One by One (8 page)

Hunter nodded in silence.

‘Now, as you will remember, the back alley was a blacktop,’ Brindle carried on. ‘Which makes finding things like footprints a lot harder, but with the help of some special lighting we managed to find a few. They belong to at least eight different people.’

‘Not surprising,’
Hunter thought, given that that alleyway serviced several different shops.

‘But a couple of them were very interesting.’

‘In what way?’ Hunter asked.

‘They were found just by the space between the third and fourth dumpster, where the body was found. The prints came from a size eleven shoe. Keon Lewis, the only other person we know who had walked around that same area, is a size thirteen. The left shoeprint seems to be more prominent than the right shoe one. That could indicate that the person walked with a slight abnormality, like a limp, depositing more of his weight onto his left leg.’

‘Or that he was carrying something heavy,’ Hunter said.

‘That’s what I was thinking.’

‘Probably over his left shoulder. Not in his arms.’

‘Precisely,’ Brindle agreed. ‘He gets the body out of the car, throws it over his left shoulder and carries it to the space between the dumpsters.’ Brindle breathed out. ‘Now, the victim was quite a large man.’

‘216 pounds,’ Hunter said.

‘Well, carrying 216 pounds over one of your shoulders isn’t for just anyone, Robert,’ Brindle said. ‘The guy you’re looking for is big and strong.’

Hunter said nothing.

‘In the alleyway he was also very careful,’ Brindle continued. ‘Though we found footprints, we got nothing from the sole. No kind of imprint whatsoever.’

‘He covered his shoe,’ Hunter concluded.

‘Yep. Probably with a plastic bag. I’ve also got toxicology for you.’

‘Wow, that was fast.’

‘Nothing but the best, my friend.’

‘Was the victim drugged?’

‘Anesthetized,’ Brindle said. ‘Traces of an intravenous anesthetic – phenoperidine – were found. It’s a strong opioid, and with a little research you would find several illegal drugstores willing to sell it to you over the Internet.’

‘The wonders of the modern age,’
Hunter thought. ‘You said traces?’ he queried.

‘Yep, almost negligible. If I had to guess, I’d say the killer used it only to subdue the victim for a short period of time. Probably during the abduction process. After the killer had the victim in a safe location, the anesthetic wasn’t re-administered.’

He scribbled something down on a notepad.

‘We’ve also got the results from the voice analysis done on your telephone conversation with the killer,’ Brindle said, moving on. ‘It seems that he was filtering and refiltering his voice several times over, only slightly altering the pitch each time. Sometimes higher, sometimes lower. That’s why, even with the electronic variation, the voice still sounds so normal, so human, but nevertheless unrecognizable if you were to unknowingly have a conversation with him out on the streets.’

Hunter said nothing in reply. From the corner of his eye Hunter saw Garcia’s face light up as he read something on his computer screen.

‘Anyway, I’m emailing you all the results we’ve got so far,’ Brindle said. ‘If anything more comes up from the fibers and hairs, I’ll let you know.’

‘Thanks, Mike.’ Hunter put the phone down.

Garcia hit the ‘print’ button.

‘What’s up, Carlos?’

Garcia collected the printout and showed it to Hunter. It was a black and white portrait of a white male in his mid to late twenties. His light brown hair was short and messy. His face was round with chubby cheeks, a prominent forehead and thin eyebrows. His eyes were dark and almond shaped. On the portrait he had a bit of a spaced-out look on his face.

Hunter’s eyes widened. He would’ve recognized that face anywhere. He’d stared at it for hours on end. He watched him die again and again. There was no doubt in his mind. He was staring at a photograph of their victim.

Seventeen

Hunter finally blinked.

‘Where did you get this?’

Garcia had handed the printout to Hunter and was already back at his computer, reading the email he’d just received.

‘Missing Persons. They just sent it over.’

Hunter’s eyes returned to the photograph.

‘He was reported missing on Wednesday,’ Garcia said. ‘It took the Missing Persons’ face recognition program until this morning to partially match that picture to the snapshot we sent them.’

‘Who was he?’

‘His name was Kevin Lee Parker, twenty-eight years old, from Stanton, in Orange County. He was currently residing in Jefferson Park with his wife, Anita Lee Parker. She was the one who reported him missing. He worked as a manager in a videogames shop in Hyde Park.’

‘How long was he missing for?’

