I Am Death (33 page)

The annotation read –
Midazolam, 2.5 mg.

‘Do you know what that is?’ Garcia asked.

‘I think it’s an anesthetic,’ Hunter replied, his eyes never leaving the text.

Though Garcia didn’t know the drug, he had guessed it to be some sort of sedative, but that wasn’t what had excited him, or kept Hunter so transfixed.

The handwriting was.

The handwriting that they both had stared at for hours on end over the past few days.

The killer’s.

Hunter and Garcia’s first stop after leaving Mathew Hade’s apartment was the LAPD Scientific Investigation Division’s Criminalistics Lab in El Sereno, East
Los Angeles. On their way there, Hunter called Doctor Brian Snyder, the lead forensics agent who had attended Sharon Barnard’s crime scene in Venice. He had just come back from a double
homicide scene in Westlake.

Doctor Snyder came out to meet the detectives at the lab’s reception lobby.

‘Detectives,’ he said, shaking their hands. ‘Nice seeing you again. How can I help?’

Hunter gave him a quick summary of everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours, before handing him the evidence bags he had with him.

Doctor Snyder studied them for a short moment, his eyes lingering over the book of matches for a little longer than they did the other items.

‘Midazolam,’ he read out loud, his voice full of concern.

‘Do you know what that is?’ Garcia asked.

Doctor Snyder nodded. ‘Yes. Midazolam is a Benzodiazepine-based anesthetic with hypnotic properties.’

Garcia blinked twice.

‘There are three Benzodiazepines in common anesthetic use today,’ he explained. ‘Diazepam, Lorazepam and, especially, Midazolam. It is the most lipid-soluble of the three,
which means that it’s the fastest to be absorbed by the body and, therefore, also the quickest acting. Its main properties are sedation, relatively little respiratory and cardiac depression,
anti-panic, anti-anxiety, anti-convulsant, and it’s also a very strong, centrally acting muscle relaxant. It will induce unconsciousness, or a hypnotic state, in under thirty seconds,
producing a very reliable level of amnesia very similar to the “black hole amnesia” caused by Rohypnol, the rape drug. The patient, or victim, will remember nothing.’

‘So, in short,’ Garcia commented, ‘it’s the perfect drug to quickly immobilize a victim.’

Doctor Snyder agreed with a nod. ‘Or, depending on the dosage, to pacify them enough so they would offer no resistance. A person under a mild dosage of Midazolam would act as if he or she
were drunk – very drunk, actually. To a passer-by, a perpetrator dragging a victim in that state would just look like somebody helping a drunken friend. That’s all.’ His gaze
returned to the book of matches for an instant. ‘But the dosage described here – two point five milligrams – is more than enough to completely subdue a subject as tall and as
heavy as any of us.’

‘How difficult is it to obtain?’ Hunter asked.

‘Not very. Especially with the clandestine sites you find on the net today. If you know where to search, it won’t take long.’

‘Perfect,’ Garcia said.

‘How long do you think it will take to process those, Doc?’ Hunter asked.

The face Doctor Snyder made didn’t fill them with confidence.

‘I can put them through right now with an “urgent” request,’ he told them. ‘And I promise that I’ll do all I can to move them as close to the top of the pile
as possible. If I get lucky, I can probably have the result of the handwriting analysis back to you by tomorrow, or the day after.’ He reflexively checked his watch as he mentioned the time
frame. ‘As for the rest, I’m really not sure. Maybe two days . . . maybe more.’

Hunter and Garcia knew that there was nothing more they, or Doctor Snyder, could do. The Criminalistics Laboratory was part of the Hertzberg-Davis Forensic Science Center at the LA Regional
Crime Lab and the whole facility was shared jointly by five different organizations, all of them wanting results back by yesterday. Their technicians had more work than they could possibly handle.
An urgent request by one of their own sure was an advantage, but not a guarantee. For now, all they could do was wait.

Hunter managed only three and a half hours of sleep before his brain was fully awake again. He kept his eyes shut for another minute or two, hoping, willing, but deep inside he
knew that it was a futile exercise. No matter how hard he wished, no matter how tightly he squeezed his eyes, sleep would not come back.

