The Executioner (35 page)

‘Sweet Jesus!’ the captain whispered, bringing a trembling hand to her mouth.

A naked black man was sitting in a high-back metal chair. His skin was a dull shade of gray. His head was slightly tilted back. Protruding from his open mouth was a thin, clear plastic tube. But what was causing Captain Blake to shiver wasn’t the tube shoved deep down the man’s throat. It was the two hundred and fifty ten-milliliter syringes filled with blood that had been plunged all over the man’s body. From his eyes to his ears, head, torso, genitals, legs and feet.

Doctor Winston was standing to the right of the victim. He slowly approached both detectives and the RHD captain. Hunter had never seen him look so distressed. All four of them stood in silence. Captain Blake was the first to speak. Her usually calm and authoritative voice had a nervous quiver to it.

‘The killer made the victim into a blood-filled pincushion?’

‘In a way.’ A small pause. ‘Those syringes contain about fifty percent of all his blood.’

The captain’s questioning stare moved from the doctor to Hunter.

‘Without help, human beings won’t survive if they lose over forty percent of their blood,’ Hunter stated.

Garcia let out a constricted sigh.

‘Are you telling me that the killer literally sucked the life out of the victim?’ the captain asked.

‘Ten milliliters at a time,’ the doctor confirmed.

The scene was as abhorrent as it was hypnotic. Disgusting, but they couldn’t peel their eyes away from it.

Gingerly, they approached the victim.

The sight of the two blood-filled syringes plunged into the man’s open eyes were starting to churn Captain Blake’s stomach. She forced herself to look away.

‘The number?’ Hunter asked.

In silence, Doctor Winston directed their attention to the victim’s back. Centered between his shoulder blades and six inches long, the number five had been drawn in blood.

Hunter walked around to the front of the chair. ‘What do we know of the victim?’

‘His name was Darnell Douglas. Forty-one years old. Lived in West Hollywood with his wife of seven years.’

Hunter looked up.

‘She hasn’t been told yet,’ the doctor confirmed with a sad head shake. ‘He was a car salesman for Princeton Cars, also located in West Hollywood. You probably already heard how he disappeared yesterday after taking one of the vehicles from his shop out for a test drive.’

Hunter nodded.

‘My team is dusting the entire car as we speak. If the killer left anything behind, we’ll find it.’

‘How did the killer manage to extract so much blood?’ Garcia asked, cringing as he studied the syringes.

‘Very good question,’ the doctor agreed, ‘and the answer is – very slowly.’ He pointed to the internal midsection of the victim’s right arm. ‘As you all know, given its high-pressure blood flow, the arm’s basilic vein is the preferred vein for venipuncture – taking blood. If you move a little closer, you’ll notice that the basilic vein region in both arms have been pricked to exhaustion.’

Due to the victim’s skin color, hematomas were hard to spot, but Hunter had already noticed the exaggerated number of needle pricks on the midsection of the victim’s arms.

‘If you try to extract blood from someone’s leg or chest or anywhere but a venipuncture site using a syringe,’ the doctor continued, ‘unless you were lucky enough to have hit a vein, you’ll get little, if any blood at all.’

Hunter thought about this for a second. ‘So the killer extracted ten millileters of blood at a time from the victim’s arms and then . . .’ His words trailed off.

Doctor Winston nodded and pointed to the victim’s neck, where tens of closely set pinpricks were visible on both sides. ‘Not only the arms. He also used the neck veins. Every time he filled a syringe up, the killer needed a place to store it before moving to the next one.’ He looked at Barbara Blake, who was now staring at him – mouth half open, eyes wide. ‘So he didn’t use the victim’s body as a pincushion, Barbara. More of a storage unit.’

Oh God!

‘The killer could’ve dragged this out for hours,’ the doctor proceeded, ‘and judging by what we’ve seen from the previous victims, I’m certain he did.’

‘And he made him suffer,’ Hunter noted.

