Seven

Squirm waited by the metal sink in the kitchen. He kept his eyes low, tracing the black-and-white squares on the old linoleum floor he had just cleaned to as much of a shine as it would go. His hands were shackled in front of him. A half-foot-long heavy metal bar kept them apart, but each end had been specially fitted with a rotating cuff, allowing Squirm’s hands some restricted movement, enough for him to handle a mop and scrubbing brushes. From the center of the metal bar, a long chain connected it to the loop that had been fixed into the east wall. Every room in the house had one, like power points, including the bathroom. Squirm was always shackled to a wall, no matter where he was. There were metal loops built into the walls in the basement too, but he was never allowed down there.

Actually, the basement scared Squirm speechless. Screams came from down there – desperate, full-of-fear-and-over-flowing-with-pain screams. The kind that would haunt one’s dreams for ever. He’d heard them for the past few days. A woman’s voice, pleading, begging for the man to let her go. She even yelled out her name once. Or at least Squirm thought it was her name – Nicole.

The screams stopped sometime yesterday. He hadn’t heard her since.

The man was also in the kitchen, sitting at the small, square breakfast table a few feet in front of Squirm. He was having his usual breakfast which consisted of a bowl of cereal, a cup of coffee, a few slices of cheese, a raw egg, and some toast. His full attention was on the newspaper on the table, by his coffee cup. He didn’t even seem to acknowledge the boy’s presence.

Squirm’s stomach growled like a confused dog and that made every muscle in his body go rigid. He was not supposed to make a sound. The man had told him that.

Terrified, the boy’s eyes flicked to the man for just a split second before quickly focusing on his manacled hands. The cuffs, even though they allowed him some movement, were fitted tight around his tiny wrists and his morning cleaning chores had dug them further into his flesh. A thin circle of fresh blood decorated each wrist like a crimson bracelet.

The man didn’t look up.

Squirm’s stomach growled again, this time for a while longer. He hadn’t eaten anything for a whole day. There had been no scraps left over for breakfast, lunch or dinner the day before. He was so hungry he could feel his legs weakening under him.

The man finally finished eating and stood up. He paused by the kitchen door and looked back at the boy.

‘Lucky morning for you today, Squirm.’ He nodded at the table. ‘I’m not that hungry. You can finish that up.’

Squirm looked at what was left but didn’t move. He was too scared to. The man had left him a bite of dried toast, about a sip of coffee, and three, maybe four spoonfuls of cornflakes with milk.

‘Go on, Squirm, eat,’ the man ordered.

Squirm rushed to the table, his shaking hands first reaching for the piece of dried toast. He grabbed it and immediately shoved it into his mouth, as though if he didn’t eat it fast enough it would all be taken away from him again. It tasted like the most delicious piece of toast he’d ever eaten.

The man watched him.

Squirm grabbed the coffee cup and drank whatever was left in it in one single gulp. It tasted so bitter his entire face scrunched up. He had never liked coffee, not without milk and sugar, but right now he would take whatever he got.

Squirm then reached for the bowl of cereal and the plastic spoon.

‘Nah-ah,’ the man said with a headshake. ‘You know the rules, Squirm. No spoon. No cutlery. Use your hands, like the dirty animal you are.’

Squirm dropped the spoon, grabbed the bowl with his right hand and brought it to his lips, but the metal bar between his wrists made it all too awkward, and though he managed to tip some of it into his mouth, a whole spoonful spilled down his chin and on to the table and floor.

‘Are you throwing food away, you useless piece of shit?’ the man asked angrily, taking a threatening step toward the boy.

‘No, sir, no, sir, no, sir. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

As carefully as he could, the boy placed the bowl back on the table and looked down at the tiny mess he had created.

‘Lick it all up,’ the man said. ‘Lick it up now.’

Squirm bent down, bringing his mouth to the table. He first sucked all the milk off the table surface, before using his tongue and lips to collect each cornflake that had spilt out of the bowl.

‘The floor too,’ the man demanded, indicating it with his index finger. ‘You better eat that up right now, or else . . .’ He began undoing his belt.

In a flash, Squirm got down on his hands and knees and began sucking the milk from the floor. When he was done, he once again used his tongue and lips to collect the cornflakes.

‘I want that floor looking just the way it did before you dirtied it. I want it shining, do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir. I’ll mop it again, sir.’

‘No. I don’t want you to mop it again. The privilege of using a mop is gone. I want you to lick it clean.’

Squirm paused for just a moment.

Slam.

The belt hit Squirm across the middle of his back so hard that his already weak arms gave in and his head went crashing against the floor, making his eyes flutter.

‘Did I stutter, Squirm? I said lick . . . the . . . floor.’

Anger thickened the air.

It took Squirm a moment to regain his balance and get rid of the dizziness. Without another ounce of hesitation, he began licking the floor where he had spilt his cornflakes.

‘That’s right, Squirm, nice, long strokes.’ The man walked over to the table, grabbed the cereal bowl and emptied the rest of its contents on to the floor. ‘Now finish your breakfast,’ he said, laughing.

Squirm never stopped. He carried on licking every drop of milk and every tiny piece of cornflake from the floor. When he was done with the cornflakes, the man made him lick the entire kitchen floor. By the time he was done, Squirm’s tongue was bleeding.

Eight

Hunter and Garcia flipped open the murder file that Captain Blake had given them. This one also began with a photograph, but this time it wasn’t a portrait. It showed Nicole Wilson’s body as it had been found in the early hours of the morning. She was dressed in blue jeans, a black T-shirt under a half-unzipped light-gray California State University sweatshirt and black sneakers – no socks. She had no makeup on, and her hair looked wet, with the fringe plastered against her forehead. There was no blood on her, on her clothes, or on the ground surrounding the body. No cuts or wounds were visible either. No apparent cause of death, but Hunter and Garcia immediately understood why Captain Blake was so concerned. The body had been left lying on its back on an empty green patch of grass. The arms were stretched out to her sides in a horizontal line, palms facing up. The legs had also been stretched out and pulled apart as far as they would go, creating a V shape. The overall image was of a human star and that was what sent alarm bells ringing. From experience, they all knew that specific body positioning hinted strongly at one thing – ritual. And ritual killers rarely struck only once.

The next photograph was a close-up of Nicole’s face. Her skin had turned a light shade of purple and acquired a waxy, semi-shiny texture. Her lips had gone white from the lack of blood circulation, and even though her eyes were closed Hunter could tell that they had already begun to sink a little deeper into her skull. But what most caught the LAPD detective’s attention were the abrasions at the edges of her mouth, together with the small patch of skin that began at the corner of her lips, ran across her cheeks and disappeared behind her neck. It showed a very slight change of color, a little darker than the rest of the skin on her face, and that indicated that she’d been gagged with an overly tight restraint.