The house was humble – single-story and sat back from the street, with a small lawn up front where an individual pink trumpet tree took center stage. Troy’s Ford pickup truck was parked on the driveway, just behind a white VW Golf.
Hunter parked on the street, right in front of the house, but took a moment to collect his thoughts before walking up to the front door. He needed to go back to the subject of the note that the killer had left behind, and since there was no denying that the underlying theme of both notes was love, or some strange permutation of it, Hunter’s questions to Troy would have to be delicate, especially considering the state that Troy was in. They involved asking him about previous relationships and partners from both sides, any problems they might’ve been having in their actual relationship, and the toughest subject of all because no matter what, people always lied about it – affairs… lovers… flings… crushes… one-night stands… work flirts… anything of that nature. At this stage, nothing and no one could be discarded.
Hunter’s intention wasn’t to try to identify if there were any cracks in Troy and Kirsten’s relationship. What he was looking to do was to try to establish some sort of connection between the two victims, and at the moment, the only thing Hunter had that linked them together was the theme of the two ‘love’ quotes, or so it seemed.
Ninety-nine percent of murderers who pre-selected their victims did so for a very specific reason – there was always some sort of criteria that the victims needed to fulfill. Sometimes it was something simple, like an aesthetic match – hair color… eye color… height… body type… breast size… etc. Sometimes it was a personality trait, or a mannerism – the sound of their voice… how they played with their hair when they were nervous… the way in which they threw their head back when they laughed… it could be just about anything, from simple to complex, but whatever it was, that was the trigger. It was what initiated the entire process inside the killer’s head, and that was really where the problem with identifying such criteria lay, because whatever that trigger was, it didn’t have to have any meaning or make any sense to anyone else but the killer.
Before stepping out of his car, Hunter checked his phone for any messages from Garcia, who had gone to the taxi company to have a chat with the cab driver who had dropped Melissa Hawthorne off at her house after she left her friend’s birthday party.
No messages.
At the house’s front porch, where most of the yellow paintwork had cracked and chipped to reveal a very old and discolored green coat of paint underneath, Hunter rang the doorbell and waited. He had called ahead and spoken to Mrs. Foster. At first, she had been very reluctant to agree to Hunter’s visit, which was understandable. She told him that Troy was in a very bad headspace and questions at this time would not only make everything much worse for him, but also probably get Hunter no good answers. Hunter hadn’t disagreed, but had calmly explained the issue with timing and post-traumatic stress. If he was to stand any chances of obtaining more reliable answers, this couldn’t be delayed.
Hunter was about to ring the doorbell again, when he heard tired footsteps approaching from the inside. A moment later, Mrs. Foster pulled open the door.
Hunter had met her in the early hours of the morning, when she and Troy’s brother, Brett, came to collect him from his house in Alhambra. She looked quite different from what Hunter remembered. From how puffy her eyes looked, he knew that she had spent most of the day crying.
After making Hunter promise her that he would be as brief as possible and that the questions would stop if Troy felt that they were too much, Mrs. Foster finally showed him into her living room, which seemed too small for the amount of furniture and objects in it.
‘Please, have a seat,’ she said, indicating the area with a sofa and two armchairs. ‘I’ll go get Troy.’
As she left the room, Hunter turned his attention to some of the many framed photographs that decorated the walls. They were all family photos, and it took him only a second to realize that they followed a chronological order, moving from left to right. Mrs. Foster was, undoubtedly, a very proud wife and mother.
Hunter recognized Troy straight away, even in the photos where he looked to be only about two or three years old. From the pictures, it was clear that Troy and his brother had both developed a very strong physique quite early on. Both of them had played for their high school football teams and by the looks of it, Troy had also tried his hand at surfing. Judging by the photos alone, Troy seemed to have been a happy kid, displaying a bright smile in at least ninety percent of the photos he was in.
Hunter had just started looking at a set of photographs of Troy holding a surfboard, when he heard dragging footsteps come from behind him.
‘My dad used to love taking us to the beach.’
Hunter turned to find Troy standing by the door that connected the living room to the hallway that lead to the rest of the house. Mrs. Foster was standing right behind him.