Finally giving up, he rolled over in bed and opened his eyes. Unorganized thoughts collided against each other inside his head, creating an undecipherable mess that only served to confuse him
more. He breathed out a leaden breath, swung his feet off the bed and sat at its edge, giving his eyes a chance to get rid of the stupor of sleep. He checked the digital clock by his bed –
4:55 a.m.

In the bathroom, Hunter washed his face and brushed his teeth before regarding himself in the mirror just above the washbasin for an instant. He looked exhausted. His eyes were half bloodshot
and the circles under them were starting to look like badly applied makeup.

Entering his living room, and without even thinking about it, he checked the floor by the front door.

Nothing.

No envelopes.

He shook his head as he considered the silliness of what he’d just done.

But was it really?
he heard the little voice at the back of his mind ask. The killer had done it once, and there was nothing to keep him from doing it again. In his entire career as an
RHD detective, Hunter had never dealt with a more unpredictable predator.

He crossed the living room and entered the kitchen. After pouring himself a glass of water from the tap, he pulled open the fridge door and looked inside. Its emptiness made him chuckle. All he
had was the still-untouched energy drink, a couple of apples and three dried-up slices of pizza – hot pepperoni. The beef jerk pieces were all gone, but cold pizza was probably Hunter’s
favorite breakfast. He had practically lived on it throughout his college years.

He grabbed a pizza slice and walked back into his living room. Once again, he checked the floor by his front door.

Nothing.

‘OK, Robert, you’re going to have to stop doing this,’ he said to himself as he took a bite of his pizza. To him, it actually tasted better than when it was piping hot.

He walked up to the window and peeked outside, searching for nothing at all. He lived in a quiet corner of Huntingdon Park and, as far as he could see, the streets still looked dead.

He had another bite of his pizza and turned away from the window. On the table by his small bar was a photocopy of the killer’s third note. He’d read it so many times that he could
probably recite it backwards, word for word.

He checked the clock on the wall – 5:11 a.m.

Hunter finished eating his pizza slice, went back into the kitchen and grabbed a second one. On his way back, he checked the floor again.

Nothing.

He cursed himself for his paranoia and paused by the note. He decided not to sit down. From his standing position, he read it again a couple of times. Just like before, nothing stood out.

He concentrated on the last part of the note.

He paused.

Hunter was sure that it wasn’t an attempt at being funny or sarcastic.

He read the whole thing one more time.

Zilch. He could think of nothing.

Hunter gave up.

As he looked away from the note and in the direction of his bar, his gaze grazed the last few lines. It was as if, for some reason, his brain decided to mix up the words and the letters in a
peculiar way. For a split second he saw something that made him freeze in place.

‘What the hell?’

Hunter stared at it again, his breathing calm, his eyes searching for what he had just seen.

Nothing.

‘Where is it?’ he breathed out, trying again, willing his eyes to find it.

He couldn’t see it.

Had he imagined it?

Hunter looked away, blinked a couple of times and then looked back at the note.

Not there.

Maybe he had imagined it.

He did it again, but this time he only allowed his gaze to just scrape over the letters.

His breathing caught in his throat.

There it was.

Garcia pulled into an empty space in the Police Administration Building parking lot, shut off the car’s engine and checked the screen display on his cellphone for the
tenth time since he’d gotten out of bed that morning. It showed nothing. No missed calls. No text messages.

Even without confirmation from the forensics lab, what they’d found yesterday in Mathew Hade’s apartment was enough to send alarm bells ringing everywhere. An APB had been sent out
to every police station and sheriff’s department in the Los Angeles area. A design expert from the LAPD IT Division had used the mugshot they had of Mathew Hade and created a series of
variations to the way he might now look, adding different hairstyles, hair colors and facial hair. A note was added to the APB alerting everyone to keep in mind that the subject had, very possibly,
become quite skillful with makeup and disguise and that the images were to be used mainly as guidelines.

