One by One (40 page)

Ninety-Six

Michelle called back just before six in the morning. She had finally managed to find out all the information Hunter had requested, including the name of the person behind the handle DarkXX1000. By 8:00 a.m., Hunter was heading an urgent meeting inside the windowless briefing room down in the basement of the PAB.

The room was a rectangular concrete box that resembled an old-fashioned high school classroom. Sixteen desks were arranged in four rows of four, the first starting about three feet from the wooden podium at the front of the room, behind which Hunter was standing. To his left, a large, white projection screen; to his right, a large flip chart mounted onto a tripod.

Garcia and Captain Blake were sitting at both ends of the first row, two desks apart. Behind and in between them was Michelle Kelly, who had told Hunter that she wanted in. The two last rows were taken by a SWAT team, eight strong, all wearing bulletproof vests over black fatigues. The tense and uncomfortable murmur that spiked the air inside the room came to a complete stop as soon as Hunter coughed to clear his throat.

All eyes went to him.

‘OK, I’ll give you the entire story from the beginning,’ he said, nodding at Jack Fallon, the SWAT team captain standing at the back of the room, just behind the last row of SWAT agents.

Fallon dimmed the lights.

Hunter pressed the button on the clicker he had on his right hand, and the portrait photograph of a teenage boy was projected onto the white screen. The boy looked to be no older than sixteen, with a prominent brow, distinct cheekbones and a delicate nose covered in freckles. His eyes, clear and pale blue, perfectly complemented his wavy, dark blond hair. He was a good-looking kid.

‘This is Brandon Fisher,’ Hunter began. ‘Until two and a half years ago, Brandon was a student at Jefferson High in south Los Angeles. Despite being terribly shy and sometimes withdrawn, he was an intelligent kid, with the grades to prove it, mostly As and Bs. Brandon was also a very promising quarterback, with a much-talked-about left arm. His chances for a university football scholarship were very high.’ Hunter moved from behind the podium. ‘A few weeks after receiving his driver’s license, Brandon was involved in a very serious collision at the junction between West Washington Boulevard and South La Brea Avenue. The accident took place at 2:41 a.m.,’ Hunter explained. ‘Even though Brandon was a novice to driving, the accident wasn’t his fault. Other than the fact that three distinct witnesses testified to it, LA Traffic PD also had photographic evidence supplied by the red-light-infraction-activated camera at that junction. The other driver jumped the red light.’

Hunter pressed the clicker again. Brandon Fisher’s portrait was substituted by a series of six photographs, positioned two by two in three rows. The sequence of events depicted on them clearly showed a dark blue Ford Mustang running over a red light and colliding with a silver Chevrolet Cruze. The Mustang speed shown at the bottom right-hand corner of every picture was 55mph.

‘The collision sent Brandon’s car spinning twenty-seven yards into West Washington Boulevard,’ Hunter said. ‘There was no one else inside the vehicle with him. Brandon fractured his left arm, both of his legs, received severe cuts to his face and body and broke several ribs, one of which perforated his left lung.’

Another click and a new portrait of Brandon Fisher took over the entire projection screen. Murmurs and curse words came from the SWAT agents. Hunter saw Garcia cringe. He saw Captain Blake and Michelle Kelly gasp and bring a hand to their mouths in surprise.

Brandon’s eyes now carried a sadness that seemed contagious. His once good-looking face was severely disfigured by two large scars and several small ones. The larger of the two scars had missed his left eye by a fraction, but it had cut across his small nose, brutally deforming it, before moving down to traverse both of his lips, tipping the entire left side of his mouth downward, as if it’d been melted into an eternal sorrowful smile. The second large scar started at the top left side of his forehead, just under his scalp, and moved unsteadily all the way across to his right ear, slicing through the top of his right eyebrow and stretching it out of shape, together with his eyelid.

‘This picture was taken about twelve months after the accident,’ Hunter explained, ‘once the scars had pretty much healed. He’d also already had two cosmetic surgeries to try to lessen their effect, and this was as good as it would get. Doctors and more operations could do little more for him.’

‘Poor kid,’ Michelle whispered.