In the space of less than a day, Troy seemed to have shrunk to half of his original size. It was like his body had curled in on itself, shoulders drooped with his chin dipped, almost bowing forward beneath the invisible weight of grief and loss. His blonde hair was a mess and his eyes were puffy and sore. As Hunter looked back at him, Troy snorted a breath through a congested nose and pulled the sleeves of his green sweatshirt up to his elbows. The look was completed by black gym trousers and blue sliders over black socks.
‘You surf?’ Hunter asked in reply, indicating one of the photos.
Troy’s head dipped left as his eyebrows lifted. ‘I tried. I wasn’t very good at it.’
‘Santa Monica beach?’ Hunter asked, knowing that Santa Monica was a great beach for surf beginners.
‘Yes.’ Troy nodded. ‘We used to go there a lot when my dad was alive.’
Hunter felt a knot start forming at the base of his throat. The last thing he wanted was to remind Troy of another painful loss.
‘I’m sorry.’ That was all he could say, though his words were sincere. He stepped away from the wall and the photos and approached the sofa.
Troy followed.
‘Let me get you both something to drink,’ Mrs. Foster said. ‘How about some peach ice tea?’
‘I’m OK, Mom,’ Troy replied, pausing by one of the armchairs. For a moment he looked like he couldn’t remember why he was in the living room.
‘Detective?’ Mrs. Foster’s gaze moved to Hunter.
‘That would be very nice. Thank you so much.’
‘I’ll bring you some anyway, Troy,’ she said, addressing her son. ‘And I’ll make you a sandwich too – pastrami, cheese and mustard on rye – your favorite.’
‘I’m not hungry, Mom.’ Troy’s voice was just a whisper.
‘You need to eat, Troy.’
That was a mother’s command, not a suggestion.
Troy looked like he just didn’t have the strength to argue about anything. Instead, his sad eyes found a spot on the rug he was standing on and just stayed fixed on it.
‘Sandwich, Detective?’
‘No, thank you, ma’am. I’ll be fine with just the ice tea.’
As soon as Mrs. Foster left the living room, Troy blinked and looked at Hunter.
‘Anything yet?’ he asked, his voice quivering, his eyes beginning to glass over again.
‘It’s been less than twenty-four hours, Mr. Foster,’ Hunter replied.
‘My father was Mr. Foster.’ Troy’s thumb stabbed toward the photos on the wall. ‘I’m just Troy. And that means “no”, right? You guys don’t have anything.’
‘How about we have a seat?’ Hunter said, indicating the sofa and the armchairs. ‘I’d like to show you something.’
That made Troy pause, his interest renewed. ‘What? What have you got?’
‘Please,’ Hunter insisted.
Troy took one of the armchairs. Understandably, he wanted answers and he wanted them immediately, but Hunter had been in this same exact situation way too many times, and he knew that people in Troy’s position tended to be a lot more willing to answer difficult questions, like the ones Hunter needed to ask him, if they saw that some sort of progress was being made with the investigation. The best way to do that was to drip-feed information – give a little, get a little. It was a psychological trick that, more often than not, worked pretty well.
Hunter sat at the far left edge of the sofa, closer to the armchair that Troy had taken. As he did, he retrieved the printout and the facial composite of ‘Sleazy Mark’ from his pocket.
‘I know that these aren’t the best of images,’ Hunter began. ‘But unfortunately they’re all that we’ve managed to come up with so far.’ He handed them both to Troy. ‘I’d like you to have a look at them and tell me if you have ever seen this person before.’
Troy took the printout and the composite, but barely looked at them.
‘Is this him?’ he asked, his voice quivering again, but this time with a different emotion. ‘Is this the motherfucker who did that to Kirsten?’
That was always the biggest peril in showing a person in Troy’s position an image like the one on the printout. Because his brain demanded answers, it would automatically try to simplify whatever it could into a binary ‘yes/no’ answer.
Hunter was expecting it.
‘You know that it’s not that simple, Troy.’
Psychological trick number two – Hunter emphasized the word ‘know’ to indicate to Troy that he wasn’t patronizing him. On the contrary, he was giving him credit for his knowledge.
‘Every investigation is like a live jigsaw puzzle.’ Hunter’s voice was even. ‘We need to link individual pieces together until we have the full picture, or just a better picture. A single piece on its own never really completes the puzzle.’ Hunter pointed to the printout in Troy’s hand. ‘At the moment, the person on that image is a single, loose piece that we’d like to identify and talk to.’
