One by One (12 page)

Hunter and everyone else knew that would be impossible. They couldn’t hear it, but they all knew that the buzzing sound of
one
two-inch-long wasp flying around inside a closed casket would be enough to fill most people with terrifying horror. By now, the woman had almost a hundred in there with her.

‘I also know that tarantula hawks can’t eat anyone alive,’ Garcia added. ‘But the venom from a single sting is enough to paralyze a tarantula spider. If a person is attacked by a whole nest . . .’ He pointed at the screen again and shook his head. ‘You tell me.’

On the screen the woman had stopped moving, paralyzed by the intense pain of the stings. Large red lumps now covered most of her torso. Inside the glass coffin there must’ve been over a hundred and fifty tarantula hawks buzzing around her, and still more were being released into the enclosure.

Her face had also been stung tens of times. Both of her eyes had swelled up so severely they were almost shut. Her lips had puffed up to twice their size, and her cheeks were totally disfigured, but she wasn’t dead. Not yet. She was still breathing. With her mouth semi-open, she was taking short, staccato breaths in between body tremors.

‘How long can this go on for?’ the captain asked, nervously pacing before Hunter’s computer.

Nobody answered.

The camera zoomed in on the woman’s face just as three tarantula hawks landed on her lips, stung them again and then slowly moved onto her tongue before disappearing into her mouth.

Captain Blake just couldn’t watch it any more. She looked away just as something began pirouetting inside her stomach. She struggled not to be sick right there and then.

A few seconds later a tarantula hawk climbed out through the woman’s left nostril.

No one said anything.

The woman finally stopped breathing.

Moments later the website went offline.

Twenty-Nine

The disturbing silence that took over the room came from a mixture of sadness, helplessness and pure anger. Despite the website being offline, Hunter, Garcia and Captain Blake’s eyes were still fixed on Hunter’s computer screen.

Michelle Kelly and Dennis Baxter were still on the phone. Michelle spoke first.

‘Detective Hunter, we’ve been monitoring the site’s traffic from the beginning. In the few minutes it was online, it received over fifteen thousand hits.’

‘Over fifteen thousand people watched this poor woman die?’ Captain Blake asked with a tone of disbelief.

‘It looks that way,’ Michelle replied.

‘Ms. Kelly,’ Hunter took over. ‘Can we meet? If necessary I’ll put in an official request for a joint effort between the LAPD and the FBI, but I’d like to start on it as soon as possible.’

‘Absolutely. Even with no official request, I want in. This goes way beyond department politics. My entire team and I will do all we can to help. I’ll be in our office until late tonight, if you’d like to come by.’

‘I will, thanks, and thanks for your help today.’

They disconnected.

‘Over fifteen thousand people?’ Captain Blake repeated it, still half shocked. ‘This thing is already out there, Robert. There’s no way we can contain it. We better get ready for the mother of all shitstorms.’

Hunter’s cellphone rang. The caller display window showed unknown number.

‘That might already be the bloodsucking reporters,’ the captain said.

‘Detective Hunter, Homicide Special,’ he said into the mouthpiece.

‘I told you it would be fun,’ the caller said in a serene voice.

Hunter had to take a deep breath before pressing the loudspeaker button.

‘And with almost two whole minutes to spare.’ The caller chuckled. ‘Oh boy. That was something else, wasn’t it? OK, OK, she wasn’t actually
eaten
alive, but, believe me, those stings are so painful it feels like your body is being ripped apart by sharp teeth.’

Captain Blake looked at Garcia. ‘Is that the sick fuck?’ she whispered.

Garcia nodded.

The captain’s nostrils flared. She was ready to let go of a barrage of abuse.

Hunter saw it first and lifted his hand, signaling her to stay calm.

‘Do you know how many people watched that online, Detective?’ The caller sounded amused. ‘Over fifteen thousand. Isn’t society sick?’ He paused and snorted. ‘Of course you know society is sick. You chase sickos for a living, don’t you, Detective Hunter? Sickos just like me.’

Hunter said nothing.