‘Immensely,’ the doctor agreed. ‘Every new syringe filled with blood was stabbed into the victim’s body as opposed to inserted.’ He pointed to each body part as he mentioned them. ‘Eardrums, testicles, nipples and eyes were most likely the first to be stabbed, as they’d be the ones to cause the greatest amount of pain. In the less fleshy body parts like the face, shins, knees and so on, the needles hit bone.’

‘The killer wouldn’t have gone for the eyes early.’ Hunter disagreed, having a closer look at the victim’s face.

Doctor Winston and Captain Blake frowned.

‘He would’ve wanted the victim to see the needles being plunged into him,’ Hunter explained.

‘Why?’ The captain this time.

‘Oh my God!’ Garcia whispered, realizing what Hunter meant. ‘The killer always goes after the victim’s fear.’ All eyes moved to him. ‘Darnell Douglas was scared of needles.’

The huge open-plan floor was a labyrinth of large and small desks. All of them piled high with books and cluttered with stacks of papers and photographs. Oversized computer monitors, telephones, framed family pictures and cuddly toys occupied whatever worktop space was left. There were no placards hanging from the ceilings. No names anywhere. No way of knowing who was who or who did what. The place sounded like a beehive, bustling with phone talk and keyboard clacks. Over two hundred people in total putting the final touches to the stories that would make the next morning’s edition of the
LA Times
.

Claire Anderson sat at the far corner, facing a desk that looked more like a coffee table than a reporter’s workstation. Even though she’d made the front page of yesterday’s edition with her
serial killer/psychic girl
story, she was still on her trial period. Sure, yesterday’s story had certainly won her a few Brownie points, but she knew that in this game there were no certainties. Yesterday’s front page could easily become today’s old news. She had to follow it up; she had to keep the buzz going. Instinct was telling her that she’d stumble onto something different.

A killer like no one had ever seen before, but she needed more information. Unfortunately, she was well aware that she’d pissed off the lead detective in the case. She couldn’t allow this story to run away from her. She had to explore the angle that only she and no other reporter had found out – the psychic girl.

Last night at Trader Vic’s Lounge, Claire had a feeling the phone call Hunter received at their table had something to do with the girl. But by the time she collected her coat and made it outside Hunter had gone. Not wanting to waste any time, Claire jumped into a cab and made her way back to the same old and squalid hotel in Lynwood where she’d followed the girl after her coffee shop meeting with Hunter and Garcia. But she was also gone. The tall, bald landlord at reception told Claire he hadn’t seen the girl he called Monica since the previous night.

‘You her friend?’ he asked in an unrecognizable foreign accent. His breath stunk of booze. ‘If you good friend you pay me the money she owes, huh? She no pay no rent for three weeks.’ He lifted three long, bony fingers. Their nails crusted with dirt.

‘I’m not that good a friend,’ Claire replied, subtly covering her nose with her right hand. ‘But I’ll tell you what Mr . . .?’

‘Petrosky. Pat Petrosky.’

‘I’ll tell you what, Pat.’ She scribbled her name and number on a piece of paper and placed it on the counter. ‘If you call me as soon as you see her again, and I mean the very same second, you can make yourself a hundred bucks. How does that sound?’

Pat read the note without picking it up. When he looked up, his eyes stopped at Claire’s cleavage. ‘OK, Claire. You got deal.’

Claire still hadn’t heard a word from ‘smelly-man’. She sat staring at her laptop screen, tapping a ballpoint pen against her teeth. She still had one trump card to play. By chance, she’d managed to track down one of Mollie’s friends. A twenty-three-year-old waitress named Susan who used to work with her.

Claire’s cell phone vibrated on the desk. She snatched it up.

‘Claire Anderson here.’

It was the newspaper’s phone operator. Claire didn’t have a direct line. Reporters on trial periods never did, so any calls that came into the
LA Times
main switchboard asking for her were diverted to her cell phone.

‘Miss Anderson, I’ve got someone on the phone for you,’ the operator said.

‘Someone, who?’

‘He doesn’t wanna give me his name. He called several times yesterday and a few this morning. I recognize the voice.’