After a lengthy meeting with Hunter and Garcia, Captain Blake authorized an around-the-clock surveillance operation on Mathew Hade’s apartment. The first LAPD Special Investigation Section
team had been dispatched to the address last night.

The LAPD SIS was an Elite Tactical Surveillance squad that had existed for more than forty years, despite efforts from various human rights and political groups to shut it down. The reason for
such efforts was that their kill rate was higher than that of any other unit in the department, including SWAT. SIS teams were mainly used to stealthily watch apex predators – individuals
suspected of violent crimes who would not cease until caught in the act. Masters of disguise and surveillance, every SIS officer was an expert in close-quarters combat as well as a distinguished
marksman. Their main tactic was to wait to observe a suspect committing new crimes before moving in to make arrests. Due to the fact that most suspects would not surrender without a fight, lethal
force was often used. With that in mind, all SIS teams for this operation were under specific orders that if Mathew Hade was sighted, he was not to be approached. Their job was to keep him under
surveillance and not lose him until the detectives in charge of the investigation got there.

As Garcia took the elevator up to the fifth floor, he checked his phone one more time.

Still nothing.

He’d been at his desk for less than a minute when Hunter pushed open the door and stepped inside. Despite how exhausted Hunter looked, Garcia picked up something else in his expression
– a mixture of doubt and excitement.

‘Have you heard anything?’ Garcia asked, instinctively peeking at his cellphone yet again. He had nothing.

‘Not yet, have you?’

Garcia shook his head. ‘Nothing from the SIS team, the sheriff’s department or any other LAPD station. I’m just about to check emails, but if we had anything from forensics
I’m sure Doctor Snyder would’ve already called one of us.’

‘I’ve received nothing either,’ Hunter confirmed, also checking his cellphone. His ‘silent’ switch was off and his ringer volume was cranked up to the maximum.
‘But I’d like you to have a look at something and tell me if I’m losing my mind or not,’ he added, returning his phone to his pocket and approaching the picture board.

‘OK.’ Garcia swiveled his chair around, intrigued.

‘This morning,’ Hunter began. ‘I thought I saw something on the note that I hadn’t picked up before.’

The intensity with which Hunter delivered his statement made Garcia get to his feet.

‘And what was that?’ He joined Hunter by the board.

‘What does the killer call himself?’ Hunter asked.

Garcia frowned. ‘What?’

‘On the notes, what does the killer call himself?’

Garcia looked at all three notes on the board before his gaze moved back to Hunter.

‘Death,’ he replied, flipping his palms up, as people do when giving an obvious answer.

‘So why doesn’t he sign them as “Death”?’

Garcia’s expression was one of total confusion.

‘OK, maybe you have lost it, Robert. That’s exactly how he signs his notes.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ Hunter came back. ‘He signs them “I am death”, not just “Death”. Why?’

Garcia regarded the notes again. ‘What? I’m not sure I’m following you?’

‘Just look at them, Carlos.’ Hunter tapped the board. ‘They all end with the phrase “I am death”, not just the word “death”. No other killer who has
ever taunted the police with notes or messages has done that – Jack the Ripper, the BTK Killer, the Zodiac Killer, Son of Sam, whoever, it doesn’t matter: they all signed their notes
with just a name, not a sentence.’

Garcia pondered this for a moment before accepting it. ‘OK, fine, but what difference does it make?’

‘Probably none, if not for what he wrote in his last message.’ Hunter indicated the note.

‘I see that,’ Garcia said, lifting his hands again in a surrendering gesture. ‘But I’m still not sure where you’re going with this,
Robert.’

‘This guy likes to play,’ Hunter said. ‘We all know that by now. The notes are part of his game and, if we are correct in our assumption, he considers himself too smart for us.
Actually, too smart for anyone. Playing a game against someone who is so much inferior to him is no fun. And he wants to make this fun.’

‘OK,’ Garcia agreed.

‘At first, you believed this could be his way of being funny or sarcastic, remember? But what if he isn’t being funny? What if he really is giving us a clue?’