‘Why?’ Troy’s forehead creased. ‘How’s he a piece of the puzzle?’
Troy’s mind was skipping hurdles again.
‘That’s the thing,’ Hunter replied, motioning for him to slow down a little. ‘He might have nothing to do with our puzzle. We won’t really know until we find him and talk to him.’
‘Alright,’ Troy accepted it. ‘But what’s his connection to what happened to Kirsten? Where did you get this image?’
Because Troy’s mind was desperate, if Hunter revealed everything at once, there was a chance that it would maybe start creating memories and images that weren’t really there.
Hunter didn’t want to run that risk.
Give a little – get a little.
‘Please.’ Hunter once again nodded at the printout. ‘Have a look at the images first and I’ll clarify everything for you in a moment.’
Troy finally gave in and studied them both.
‘Maybe you’ve seen him somewhere on your street, or maybe even at your gun shop.’
‘My shop?’ Confusion coated Troy’s words. ‘Why would he be in my shop?’
Another long shot.
Hunter and Garcia had already come to the conclusion that whoever this killer was, he had shadowed not only Kirsten, but Troy as well. The fact that he had struck when Troy was out of town, and that he so happened to drive the same pickup truck as Troy’s, was no coincidence, but that was also the sort of information that Troy didn’t really need to know.
‘I’m just keeping an open mind here,’ Hunter explained. ‘What I mean is – don’t try to remember if you’ve seen him only around your street. It could’ve been anywhere… your local supermarket… the park… the gym… your gun shop… it doesn’t matter.’
‘Are these the only images you have?’ Troy asked, after spending almost a minute staring at the printout.
‘Unfortunately, yes.’
Troy’s gaze reverted back to the two pieces of paper for another instant before he breathed out despair. ‘My head is a mess, Detective. Nothing makes sense in here anymore.’ He tapped his index finger against his skull. ‘Neither of them is bringing anything back.’
‘I understand. It was worth a try.’
‘How come this is such a bad image?’ Troy asked indicating the printout, a pleading quality to his tone. ‘Where did you get it? And why do you think that this dude, whoever he is, could be a piece of our puzzle?’
Troy was on board. He had just used the pronoun ‘our’ of his own accord.
Drip-feed again.
‘The image comes from the CCTV camera in a hotel lobby downtown.’ Hunter immediately lifted a hand to pause Troy. He didn’t want him imagining that Kirsten might’ve been using a hotel in central LA for some sort of affair. ‘This is in relation to a different crime scene… a different investigation, one where there might be a link.’
‘What?’ Troy’s eyes became two giant marbles. ‘How? What kind of link? What other crime scene?’ The questions came like stabs.
Before Hunter could clarify, Mrs. Foster returned to the living room, bringing with her a floral-print tray with a jug of ice tea, two glasses, and a plate with a sandwich neatly cut into four triangles.
‘Here we go,’ she said, placing the tray down on the coffee table between the sofa and the armchairs. She then handed Hunter a glass and poured him some ice tea. She did the same for Troy.
‘Thank you so much,’ Hunter said. ‘That’s very kind of you.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ she replied, handing Troy the sandwich.
‘Mom, I told you, I’m not hungry.’
‘It’s cut into quarters, Troy,’ she said back. ‘Have at least one of them.’
‘Maybe later.’ Troy returned the plate to the tray.
Mrs. Foster gave him a look that only a mother could.
Troy waited, but instead of leaving, Mrs. Foster planted herself on the second armchair.
‘Mom,’ Troy said, locking eyes with her. ‘We’re sort of in the middle of something here, if you don’t mind.’
‘Not at all,’ she replied, sitting back and crossing one leg over the other. ‘You boys do your thing. Don’t mind little old me here.’
Troy’s gaze darted to Hunter then back to his mother. ‘No, Mom. What I mean is – can you give us a moment, please.’
‘Oh, you want me to leave?’ She did her best ‘surprised’ face.
‘Yes. If you don’t mind.’
From the look on Mrs. Foster’s face and the way in which she squared her shoulders, Hunter could guess what was coming.
