I Am Death (5 page)

Both detectives shook their heads.

The captain watched the last drops of coffee trickle into her cup while she clarified: ‘It looks like the perpetrator pretended to be Ms. Bennett’s cousin from Texas, who was
supposedly staying over at their garage apartment.’ She took a moment, allowing Hunter and Garcia to absorb the information before moving on. ‘Audrey Bennett doesn’t have a cousin
from Texas. They had no one staying over at their garage apartment.’ She dropped a single sweetener tablet into her cup. ‘And get this, the perpetrator was having a sandwich in the
kitchen when Nicole walked in on him.’

Curiosity and intrigue flooded Garcia’s face.

‘He was having a sandwich?’

‘According to Ms. Bennett, yes.’

‘Wait a second.’ Hunter lifted a hand. ‘I’m guessing that if Nicole was babysitting for the Bennetts, they were out of the house at the time?’

‘That’s correct,’ Captain Blake confirmed. ‘They were attending a judge’s dinner. James Bennett is a high-flying lawyer.’

‘So if they were out of the house, how does Ms. Bennett know about the perpetrator posing as her cousin?’

‘Well, that’s where it starts to get creepy,’ Captain Blake said, sipping her coffee. ‘The perpetrator allowed Nicole to answer a call from Audrey Bennett and tell her
about the man she had met in the kitchen, before taking her.’ She indicated the file in Hunter’s hands. ‘A very detailed transcript of the interview Missing Persons did with
Audrey Bennett is in there, next page along. It also includes her entire account of the phone conversation she had with Nicole.’

Hunter and Garcia turned to it.

‘How did the perpetrator gain access to the house?’ Hunter asked.

‘As yet unknown,’ the captain replied. ‘There were no signs of forced entry but the back door was unlocked. The problem is, Ms. Bennett can’t remember if she had left it
that way or not. But even if she hadn’t, Nicole could’ve unlocked it for some reason and forgot to relock it, there’s no way of confirming that. And there’s also the
possibility that the perpetrator could’ve simply picked the lock. Forensics said that there was no damage to it, but we all know that with the right knowledge and tools, door locks
aren’t that hard to breach.’

Hunter nodded and carried on reading.

‘Ms. Bennett called the police immediately after disconnecting with Nicole,’ Captain Blake added. ‘But by the time they got to the house – twenty-two minutes later
– Nicole was gone.’

‘Any CCTV cameras around where the Bennetts live?’ Garcia asked.

Captain Blake shook her head. ‘None. You’d have to go all the way to the bottom of Hollywood Hills to find one.’

‘How about the boy she was babysitting?’ Hunter asked, reading from the file.

‘Joshua, three years old,’ the captain confirmed. ‘He wasn’t touched. They found him asleep upstairs, just the way his parents had left him. The boy heard and saw
nothing.’

‘Are Nicole’s parents rich?’ Hunter asked.

‘Not by any stretch of the imagination. Father is a school-teacher. Mother works in a local supermarket.’

‘So the perpetrator broke into a wealthy family’s house to abduct the babysitter?’ Garcia this time. ‘Not the boy?’

‘As unnatural as it sounds, yes,’ Captain Blake answered, having one more sip of her coffee. ‘And that’s our first tricky question – why? Why complicate things for
himself? He could’ve made his job a lot easier by taking Nicole either before she got to the Bennett’s house, or after she left. A simple approach and grab job. Why increase his risk by
breaking into the house and taking her from inside?’

Both detectives understood their captain’s concern very well. They all knew a street abduction made collecting left-behind clues and evidence like fingerprints, fibers, hairs and so on
infinitely harder, not to mention the fact that everything gets exposed to the elements. Clues could easily be blown away by a gust of wind, washed away by rain, or contaminated in many different
ways. But if a perpetrator breaks into a confined space like a house, the risk of third-party contamination decreased exponentially, and he allowed the police an elements-free and much more focused
area to work with.

‘One of two reasons,’ Garcia replied, first looking at Hunter, then back at Captain Blake. ‘He was either too stupid to figure out that he would increase his risk of being
identified, or he was confident enough to know that he wouldn’t leave anything behind.’

Hunter nodded his agreement.

