Erica finished the rest of the water. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what to say. I’m not sure what is real and what isn’t anymore.’

Hunter waited, allowing Erica to dictate the pace.

‘I was home alone,’ she began, ‘just making some popcorn . . .’

For the next twenty minutes, Erica proceeded to tell Hunter everything her memory threw back at her. When she told him about the questions she was asked and about her phobia of cemeteries, panic took hold of her one more time.

Hunter asked the officer for a new glass of sugary water.

It took Erica another five minutes to recompose herself.

Then she told Hunter what she had done.

Seventy-Eight

As Hunter left the crime scene and exited the house, Detective Webb was finally able to focus his stare back on to Dr. Gwen Barnes’ body on the dining table. He knew it was her, but her facial disfiguration had been so severe, he just couldn’t recognize her.

‘This can’t be true,’ he said again.

‘Detective?’ This time the imposing call came from Dr. Slater. She walked over to meet him.

Webb blinked once before meeting her stern gaze.

‘I can’t have you contaminating my crime scene, do you understand me?’ She paused and took a breath. Her voice softened a little. ‘I am terribly sorry for your loss. I really am. No one should find out about the death of a loved one, or a friend, or anyone this way, but you are an LAPD detective, you should know better than to enter an unprocessed crime scene unprepared and unsuited. I can’t have you here. You are compromising not only this crime scene, but this entire investigation.’

‘Detective Webb,’ Garcia took over, approaching him. ‘Why don’t we talk outside, and allow forensics to process the scene?’ He gestured towards the door. ‘They have a lot to do in here. Maybe you can give me a little more insight on Dr. Barnes. We need all the information we can get on her. You can also tell me about the note and the bracelet you’ve mentioned.’

Webb’s professional side finally took over.

‘Yeah, sure,’ he said at last. ‘I’m sorry I’ve acted so impulsively.’

‘You were just being human, Detective,’ Garcia said, his tone friendly and understanding. ‘That’s what we all are.’

Webb allowed his eyes to rest upon the body on the table one last time, before exiting the house. As they stepped outside, Garcia unzipped his coverall and freed his arms, allowing the top half of the white jumpsuit to hang loosely from his waist. Once they reached the edge of the house’s front lawn, Webb reached inside his jacket pocket for his notepad, scribbled something down, tore off the page and handed it to Garcia.

‘What’s this?’ Garcia asked as he read the note.

‘My partner’s name and badge number. He’s the person who I went to meet after I dropped Gwen back here.’ Webb reached inside his pocket again, this time for a pack of cigarettes. He tapped one out and brought it to his lips before offering Garcia one.

He declined.

Webb lit his up and took a long drag. ‘There’s no reason for bullshitting here, Detective . . .?’

‘Garcia, but you can call me Carlos.’

‘There’s no reason for bullshitting here, Detective Garcia. I know how this works. I was the last person to see the victim alive. I was out with her on the night she was murdered and I was the one who drove her home. In short, right now, I am the suspect list.’ Webb had another drag of his cigarette.

Garcia regarded the man in front of him for a second. Webb did fit the basic description they had of the masked killer – tall, with broad shoulders – but then again, half of the male population of Los Angeles fitted that description.

‘This investigation goes a lot deeper than this murder alone, Detective Webb,’ Garcia said.

Webb looked back at Garcia, measuring his words before his eyebrows shot up his rugged forehead. ‘This guy has killed before.’ His intonation didn’t make it clear if it had been a question or a statement.

Garcia didn’t address it either way.

‘Why don’t you tell me about this note and bracelet you’ve mentioned?’

Seventy-Nine

Mr. J snatched the cellphone from the tabletop a millisecond after it started ringing.

‘Brian, you sure as hell took your time.’ He did nothing to disguise the irritation in his voice.

‘Sorry, Mr. J,’ Brian replied. His voice, on the other hand, sounded fatigued. ‘But you managed to pick one slick sonofabitch here. Gathering any sort of info on this guy hasn’t been easy . . . but we got lucky. Twice.’

‘So what have you got?’

‘You were right in your suspicions. Michael Williams isn’t his real name, but the name was picked for a reason.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘There are over half a million men called Michael Williams in the USA,’ Brian revealed. ‘Around five hundred and fifty of them live right here, in Los Angeles. It’s a common enough name to “escape him out”, but . . .’

‘Hold on, Brian,’ Mr. J cut him short. ‘Escape him out? What the hell does that mean?’

‘Sorry, it’s just a term we use. It means that with nothing else other than just a name to go by, and with approximately five hundred and fifty of them living in this city alone, it would take any law enforcement agency – LAPD, FBI, Sheriff’s Department . . . it doesn’t matter – days, maybe even weeks to track the correct individual down, if at all. That time frame would be more than enough for him to disappear . . . escape.’

‘OK, so you were saying that Michael Williams is a common enough name to “escape him out”, but—’

‘But not common enough to raise suspicion if he applies for false documentation.’ Brian decided to explain it better. ‘Certain names are flagged by our government for being way too common – John or James Smith, Robert Jones, Michael Williams – basically, any name that totals over one million in the country gets flagged. Those are the names that top the “escape out” list because they’re also the ones criminals use the most, for obvious reasons.’

‘OK, so getting back to our Michael Williams,’ Mr. J urged Brian.

‘Yeah, OK, as I’ve said, we’ve got lucky twice here. One – if you hadn’t sent me that photograph of him, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Not now, probably not ever. But with a picture, I was able to run a face-recognition program against some of our databases, and that was where we got lucky for the second time.’

‘He’s got a record,’ Mr. J said.

‘He did four years for sexual assault,’ Brian confirmed. ‘Quite a violent case too.’

Mr. J closed his eyes, trying to keep his calm, but he could feel his blood starting to boil inside his veins. Back at Michael Williams’ house, inside the suitcase he had retrieved from under his bed, Mr. J had found a varied collection of women’s underwear. Panties, to be more precise. The sizes ranged from six to sixteen. Michael Williams wasn’t only a sexual predator. He was a trophy collector too, and that was when it dawned on him. Cassandra had been stripped naked, but her clothes hadn’t been found.

‘So who the fuck is he, really?’ Mr. J asked.

‘His real name’s Cory Russo. I’m just about to send you his whole file. The guy is a scumbag, no doubt about that, but he’s quite a clever scumbag.’

‘And why is that?’

‘While inside, he acquired three diplomas – plumbing engineering, mechanical engineering, and Internet security.’