‘The problem is,’ the caller continued. ‘When is somebody considered a sicko, Detective Hunter? How about all the people who watched? How about all the people who voted? Are they sickos? Regular, everyday people, Detective: social workers, teachers, students, cab drivers, waitresses, doctors, nurses, even police officers. They all wanted to see her die.’ He rethought his words. ‘No . . . worse. They didn’t only want to see her die. They wanted to
help
kill her. They wanted to press the button. They wanted to choose how she would die.’ He paused, allowing the gravity of his words to resonate. ‘Does that make them all accessory to murder, or does it all fall under “human morbid curiosity”? You should know, Detective Hunter. You’re both a cop and a criminal behavior psychologist, aren’t you?’

Hunter didn’t reply.

‘Are you still there, Detective?’

‘You know I’m going to catch you, don’t you?’ The conviction in Hunter’s words was absolute.

The caller laughed. ‘Is that so?’

‘Yes. I will find you. And you will pay.’

‘I do like your attitude, Detective.’

‘It’s not attitude. It’s a fact. Your days are numbered.’

The caller hesitated for a fraction of a second. ‘I guess we’ll see about that. But since you’re so confident in your abilities, Detective, I’ll make a trade with you.’

Hunter said nothing.

‘I had no doubt ten minutes was more than enough time for me to get at least a thousand votes on one of the two death methods. I had no doubt, because society is too predictable. You know that, don’t you?’

Silence.

‘But I also knew that EATEN would come out on top.’

A long pause.

‘So this is the trade, Detective Hunter,’ the caller carried on. ‘You tell me how I knew they would pick EATEN over BURIED, and you’ll find her body soon enough. You don’t. Her body vanishes. Since you’re so confident in your abilities, let’s see how good you are.’

Hunter’s stare settled on Captain Blake.

‘Tell him something,’ she urged. ‘We need that body.’

‘C’mon, Detective,’ the caller urged him. ‘It’s simple psychology. You should get this easy.’

Several seconds went by before Hunter spoke.

‘Because EATEN appealed to “human curiosity”, BURIED didn’t.’ His voice was calm and collected.

The captain frowned.

‘I like it,’ the caller said. ‘Please explain.’

Hunter scratched his forehead. He knew that, for now, he had to play the caller’s game.

‘Everyone knows what to expect from BURIED. EATEN is the unknown. What would you use? How would it be done? What could possibly eat a human being alive? Natural human curiosity would tip the scale toward the unknown.’

A pause was followed by a loud laugh and then handclaps. ‘Very good, Detective. As I said, society as a whole is quite predictable, isn’t it? It was a done deal from the start.’

Hunter said nothing.

‘It must eat you up inside, mustn’t it, Detective?’

‘What must?’

‘The knowledge that the vast majority of people who watched that online show enjoyed it. They probably even cheered every sting. They loved watching her die.’

No reply.

‘And you know what? I bet that they are dying with anticipation for the next show.’

Captain Blake shivered with anger.

‘Well, I must bid you all farewell. I’ve got things to do.’

The line disconnected.

Thirty

The next show.

Those words seemed to echo inside Hunter’s office forever. They all knew exactly what that meant, and it filled everyone with dread.

The first thing Hunter did was to ask his research team to come up with a list of possible meanings for SSV, the three letters that had appeared in the top left-hand corner of the screen at the beginning of the broadcast. He had also asked them to prepare a report on tarantula hawks. Was the species found in California? Can anyone breed them in their back garden, or do they require special environment, conditions, etc.?

Garcia contacted the Missing Persons Unit again and emailed them a snapshot of the woman’s face. They needed to identify her as soon as possible.

Operations called Hunter as soon as he had disconnected from the call with the killer. This time he hadn’t bounced the call all over Los Angeles. He had used a prepaid cellphone. No GPS. But the call didn’t last long enough for them to be able to accurately triangulate it. The call had originated from somewhere in Studio City.

The broadcast and Hunter’s telephone conversation with the killer had left everyone shaken, but Hunter knew he had to keep his focus. He and Garcia left the PAB and drove to the bus depot in Athens, south Los Angeles. They needed to determine if Kevin Lee Parker, the first victim, had boarded any bus on route 207 on that Monday evening. With that, they could establish if the victim had been abducted in the stretch between the bus stop and his house in Jefferson Park or during the short walk from the Next-Gen Games Shop and the bus stop in Hyde Park.