‘OK, put him through.’ She heard a click. ‘This is Claire Anderson.’

‘
The reporter?
’

‘Yes,’ she chuckled, ‘the reporter. What shall I call you?’

‘
You can call me friend
.’

Claire squeezed her eyes and shook her head slowly as the term ‘crackpot’ entered her head. ‘How can I help you, Mr. Friend?’

‘
I was wondering if we could meet. Maybe we can help each other
.’

‘And what would you like to meet about?’

No reply, only heavy breathing.

‘Hello . . .? Are you still there?’

‘
I’m here
.’

‘So what would you like to meet about?’

‘
Someone who in your article you called
“
the psychic girl
”.’

Claire straightened her body and sat up. Something in his voice made her shiver.

‘
She’s not who you think she is
.’

No one spoke for an entire minute. Captain Blake shifted from foot to foot. Garcia’s suggestion that Darnell Douglas was scared of needles struck a chord on her. She didn’t like them either.

‘If he was scared of needles, what the hell is that tube coming out of his mouth?’ Captain Blake finally asked pointing at Darnell. ‘Did the killer force-feed him something?’

Doctor Winston rubbed his face, taking his time. ‘I won’t know for sure until I get the victim into my autopsy room, but I don’t think so. This is an intubation tube.’

A new shiver kissed the back of the captain’s neck. ‘The killer intubated the victim? Why?’

‘Look closely. What’s missing?’ The doctor’s keen eyes challenged them.

Their stare moved back to the grotesque image of a man adorned with two hundred and fifty blood-filled syringes.

‘I give up and I’m in no mood to play games, Jonathan,’ the captain said firmly. ‘What
is
missing?’

‘Restraints,’ Hunter said, moving closer. ‘The victim ain’t tied to the chair. He’s just sitting there as if of his own free will.’

‘Bingo.’ Doctor Winston acknowledged it. ‘Restraints wouldn’t serve the purpose of this murder.’

‘I don’t get it.’ Captain Blake shook her head. ‘What do restraints have to do with the victim being intubated?’

‘A tied-down victim wouldn’t be able to move, but he’d certainly be able to wiggle his body about,’ the doctor explained.

‘Yeah, well, that ain’t much of a fight, is it?’ the captain countered, still looking puzzled.

‘It is if you’re trying to prick a vein,’ Hunter offered.

‘Correct again,’ the doctor confirmed. ‘All Mr. Douglas would’ve needed was a quick body wiggle and the killer’s plan to catch a venipuncture site with a needle would’ve been fumbled. Knocking the victim unconscious would’ve given the killer no satisfaction either. He wanted the victim to be awake.’

‘So the killer would’ve needed to completely immobilize the victim?’ Garcia asked.

Doctor Winston took a deep breath. ‘The killer would’ve needed to paralyze the victim.’

‘Drugged?’ Captain Blake asked.

‘Most probably,’ the doctor agreed. ‘I’ll need the lab results to confirm it, though.’

‘A paralyzing agent that would’ve kept the subject conscious?’ Hunter glanced at the doctor meaningfully.

‘Not only conscious. I’m sure the killer wanted the victim to also retain feeling.’

‘Oh man!’ Garcia folded his arms tightly, as if the doctor’s words had intensified the cold inside the room. ‘Is there such a drug? A paralyzing agent that allows the subject to still feel everything?’

‘Oh yes.’ A quick nod. ‘Quite a few, actually. And with the internet and the hundreds of clandestine drug sites, very easy to obtain.’

‘Still—’ Captain Blake cut in, shaking her head ‘—why intu-bate him?’

‘Because whatever the killer used probably also paralyzed his diaphragm,’ Hunter deducted. ‘He would’ve suffocated because he wouldn’t have been able to breathe. The killer needed him alive.’

‘That’s exactly what I was thinking,’ Doctor Winston concurred. ‘The tube fed him oxygen and kept him alive while the killer inflicted as much pain as anybody could possibly take.’