‘So our killer could’ve staked out the street from the comfort of his living room, miles away,’ Hunter said. ‘No suspicious characters or vehicles on the road. Risk of being spotted – zero.’

Garcia nodded again. ‘As if we didn’t know, this guy is clever.’ He pushed one document aside and picked up a new one. ‘Forensics also managed to identify the type of pen the killer used to write the note that was sent to Mayor Bailey.’

‘So what have we got?’

‘The killer used a red, BIC Cristal, large ballpoint pen.’ Garcia lifted his right index finger as he said the word ‘large’ to stress the emphasis. ‘BIC Cristals are probably the most popular ballpoint pens in the whole of America,’ he explained. ‘They are inexpensive and can easily be purchased from just about anywhere – corner shops, supermarkets, minimarkets, stationery stores, post offices, you name it. But the interesting thing here is; the most popular BIC Cristals are the medium ballpoints, not the large ones. Those are a little rarer.’

Hunter peered at the copies of the killer’s notes pinned on to the picture board before his attention returned to Garcia.

‘But still,’ Garcia added. ‘Even though the large ballpoints aren’t as popular, they’re still popular enough.’

Hunter could’ve guessed that would be the case.

Garcia moved on to a new batch of documents. ‘We still have nothing relevant from Nicole Wilson’s laptop,’ he said. ‘Nothing from her emails either, but IT forensics have now managed to break through the security on Sharon Barnard’s tablet computer and cellphone. I already have someone going over the computer files. So far, nothing of any significance.’ Garcia’s eyebrows lifted promisingly, as if he had left the best for last. ‘But we did get something very interesting from her cellphone.’

Fifty-Three

Hunter, who was still going over the numbers on the last report Garcia had handed him, lifted his eyes to look at his partner.

Garcia searched through the printouts on his desk, then passed two new sheets over to Hunter before explaining: ‘These are the transcripts of the very last text message conversation Sharon Barnard had.’ He paused and his demeanor changed to something more somber. ‘That conversation was between Sharon and the killer.’

Hunter sat up. He hadn’t been expecting that. The first text message at the top of the file was time-stamped – 19:23.

C’mon, answer your phone, Sharon. Don’t you want to play?

Hunter read those first ten words, paused and looked back at Garcia.

‘We’ve already checked the sender’s number,’ Garcia said. ‘Surprise, surprise – prepaid cellphone, untraceable. No calls or messages were made or sent prior to or after what was sent to Sharon Barnard. All the calls and text messages made and sent from that phone were to Ms. Barnard’s number. After that, the signal died. He destroyed the phone.’

Hunter’s attention returned to the file.

Sharon Barnard’s reply:

Go fuck yourself, freakshow. Whoever you are, I’m blocking your number.

Then the killer.

You know what? Forget about the phone. Let me ask you something. Did you remember to lock your front door?

No reply from Sharon Barnard.

Killer:

C’mon, open the door, Sharon. I’m right outside. Let’s have some fun.

Hunter flipped over to the second sheet.

Again, no reply from Sharon Barnard.

Killer:

OK, who needs the door anyway? Maybe I can get in some other way.

The file came to an end.

Hunter reread the entire transcript a couple of times over. ‘Is this it?’

‘That’s it,’ Garcia confirmed. ‘We’ve got nothing else. But the killer called her twice just before sending the first text message. Neither of the calls lasted very long.’

Hunter gave him a questioning look.

‘Yeah, we’re already in contact with her cellphone provider to see if we can get either a recording or a transcript of those conversations. We might have something by tomorrow.’

Garcia began pacing in front of the picture board. ‘Have you ever encountered anyone like this guy, Robert? I mean, he’s like a fucking chameleon when it comes to the way he operates.’ He indicated the sheets on Hunter’s desk. ‘Those text messages show another complete change of MO from his previous murder.’

Hunter knew exactly what his partner was talking about.

‘He went for pure fear this time,’ he agreed, locking eyes with Garcia.

‘Exactly. With Nicole Wilson, instead of terrorizing her, he befriended her with that whole horseshit story about being Ms. Bennett’s cousin from Texas. He wasn’t looking to scare her. He was after her trust. But with Sharon Barnard –’ Garcia shook his head – ‘He wanted her fear, not her trust.’

‘And he certainly got it,’ Hunter told him. ‘The lack of response to these messages.’ He indicated them on the transcript. ‘The reason she didn’t answer them back isn’t because she was ignoring him, it’s because she was petrified. She knew he was about to break into her house.’

‘So why didn’t she try calling nine-one-one?’

‘Maybe she did but the call never got through. Maybe she didn’t have time. Or maybe, in her panic, she didn’t think of it. Thinking straight under that sort of fear is a huge task, Carlos.’

Three knocks sounded on Hunter and Garcia’s office door.

‘Come in,’ Garcia called.

‘Detectives,’ the man who pushed the door open said, lifting the blue folder he held in his right hand, ‘I think you’ll want to see this.’

Fifty-Four

That morning, just like every morning since Squirm had been taken into captivity, ‘The Monster’ unlocked the door to the kid’s cell at exactly 5:45 a.m. Squirm had been feeling ill all night. His dinner the night before had been his own vomit, eaten from the floor in the projection room upstairs – and ‘The Monster’ had made him eat every last scrap. Squirm had puked again, but not until he’d made it back to his cell, away from the man’s eyes. This time, shrouded by the fear of what could happen if he dirtied the floor one more time, he did it into his latrine bucket.

‘Rise and shine, Squirm,’ ‘The Monster’ said from the doorway, his voice bright and jovial. ‘It’s a quarter to six. Time for your chores.’

Squirm had barely slept. His left eye remained badly swollen and the pains in his stomach felt like knife stabs. They were a combination of hunger pains and the result of heaving for so long on a completely empty stomach. His head also hurt with a deadly purpose, as if somehow thorns had found their way into his skull, lodging themselves just behind his eyeballs and were now digging at them like crazed woodpeckers. There also came a point during the night when he wasn’t sure if he’d gone delirious, or ‘The Monster’ had brought a new victim home, because he was certain that he could hear a woman’s screams.

‘I know you’ve heard me, Squirm. So get your lazy ass out of bed. Don’t make me come over there.’