‘And if he was so bold as to be having a sandwich in the kitchen and to allow his victim to answer a phone call before making his move,’ Garcia carried on, ‘I don’t think
that we’re looking at reason number one here, are we, Captain?’

Captain Blake finished her coffee, placing her cup on her desk.

‘No,’ she finally replied. ‘Forensics scrutinized the house for two whole days. Everything they found was matched either to the Bennetts or to Nicole Wilson herself. The unsub
left absolutely nothing behind.’

‘Did the FBI get involved?’ Garcia asked.

The captain shook her head. ‘No. The Adult Missing Persons Unit didn’t request any help from the Bureau. As I’ve said, Nicole Wilson was twenty years old, not a minor, which
means that the Lindbergh Law doesn’t apply to her.’

Hunter got to the end of the dossier. There was nothing else. ‘So when was her body found?’

Captain Blake walked back behind her desk, opened the top drawer on the left and retrieved two new files.

‘In the early hours of this morning. It was left on an empty field by Los Angeles International Airport. And if the house-break-in-sandwich-eating scenario wasn’t creepy enough
– have a look at this shit.’

Squirm waited by the metal sink in the kitchen. He kept his eyes low, tracing the black-and-white squares on the old linoleum floor he had just cleaned to as much of a shine as
it would go. His hands were shackled in front of him. A half-foot-long heavy metal bar kept them apart, but each end had been specially fitted with a rotating cuff, allowing Squirm’s hands
some restricted movement, enough for him to handle a mop and scrubbing brushes. From the center of the metal bar, a long chain connected it to the loop that had been fixed into the east wall. Every
room in the house had one, like power points, including the bathroom. Squirm was always shackled to a wall, no matter where he was. There were metal loops built into the walls in the basement too,
but he was never allowed down there.

Actually, the basement scared Squirm speechless. Screams came from down there – desperate, full-of-fear-and-over-flowing-with-pain screams. The kind that would haunt one’s dreams for
ever. He’d heard them for the past few days. A woman’s voice, pleading, begging for the man to let her go. She even yelled out her name once. Or at least Squirm thought it was her name
– Nicole.

The screams stopped sometime yesterday. He hadn’t heard her since.

The man was also in the kitchen, sitting at the small, square breakfast table a few feet in front of Squirm. He was having his usual breakfast which consisted of a bowl of cereal, a cup of
coffee, a few slices of cheese, a raw egg, and some toast. His full attention was on the newspaper on the table, by his coffee cup. He didn’t even seem to acknowledge the boy’s
presence.

Squirm’s stomach growled like a confused dog and that made every muscle in his body go rigid. He was not supposed to make a sound. The man had told him that.

Terrified, the boy’s eyes flicked to the man for just a split second before quickly focusing on his manacled hands. The cuffs, even though they allowed him some movement, were fitted tight
around his tiny wrists and his morning cleaning chores had dug them further into his flesh. A thin circle of fresh blood decorated each wrist like a crimson bracelet.

The man didn’t look up.

Squirm’s stomach growled again, this time for a while longer. He hadn’t eaten anything for a whole day. There had been no scraps left over for breakfast, lunch or dinner the day
before. He was so hungry he could feel his legs weakening under him.

The man finally finished eating and stood up. He paused by the kitchen door and looked back at the boy.

‘Lucky morning for you today, Squirm.’ He nodded at the table. ‘I’m not that hungry. You can finish that up.’

Squirm looked at what was left but didn’t move. He was too scared to. The man had left him a bite of dried toast, about a sip of coffee, and three, maybe four spoonfuls of cornflakes with
milk.

‘Go on, Squirm, eat,’ the man ordered.

Squirm rushed to the table, his shaking hands first reaching for the piece of dried toast. He grabbed it and immediately shoved it into his mouth, as though if he didn’t eat it fast enough
it would all be taken away from him again. It tasted like the most delicious piece of toast he’d ever eaten.

The man watched him.

Squirm grabbed the coffee cup and drank whatever was left in it in one single gulp. It tasted so bitter his entire face scrunched up. He had never liked coffee, not without milk and sugar, but
right now he would take whatever he got.

Squirm then reached for the bowl of cereal and the plastic spoon.