Four out of the six drivers who had driven route 207 on Monday evening were on duty tonight. Hunter and Garcia struck it lucky with the third driver they interviewed. After showing him a portrait photograph of Kevin Lee Parker, the tall and skinny man nodded and told both detectives that he remembered Kevin because he was a regular – always took the bus from the stop at Hyde Park Boulevard and 10th Avenue, and usually around 7:00 p.m. The driver said that Kevin was a polite man, always said ‘hello’ as he boarded the bus. He couldn’t one hundred percent remember if Kevin was alone or not, but he believed he was. The driver also couldn’t remember if Kevin had gotten off at the stop at Crenshaw and West Jefferson Boulevard, his usual stop.

After leaving the bus depot, Hunter and Garcia drove to the intersection between Crenshaw and West Jefferson Boulevard. Kevin Lee Parker’s house was a ten-minute walk from the bus stop there. They parked the car and walked the route twice. If Kevin had stuck to West Jefferson Boulevard, and then turned right into South Victoria Avenue, the whole trajectory from the bus stop to his house would’ve taken him down well-lit and busy roads, but cost him an extra three minutes. The fastest route would’ve been to cut through the West Angeles Church’s car park, just past the Chevron Gas Station on the corner of Crenshaw and West Jefferson, and then carry on through the back alleys, behind South Victoria Avenue.

The West Angeles Church had no security cameras outside, and its car park was located at the back of the building, well hidden from any roads. According to the schedule posted at the front of the church, there were no services on Monday evenings. The car park would’ve been empty and concealed in the shadows of three not-so-bright lampposts. Snatching Kevin from there, or any of the back alleys on the way to his house, would’ve been child’s play: no one would’ve witnessed it at all.

Thirty-One

The Los Angeles FBI headquarters in Wilshire Boulevard was a seventeen-story-high concrete and glass box-structure that looked more like a prison than a federal law-enforcement building. With small, one-way, special dark glass windows pigeonholed between long and thin cement pillars, all that was missing were thick metal bars and guard towers around the perimeter. In short, it looked like every FBI building around the country – nondescript and enigmatic.

It was coming up to eight in the evening when Garcia parked his car in the parking lot directly behind the FBI building. The lot was far from empty. Garcia picked a spot next to a shiny black Cadillac with tinted windows and chromed wheels.

‘Wow,’ he said as he turned off his engine. ‘I’m surprised his license plate isn’t “IMFBI”.’

Before getting to the main entrance doors, both detectives had to go up a set of concrete stairs, across an open-roof green garden and down a CCTV-monitored corridor. They pushed open the heavy, thick glass doors and stepped into a well-lit and pleasantly air-conditioned reception lobby.

Two attractive and conservatively dressed receptionists, who were sitting behind a black-granite reception counter, smiled as they entered the building. Only one stood up.

Hunter and Garcia identified themselves, handing her their credentials. The receptionist quickly typed something into her computer terminal and waited for the application to reply. It did so in less than five seconds, confirming their names and ranks with the LAPD. It also displayed an identifying photograph of each detective. Satisfied, the receptionist returned their identifications to them together with two blue and white visitors’ badges.

‘An agent will escort you inside,’ she said.

A minute later a tall man in a dark suit approached them. ‘LAPD Detectives Hunter and Garcia.’ He nodded his greeting. No handshakes. ‘Please follow me.’

They were escorted through two sets of security doors, down a long hallway, then through a third set of security doors and into an elevator, which descended one floor to the FBI Cybercrime Division. The elevator opened onto a shiny, hardwood corridor, where hanging brass fixtures with several portraits in gilded frames lined the walls. Neither Hunter nor Garcia recognized any of the people in the photographs.

The glass double doors at the end of the hallway were pulled open before they got to them.

‘I’ll take it from here, thanks,’ the woman said.

The escort nodded at her, then at Hunter and Garcia again, before turning on the balls of his feet and heading back toward the elevator.

Both detectives recognized Michelle Kelly’s voice from the conference call earlier, but she was nothing like either of them had pictured her.

Michelle Kelly looked to be around twenty-eight years old. She was five foot eight, with long, raven-black dyed hair. Her fringe was spiked, falling over her forehead in a skate-punk way. Her deep green eyes were heavily framed by black eyeliner and pale green eye shadow. Her full lips were delicately accented by red lipstick. She had a thin, silver-loop nose-ring through her left nostril, and a second loop ring through the right edge of her bottom lip. She was wearing black Doc Martens over tight black jeans. Her T-shirt was black and red, with a flying skull design. It read ‘Avenged Sevenfold’.