Garcia scrolled down on the attached file that had come with the email. ‘Since Monday. That was the last time his wife saw him. Monday morning, when he left for work. He didn’t go back home that evening.’

‘But she only reported him missing on Wednesday,’ Hunter said. ‘Two days ago.’

Garcia nodded. ‘That’s what it says here.’

‘Do we know if he turned up for work on Monday?’

A little more scrolling. ‘According to his wife, yes. She called the shop on Tuesday morning and they said that he did turn up for work the day before.’

‘But not on Tuesday?’

‘No.’

‘Does he have a cellphone?’

‘Yes. Ms. Lee Parker has been calling it since Monday evening. No answer.’

Hunter checked his watch. ‘OK, let’s get the research team to run a check on Mr. Lee Parker’s name. Usual stuff: all the background they can get.’

‘They’re already on it,’ Garcia said.

‘Great,’ Hunter said, reaching for his jacket. ‘Let’s go talk to Mrs. Lee Parker.’

Eighteen

Jefferson Park, with its single-story homes and low-rise apartment buildings, was a small district in southwestern Los Angeles. It had begun as one of the city’s wealthiest areas at the turn of the twentieth century. As the city grew, and newer, more modern neighborhoods were created, wealth started to abandon the area. A century on and Jefferson Park had become just one of many lower-middle-class neighborhoods in a city that never seemed to stop growing.

At that time in the morning the traffic on Harbor Freeway was a bumper-to-bumper snail procession, and what should’ve been a ten to fifteen-minute drive took the best part of forty-five minutes.

Kevin Lee Parker’s street looked like a suburban postcard. Set back, single-story houses lined both sides of a road where tall trees shadowed the sidewalks. His house was white with blue windows, a blue door and a two-way pitched terracotta roof. The white picket-style fence that surrounded the property looked like it had received a new coat of paint recently. The front lawn, though, could’ve done with a trim. Two young kids were riding their bicycles up and down the street, incessantly ringing their handlebar bells. As he stepped out of the car, Hunter noticed a neighbor from the next house along studying them over her pristine hedge.

The short walkway from the wooden gate to the front door of Kevin Lee Parker’s house was old and paved with cement-colored blocks. Several of them were cracked. Some were missing one or two corners.

They got to the porch and Garcia knocked three times – nothing for a long moment. He was about to knock again when the door was finally opened by a plump woman in her early twenties. Her disheveled hair was dark and short, her face round and meaty. She had a baby propped on her hip. She looked exhausted, and her eyes had the gritty red tint of someone who’d been crying, or had had very little sleep, or both. She just looked at the two detectives without saying a word.

‘Ms. Lee Parker?’ Hunter asked.

She nodded.

‘My name is Robert Hunter. I’m with the LAPD. We spoke earlier on the phone.’

Anita Lee Parker nodded again.

‘This is my partner, Detective Carlos Garcia.’ They both showed her their credentials.

The baby girl in her arms smiled at them and moved her right hand, as if wanting to greet both detectives. Looking at the tiny baby, Hunter smiled back, but inside him his heart sank.

‘You find Kevin?’ Anita asked in an anxious voice. She had a strong Puerto Rican accent.

‘Could we maybe talk inside, Ms. Lee Parker?’ Hunter suggested.

For a moment she seemed confused, as if she hadn’t understood him. Then she took a step to her left and showed them inside.

The front door led them straight into a small living room. On one corner, a portable fan stirred the air, which was heavy with the smell of baby stuff. A three-seat sofa and two armchairs were draped with multicolored sheets that looked like patchwork quilts straight out of the Deep South. A large picture of Jesus decorated one of the walls, and family portraits were scattered around the room. Anita was so nervous she didn’t offer anyone a seat.

‘You find Kevin?’ she asked again. Her voice almost faltering. ‘Where is he? Why he no call me?’

Anita already seemed on the verge of a breakdown. Hunter had been in that situation too many times before to know that he needed to extract whatever information he could out of her before she went hysterical.

The baby in her arms was starting to sense her mother’s anxiety. She had gone from smiling to frowning, on the verge of crying.

‘Anita,’ Hunter said warmly, indicating the sofa. ‘Why don’t we all have a seat?’

Again, she looked at him as if confused. ‘Don’t want no seat. Where’s Kevin?’

The baby girl started kicking her legs and flapping her arms. Hunter smiled at her again. ‘What’s her name?’

Anita looked down at her daughter with tender eyes and started rocking her. ‘Lilia.’