‘Nah-ah,’ the man said with a headshake. ‘You know the rules, Squirm. No spoon. No cutlery. Use your hands, like the dirty animal you are.’

Squirm dropped the spoon, grabbed the bowl with his right hand and brought it to his lips, but the metal bar between his wrists made it all too awkward, and though he managed to tip some of it
into his mouth, a whole spoonful spilled down his chin and on to the table and floor.

‘Are you throwing food away, you useless piece of shit?’ the man asked angrily, taking a threatening step toward the boy.

‘No, sir, no, sir, no, sir. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

As carefully as he could, the boy placed the bowl back on the table and looked down at the tiny mess he had created.

‘Lick it all up,’ the man said. ‘Lick it up now.’

Squirm bent down, bringing his mouth to the table. He first sucked all the milk off the table surface, before using his tongue and lips to collect each cornflake that had spilt out of the
bowl.

‘The floor too,’ the man demanded, indicating it with his index finger. ‘You better eat that up right now, or else . . .’ He began undoing his belt.

In a flash, Squirm got down on his hands and knees and began sucking the milk from the floor. When he was done, he once again used his tongue and lips to collect the cornflakes.

‘I want that floor looking just the way it did before you dirtied it. I want it shining, do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir. I’ll mop it again, sir.’

‘No. I don’t want you to mop it again. The privilege of using a mop is gone. I want you to lick it clean.’

Squirm paused for just a moment.

Slam.

The belt hit Squirm across the middle of his back so hard that his already weak arms gave in and his head went crashing against the floor, making his eyes flutter.

‘Did I stutter, Squirm? I said lick . . . the . . . floor.’

Anger thickened the air.

It took Squirm a moment to regain his balance and get rid of the dizziness. Without another ounce of hesitation, he began licking the floor where he had spilt his cornflakes.

‘That’s right, Squirm, nice, long strokes.’ The man walked over to the table, grabbed the cereal bowl and emptied the rest of its contents on to the floor. ‘Now finish
your breakfast,’ he said, laughing.

Squirm never stopped. He carried on licking every drop of milk and every tiny piece of cornflake from the floor. When he was done with the cornflakes, the man made him lick the entire kitchen
floor. By the time he was done, Squirm’s tongue was bleeding.

Hunter and Garcia flipped open the murder file that Captain Blake had given them. This one also began with a photograph, but this time it wasn’t a portrait. It showed
Nicole Wilson’s body as it had been found in the early hours of the morning. She was dressed in blue jeans, a black T-shirt under a half-unzipped light-gray California State University
sweatshirt and black sneakers – no socks. She had no makeup on, and her hair looked wet, with the fringe plastered against her forehead. There was no blood on her, on her clothes, or on the
ground surrounding the body. No cuts or wounds were visible either. No apparent cause of death, but Hunter and Garcia immediately understood why Captain Blake was so concerned. The body had been
left lying on its back on an empty green patch of grass. The arms were stretched out to her sides in a horizontal line, palms facing up. The legs had also been stretched out and pulled apart as far
as they would go, creating a V shape. The overall image was of a human star and that was what sent alarm bells ringing. From experience, they all knew that specific body positioning hinted strongly
at one thing – ritual. And ritual killers rarely struck only once.

The next photograph was a close-up of Nicole’s face. Her skin had turned a light shade of purple and acquired a waxy, semi-shiny texture. Her lips had gone white from the lack of blood
circulation, and even though her eyes were closed Hunter could tell that they had already begun to sink a little deeper into her skull. But what most caught the LAPD detective’s attention
were the abrasions at the edges of her mouth, together with the small patch of skin that began at the corner of her lips, ran across her cheeks and disappeared behind her neck. It showed a very
slight change of color, a little darker than the rest of the skin on her face, and that indicated that she’d been gagged with an overly tight restraint.

Hunter slowly flipped through the next few pictures and paused when he came to the ones showing a close-up of Nicole’s hands and feet. The skin around her wrists and ankles showed
abrasions and a change of color that were similar to the ones on her face, but the marks were a lot more prominent around her ankles, which was a little strange. She had obviously been gagged, tied
up and kept that way for a considerable amount of time, but for some reason the restraints around her ankles seemed to have been a lot tighter than the ones around her wrists or mouth.