‘You don’t need me to tell you that such severe, life-changing facial disfigurement is something most people will rarely find a way to
completely
cope with,’ Hunter said. ‘No matter how much time passes, or how much support they get.’ He paused for breath. ‘As I’ve said, Brandon was an already shy and withdrawn kid. It’s no surprise that the accident sent him down a bottomless depression dark hole. He wasn’t able to play football anymore, or any other sport for that matter. Despite healing properly after the fractures, his legs and left arm weren’t as fast or as strong as they used to be, and, after being perforated, his left lung worked in a reduced capacity. At first, the few friends he had tried to be supportive, but kids will be kids, and slowly but surely they began distancing themselves from him. It wasn’t long before the gossiping, the jokes and the name-calling started happening behind his back. But things like that never stay “behind the back” for too long. He knew. His girlfriend also ended their relationship, and that devastated him.’

‘Didn’t he get any psychological help?’ Captain Blake asked.

‘He did. As soon as he was able to,’ Hunter confirmed with a head nod and a half shrug. ‘Three one-hour sessions a week, that was all.’

‘Yeah,’ one of the SWAT agents chuckled. ‘How much do you think that’s going to help?’

‘And even if it does,’ another one added, ‘with only three sessions a week, how long do you think it will take?’

‘Too long,’ Hunter agreed.

Murmuring came back to the room.

Hunter pressed the clicker button once again. The image that took over the screen this time was that of a bridge in downtown Los Angeles.

‘Twenty-nine months ago, on a Tuesday night,’ Hunter proceeded, and the room quieted down again, ‘Brandon kissed his mother and father goodnight and went to his room, but he didn’t go to bed. He waited until the house was silent before exiting it through his bedroom window and making his way to the 6th Street Bridge in downtown LA, just a few blocks away from where he lived, in Boyle Heights.’

The briefing room was completely silent. Everyone had their eyes on Hunter.

‘Brandon had been at this for weeks, maybe months,’ Hunter moved on. ‘He had everything planned out, including time schedules. When the correct time came, he jumped off the bridge.’

Captain Blake and Michelle Kelly shifted uncomfortably on their chairs.

‘As you all know,’ Hunter said, ‘the 6th Street Bridge not only provides a crossing over the Los Angeles River but also over several train tracks. Brandon chose the tracks instead of the river.’ Hunter paused and cleared his throat again. ‘As I’ve mentioned, Brandon seemed to have had everything planned out to the last detail, including the train’s schedule. He timed his jump to perfection. A split second after his feet touched the tracks, an oncoming cargo train hit him at full speed. His body almost disintegrated.’

Another button click and the picture on the screen changed to a section of the train tracks that ran underneath and just past the 6th Street Bridge. A forensics evidence marker had been placed next to something that looked like a human leg.

‘His body parts were scattered over a fifty-yard area,’ Hunter added.

More nervous chair shuffling. This time it came from everyone in the briefing room.

Hunter wasn’t finished yet. ‘Before jumping off the bridge, Brandon said that most of the world believed in the stupid misconception that everything we do in life is ultimately down to us. That we
always
have a
choice
, whether we want it or not.’ Hunter paused and folded his arms over his chest. ‘And then Brandon said, “What about the choices other people make that end up completely changing your life, not theirs? Where is our choice there, then?”’

‘Wait a second,’ one of the SWAT agents said, lifting a hand as if requesting his teacher’s permission to speak. ‘How do you know what the kid said on the bridge?’

Hunter took a deep breath before looking back at the room.

‘Because I was there.’

Ninety-Seven

Twenty-nine months ago

Whittier Boulevard,

about twenty seconds away from the 6th Street Bridge

01.19 a.m.

Hunter had given up the fight against another sleepless night. As he had done so many times before, and was sure to do countless times again, instead of sitting at home and staring at his dull and faded walls, all in desperate need of a new coat of paint, he had decided to go for a drive. Once again, he drove around aimlessly, going nowhere, searching for nothing. The city simply washed past the windshield as he drove. Empty minded, he allowed the streets and turns to guide him.