‘This is my house, Troy. I can sit in whichever room I damn well please.’ She pointed at Hunter. ‘Detective Hunter here promised me that he wouldn’t upset you with his questions. It’s not that I don’t trust him.’ All of a sudden, Hunter was at the receiving end of another ‘motherly look’. ‘But if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to sit – in my living room – and judge for myself.’
Troy puffed out a breath. ‘I don’t need babysitting, Mom. I’m a grown man.’
‘I know you are,’ came her reply, which was immediately followed by her finger pointing upwards. ‘But you know what that is, right above your head?’
Hunter bit his lip. This was an argument that Troy would never win.
‘My roof,’ she said. ‘The key word here, Troy, is “my”.’ In a split second, her tone went from imposing to ultra-tender. ‘I’m just being a mother, Troy.’ Tears seemed to have caught in her throat. ‘It breaks my heart to see you hurt like this, son, and I don’t know what to do to make it better.’ The tenderness in her eyes was disarming as well as contagious.
Troy reached out for her hand, as he fought off tears. ‘I know, Mom. I know.’
Mrs. Foster sucked in a breath through her nose and recomposed herself. ‘I’ll be quiet. I promise. I’ll just sit here.’
Troy let go of her hand and his attention returned to Hunter. ‘You were about to tell me about some other crime scene and a possible link. What crime scene? What link?’
Mrs. Foster’s face practically turned into a question mark.
Hunter reached into his pocket for a brand new image. This time, a photo of Melissa Hawthorne, which he handed to Troy. ‘Do you know who this woman is? Have you ever seen her before?’
Curiosity got the better of Mrs. Foster and she leaned right, stretching her neck to have a look.
Troy stared at it for a long moment.
Hunter had a sip of his ice tea and nodded at Mrs. Foster.
‘This is delicious. Thank you.’
The reply came with a proud smile. ‘Homemade. And you’re welcome.’
‘No, I can’t say I know who she is,’ Troy finally admitted, with a subtle shake of the head. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before. Who is she?’
‘Her name is Melissa,’ Hunter told him. ‘Melissa Hawthorne. Do you know the name? I mean, have you ever heard it before?’
Troy took another moment, his eyes narrowing as he searched his memory.
‘No. I can’t say I have.’
‘So you couldn’t really tell me if she was a friend of Kirsten’s or not?’ Hunter insisted.
Troy refocused his attention on the photo. ‘If she was, I never met her.’ He looked back at Hunter. ‘Why? Was she?’
‘We don’t know,’ Hunter explained. ‘We were hoping you could either confirm or deny it.’
Another look at the photo.
‘If they were friends, they weren’t close,’ Troy assured Hunter. ‘I’ve never seen her before. Does she work at the hospital?’
‘No. She was a hairstylist. Do you happen to know where Kirsten used to get her hair done? Her nails? Pedicure? Anything like that?’
Troy nodded, but before answering, he had to swallow the lump that seemed to have lodged itself in his throat.
‘Kirsten used to go to a place just down the road from our house. It’s called…’ The tips of his fingers grazed against his forehead for a moment. ‘Something “cut”. MixedCut, or MixCut… something like that. I can’t remember, but it’s easy to find. It’s in the Japanese mall at the corner of South Garfield and Valley Boulevard. Is that where she works?’ He nodded at the photo before handing it back to Hunter.
Before Hunter could reply, Troy’s phone, which was on the coffee table in front of them, beeped twice, announcing a new text message. Troy turned his head to have a look at its screen and immediately did a double take. The message had come from an unknown number. It was its preview that had caught his eyes.
‘Kirsten’.
The message preview also indicated that there was a video attached to it.
Hunter was sitting too far away to see the screen.
‘Excuse me for a second,’ he said, reaching for the phone. While Troy unlocked his phone and tapped on the message, Hunter had another sip of his ice tea.
As the video started playing on Troy’s cellphone screen, his eyes seemed to lose whatever life they still had in them.
‘Oh my God!’
His hands were trembling even before the words had escaped his lips.
That was when it hit Hunter – the video that the killer had sent Melissa’s sister the day after her murder.
So much had happened in the past few days… so many puzzle pieces to try to link together and make sense of, that one of them had managed to completely escape Hunter’s memory – the fact that this killer had a seventh stage to his MO.