had no more tears left.

Mark was now sitting quietly in his kitchen, his eyes bloodshot and sore.

Garcia picked up a photo frame from the bedroom floor — Jessica and Mark holidaying somewhere sunny. They looked happy and in love.

He returned the frame to the dresser, turned to face the unmade bed once again and considered what to do. They couldn’t cordon off Mark and Jessica’s apartment because it wasn’t an official crime scene. The chances of him getting a Forensics team dispatched to the apartment before confirming Jessica had been abducted from there were less than slim. The chances of that Forensics team finding any sort of clue in a scene that had been compromised and completely messed with were virtually none.

Garcia walked out of the room, down the long corridor and into the living room. On the stylish glass table that sat between the sofa and the wall-mounted TV set, he found several music magazines. The top one had Jessica on its cover. Out of pure curiosity he flipped it open and looked for the article. It was a two-page interview through which she talked about being a successful musician and her life in general, but one subheader caught his attention — On Love. Garcia allowed his eyes to skim through the section, but just a few lines in he paused. A chill ran down his spine as if he’d been suddenly hit by an arctic wind. He read the lines again just to be sure.

‘No fucking way.’ He grabbed the magazine and rushed back to his office.