For no particular reason, or maybe it was because he had done the exact same thing just a few days ago, and had then decided to drive down to Venice Beach, tonight he chose to drive around downtown LA.

With the financial district and the city supposedly asleep, the streets of central Los Angeles seemed disturbingly quiet, too alien to what most people were accustomed to.

Hunter had just driven through Boyle Heights, turned right on El Camino Real and joined Whittier Boulevard, heading toward the 6th Street Bridge, when the police radio in his car crackled loudly.

‘Attention any downtown units near the 6th Street Bridge. We just received a 911 call about a possible suicide attempt on the bridge. Subject appears to be in his teens. According to the caller, the kid looks like he’s going to jump. We need immediate response. Is anyone close enough?’

Hunter looked up from his dashboard, where his eyes had rested while he listened to the call from dispatch. The first thing he saw was the large green road sign announcing the bridge that lay straight ahead, less than fifteen seconds away. Though many call it the 6th Street Bridge, the official name, and the one shown in all the city road signs, was
S
ixth
S
treet
V
iaduct.

Hunter quickly reached for his radio.

‘Dispatch, this is Detective Robert Hunter, LAPD Homicide Special. I am practically on the bridge, approaching it from the east side – coming from Whittier Boulevard. I’ll be there in about ten seconds. Is there any info on the subject?’

‘Roger that on location, proximity and ETA on the bridge, Detective Hunter, but on subsequent info on the subject, that’s a negative. Caller was a passerby who spotted the subject on the ledge. There’s nothing else I can offer at this point. I’m sorry.’

‘Roger that,’ Hunter replied. ‘I’m coming to the bridge now and I have visual on the subject. He’s up on the north-facing ledge – west end of the viaduct. I repeat – subject is up on the north-facing ledge, at the west end of the Sixth Street Viaduct. Send backup in the form of the fire brigade, and a psychologist ASAP.’

‘10-4 on backup and medical help, Detective. Good luck.’

Hunter reduced his speed and stopped his car halfway through crossing the bridge, blocking all westward traffic. He did none of that briskly. There was no screeching of the tires, no slamming of the doors, no loud sound or abrupt movement that could potentially worsen an already extremely tense situation. The dashboard clock read 01:21 a.m.

As Hunter had described to dispatch, the subject was standing on the north-facing ledge, at the west end of the viaduct. His back was toward Hunter, but instead of looking down at what awaited him if he jumped, he was looking ahead in the distance, as if waiting for something, or maybe contemplating a change of mind. That was a good sign.

Hunter moved quickly but quietly, trying to get as close as possible before the jumper noticed him. He got to about fourteen feet when the kid broke eye contact with the nothingness in the distant darkness and turned around.

Hunter stopped moving and looked at the kid, trying to establish eye contact, and as the kid looked back at him Hunter froze in place for the briefest of moments. At that precise instant Hunter cursed the lack of prep information on the subject. He knew nothing about who that kid was, or what possible motives had led him to be on that bridge, ready to end his life. That would’ve better prepared him for what he saw.

Then Hunter cursed
himself
, because with or without prep information, an LAPD Homicide Special detective, especially one with a PhD in Criminal Behavior Analysis and Biopsychology, should’ve been prepared for anything. Prepared to expect the unexpected, no matter how shocking.

During that split second of hesitation, Hunter became terrified that his face, his eyes, his demeanor, his expression, anything about him at all gave away how surprised he was. If anything did, he knew that his chances of talking the kid down were already dead in the water.

Hunter’s surprise had come because when the kid finally turned and looked at him, Hunter saw that his face had been completely disfigured by heavy scars, as if he’d been thrown face first through several sheets of glass. It was the kind of disfigurement that would attract pitiful, shocked and even disgusted looks anywhere he went. The kind of disfigurement that gave bullies a buffet of abuse and name-calling to throw at him. A disfigurement that would scar much deeper than anyone could see – psychological scars capable of destroying self-esteem and throwing anyone into the deepest of depressions. The kind of disfigurement that could make anyone’s life seem unbearable, let alone a teenager’s.

If any surprise had been shown by Hunter, the kid didn’t seem to notice.