Another smile. ‘That’s a beautiful name. And she’s a beautiful baby, but because you’re upset she’s getting upset, see? Babies can sense these things better than anyone, especially from their mothers. If you have a seat, it will help Lilia feel more comfortable. And so will you.’

Anita hesitated.

‘Please.’ Hunter indicated the sofa again. ‘Just try it. You’ll see.’

Anita placed Lilia’s dummy in her mouth.
‘No llores, mi amor. Todo va a estar bien.’
The baby took the dummy and Anita finally took a seat. Hunter and Garcia took the armchairs.

Lilia settled into a comfortable position in her mother’s arms and closed her eyes.

Hunter took that opportunity to fire a question before Anita could fire hers again.

‘You said that the last time you saw Kevin was on Monday, is that right?’

Anita nodded. ‘In the morning. He ate breakfast and left for work, like every morning.’

‘And he didn’t come home that night?’

‘No. That was not so strange before, but since Lilia was born he no play late no more.’

‘Play late?’ Garcia asked.

Anita chuckled nervously. ‘Kevin is a big
niño.
He works in games shop because he love games. He always playing games like a child. Before Lilia was born, many nights he stay in shop after work, playing games on Internet until morning with work friends. But he always called me to say he be playing. But now that we have Lilia, he doesn’t play late no more. He’s a good father.’

Garcia nodded his understanding.

‘He didn’t call you on Monday night?’ Hunter asked.

‘No.’

‘Did you call him?’

‘Yes, but he no answer phone. Message said phone not ’vailable.’

‘What time was that, can you remember? What time did you call your husband?’

Anita didn’t have to think about it. ‘Not late. Around eight thirty. Kevin is never late home. He is usually back from work by eight o’clock.’

Hunter wrote that down.

‘Did you talk to any of his work colleagues from the shop? Was he at work on Monday?’

‘Yes. I call the shop Monday night. After I tried calling Kevin. No answer. Nobody there. I call the
policia
at eleven, but they didn’t care. A cop came by at around one in the morning, but he just said I had to wait. Maybe Kevin would be back home in the morning. Morning came and Kevin not home. Then I call shop again. Talk to Emilio. Emilio is a good friend. Old friend. He said Kevin worked on Monday, but no stay after work to play Internet games. He said they closed the shop at seven and Kevin left. I called police again, but they still didn’t care. They say Kevin was not a child. They had to wait one or two days before they could do anything.’

Hunter and Garcia knew that to be true. In America, any adult has the right to go missing if he or she wants to. Maybe they don’t want to see their wife or husband for a day or two. Maybe they just need a break from everything. It was their prerogative. California’s Missing Persons’ protocol dictated that they should wait between twenty-four and forty-eight hours before filing a missing persons’ complaint for anyone over the age of eighteen.

Hunter took some more notes. ‘Does Kevin drive to work?’

‘No, he takes bus.’

‘Did you, as a family, have any financial problems?’ Garcia asked.

‘Financial?’

‘Money problems,’ Garcia clarified.

Anita shook her head vigorously. ‘No. We pay everything on time. We don’t owe nobody no money.’

‘Did Kevin?’ Garcia pursued it. ‘Did he gamble?’ He noticed her confused look and clarified again before she could ask. ‘Bet . . .
apuesta.
Did he bet . . . on horses, or Internet poker or anything?’

The face Anita pulled was as if Garcia had bad-mouthed her entire family. ‘No. Kevin is a good man. A good father. He’s a good husband. We go to church every Sunday.’ She indicated the portrait of Jesus on the wall. ‘Kevin likes videogames, like boom, boom, boom, shoot monsters.’ She used her thumb and index finger to create an imaginary gun. ‘Shoot soldiers in war, you know? But he’s no betting
chico. Él no apuesta.
Just like to play. We save all the money we can – for Lilia.’ She looked down at her daughter, who was still happily sucking on her dummy. ‘His heart is not so good, you know? He takes medicine. Doctor said he has to be careful. He is scared he won’t see Lilia grow up, so he saves for her future.’ Anita’s eyes started to fill with tears. ‘Something is wrong. I know it. Kevin always call. There was no bus accident. I checked. This neighborhood very dangerous. This city very dangerous. People think LA is all about Hollywood and big life, you know? It’s not.’ A tear ran down her cheek. ‘I’m scared. Kevin and Lilia is all I have. My family is in Puerto Rico. You have to find Kevin for me. You have to.’