DISPATCHER [now sounding a little more urgent]: ‘Is there anyone else in the apartment with him? Can you see?’

MALE VOICE: ‘That’s why I’m calling. I’ve been watching this guy for the past five or ten minutes, and all he’s been doing, as I’ve said, is walking back and forth in the living room, waving his weapon in the air and shouting at the walls, or so it seemed. But just now I saw this little girl appear at the other window, not in the same room as him, but in the next room along. She must be around twelve or thirteen. She looked terrified. I can’t really see any details because of the distance, but I think she is crying.’

DISPATCHER: ‘A little girl, you said?’

MALE VOICE: ‘That’s right.’

DISPATCHER: ‘OK, sir. Do you have the address of this building?’

The caller gave the address to the dispatcher. Once again, it was the address to Karen Ward’s building.

MALE VOICE: ‘The apartment I’m talking about is the last apartment down the corridor on the top floor.’

DISPATCHER: ‘And you said that you can see the apartment from your window, could you give me your—’

The caller had already disconnected.

‘That would be Karen Ward’s apartment,’ Garcia said. ‘He sent the cops to her apartment?’

Hunter nodded. ‘What was the response time?’

Garcia checked the email. ‘Around ten minutes this time.’

‘Pre-paid cellphone again?’ Hunter asked.

‘You got it.’

Hunter leaned against the edge of Garcia’s desk. ‘OK, let’s try the next call.’

Garcia opened the file. The third call in their list had been logged in twenty-eight days after the second one. It had come in at 11:13 p.m.

DISPATCHER [female voice]: ‘Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?’

MALE VOICE: ‘Umm . . . She’s not breathing. I don’t know what to do. She’s not breathing and it’s all my fault.’

The nervous voice was full of trepidation and strangled on tears. Once again, its tone differed greatly from the previous two calls. This time it was low and husky, as if the caller were on the last stages of a bad sore throat. The accent had also changed completely, moving from a typical Angelino to a very distinctive Southern Texan twang.

DISPATCHER: ‘Can you tell me your name, sir?’

MALE VOICE: ‘Todd. Todd Phillips.’

Keyboard clicks.

DISPATCHER: ‘And who is the person we’re talking about here, Todd? Who did you say isn’t breathing?’

MALE VOICE: ‘My girlfriend. Her name is Kelly Dixon. You have to help us. Please.’

DISPATCHER: ‘That’s what I’m here for, Todd, but for me to be able to do that I have to ask you a few questions, OK? You said Kelly isn’t breathing. Are you sure? Can you feel a pulse at all?’

MALE VOICE: ‘No, no I can’t.’

More keyboard clicks.

MALE VOICE: ‘You have to send someone to help us. Please, send help.’

DISPATCHER: ‘Help will be on its way very soon, Todd. Now what you need to do is stay calm and give me a few more details, OK? Can you quickly tell me what happened?’

MALE VOICE: ‘I didn’t mean to hurt her. I didn’t. I swear it. I love her.’

DISPATCHER: ‘That’s fine, Todd, I believe you, but you need to tell me what happened, OK?’

MALE VOICE: ‘I don’t know. We had an argument about something silly and I lost my head. I held her. I squeezed, and now she’s not moving. She’s not breathing. You must send help. Please. You must.’

DISPATCHER (she typed as she spoke): ‘OK, Todd. What’s your location?’

As soon as the caller gave the dispatcher the address, he put the phone down.

‘Nine-one-one tried calling the number back,’ Garcia read from the email. ‘But “surprise, surprise” – no reply. Nevertheless they have to follow protocol, so a black and white unit, together with a paramedic team, was dispatched to the location, which took them to one of the buildings across the road from Karen’s. Needless to say that they found no one by the name of Todd Phillips or Kelly Dixon. The apartment in question belonged to an elderly couple, who had lived there for over twenty-five years.’

‘What was the response time for this call?’ Hunter asked.

‘Just under ten minutes.’

Hunter wrote the time down on his notebook.

‘The GPS location recorded for the call,’ Garcia added, ‘matched the address given by the caller, so once again he was probably standing right in front of the building when he made the call.’

‘Because he knew the call would be traced,’ Hunter confirmed. ‘And if he’d made the call from a payphone down the road or from anywhere else, the location wouldn’t match his story. He was supposed to be with his girlfriend, who wasn’t breathing, remember?’ Hunter scratched his chin. ‘No slip-ups.’

Garcia place the cursor over the last attached file. ‘Shall I?’

Hunter gave his partner a single nod.

‘I wonder what kind of bullshit we’ll get now.’

Twenty-Five

The fourth and last call was received exactly five weeks after the third call, and a week before Karen Ward’s murder. It was time-stamped – 11:19 p.m.

DISPATCHER [female voice]: ‘Nine-one-one, what’s the location of your emergency?’

FEMALE VOICE: ‘Two-three-one Loma Avenue – Long Beach.’

Garcia looked at Hunter with wide eyes. ‘It’s a female voice,’ he said. ‘What the fuck is going on?’

Hunter was also caught off guard, but he decided to reserve his comments until he’d heard the entire recording.

FEMALE VOICE: ‘Could you send someone to my house, please?’

The voice sounded scared and filled with emotion.

DISPATCHER: ‘What’s the problem there, ma’am?’

FEMALE VOICE: ‘My ex-husband has just broken into my house. He’s screaming and raving like a lunatic. He’s out of his mind, and he’s a violent man.’

DISPATCHER: ‘OK, and where is he now?’

FEMALE VOICE: ‘Right outside my door. Please, send somebody.’

DISPATCHER: ‘Outside your door? Where are you, ma’am?’

FEMALE VOICE: ‘I’ve locked myself inside my bedroom.’

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Hunter and Garcia heard what sounded like three loud knocks to a door.

DISPATCHER: ‘OK. Has he been drinking? Do you know?’

FEMALE VOICE: ‘Probably. That’s what he always does.’

DISPATCHER: ‘Has he hit you?’

FEMALE VOICE: ‘No. He hasn’t had the chance yet. As soon as he broke through the front door, I ran and locked myself in here. But if he gets in here . . .’

DISPATCHER: ‘OK, ma’am, what’s your name?’

FEMALE VOICE: ‘Rose Landry.’

DISPATCHER: ‘And your address is 231 Loma Avenue – Long Beach?’

FEMALE VOICE: ‘Yes, that’s right.’

Hurried keyboard clicks.

DISPATCHER: ‘OK, a unit is on its way to you now. They won’t be long. Can you stay on the phone with me, Rose?’

FEMALE VOICE (sounding desperate): ‘No, I can’t. I can’t. I’ve got to go.’

The call ended.

Garcia sat back on his chair and ran a hand over his mouth and chin, as if smoothing down an imaginary goatee.

‘This time the address given was to a house just around the corner from Karen’s apartment building,’ he said. ‘Less than thirty seconds away. It belonged to a retired schoolteacher and his wife – John and Judith Marble.’

‘Response time?’ Hunter asked.

Another scroll down on the email. ‘Eight minutes. The fastest time of them all.

Hunter wrote the time down.

‘Now, let me repeat myself here.’ Garcia said. ‘What the fuck is going on? It’s a female voice. Is he working with someone, or was this just a coincidence?’