‘Oh, I remember her now,’ John said, hiding his excitement. ‘The woman with the apple pies and the very loud laugh.’

‘That’s her.’ The priest nodded. ‘Well, Emily, her daughter, moved to Los Angeles about two years ago. She wants to go to drama school and become an actress.’ Father Lewis shook his head disapprovingly. ‘Kids these days, they all want fame and stardom, no matter what we try to teach them.’

John didn’t comment.

‘She came back this past weekend. She’ll be spending Christmas with her family in Huntingdon. I was talking to her after Sunday’s Mass, and she told me something that I just needed to come and tell you. It might bring some comfort back into your heavy heart.’

John frowned, not really knowing where the priest was going.

‘To pay her rent,’ Father Lewis continued, ‘Emily has taken a job as a waitress in a diner in a busy area of Los Angeles.’ He paused, as if what he was about to say filled him with joy. ‘And she swears she saw Mollie just a week ago.’

John’s heart skipped a beat. He stared blankly at Father Lewis.

‘I know.’ The priest nodded enthusiastically. ‘It’s hard to believe, but Emily said she was very sure. There’s a bus stop just in front of the diner where she used to work, and that’s where she saw Mollie. Apparently, Mollie hasn’t changed much, apart from her hair and a small scar on her lip.’

John remembered the night Mollie ran away. He’d given her that scar.

‘Emily didn’t manage to speak to her. She was serving customers, and by the time she was done with their order Mollie had already boarded a bus. They used to be friends in school, remember?’

John felt his body starting to shiver as words evaded him.

‘Isn’t that just great news, John?’ The priest smiled. ‘Mollie is alive and well. I was so overjoyed when Emily told me that I had to come over and see you. I know how worried you’ve been.’

John wasn’t listening anymore. The voices in his head now doing all the talking.

Sixty-Nine

It was early evening when Hunter received an email with an attachment containing the latest lab results sent from the LACDC. The combination used on Amanda Reilly’s face to produce the melted wax effect was similar to what Doctor Winston had suggested, but not quite. The killer had created a mixture of rubber and petrolatum that was of a soft jelly consistency. The jelly, when mixed with a small amount of lead oleate, creates a gelatinous plaster that is readily adhesive to the human skin and it doesn’t run or soften. When exposed to intense heat, the entire mixture melts away. Depending on the strength of the adhesive property of the plaster, it can rip the skin clean off a person’s body as it melts. The wax-like clumps on Amanda Reilly’s face were actually a mixture of her torn-off skin and the melted rubber petrolatum combination used by the killer.

‘Where would the killer get hold of that stuff?’ Garcia asked after Hunter read the printout out loud.

‘Petrolatum is really just petroleum jelly,’ Hunter explained. ‘It can be bought over the counter at any drugstore. Lead oleate can be easily ordered over the internet, and the killer could’ve gotten the rubber simply by melting a common Halloween mask. The amount needed to create enough jelly to cover Amanda’s face would’ve been distinctively small.’

Garcia accepted it but still looked unsettled.

‘What’s bothering you?’ Hunter asked, placing the printout on his desk.

Garcia pulled his hair into a ponytail. ‘The conversation we had with Mollie this morning and everything she told us. It’s like she was there when it happened.’

‘And what do you think?’ Hunter pushed for an opinion.

Garcia paced the room. ‘She knew too many details about both crime scenes for her to be a hoax. She knew about the numbering. Her whereabouts on both nights checked out.’ He lifted his hands as if giving up. ‘I’m gonna be straight with you, Robert. I never really believed in any of this psychic crap. But unless she knows who the killer is and he’s been telling her stories, I think you’re right. She’s the real deal. And if so, she’s told us something we didn’t know.’

‘The killer showed the victims a piece of paper,’ Hunter admitted.

Garcia nodded. ‘And as you suggested before, it could easily have been a drawing or a picture of somewhere or someone.’

‘Whatever it is,’ Hunter said, his eyes fixed on Garcia, ‘if Mollie is right, that piece of paper links the victims together.’

Seventy

A muffled, single click sound from Hunter’s computer announced the arrival of a new email. This time, Mike Brindle had sent them the blood test results from the photographs they found on the fireplace. Hunter read it first before handing the printout to his partner.

‘The killer used the same blood on both pictures?’ Garcia sounded unsure.

Hunter nodded and rubbed his eyes.

‘Doesn’t that do away with your theory that the killer uses the blood of the previous victim to mark his next one?’

‘Not at all.’ Hunter went back to his seat and reached for his mouse. Click, scroll, click.

Garcia waited a few seconds but got nothing. ‘Do you wanna elaborate on that?’

‘Those weren’t the real victims; they were pictures of the victims. Suppose the killer kills a victim and goes away with just enough blood to be able to number his next one. He’s not counting on the number washing off or somehow disappearing and having to redraw it.’ He pressed a few keys on his keyboard. ‘So when the killer finds himself in a situation where he has to use photographs to reclaim victims one and two, he’s fresh out of victims’ blood.’

Garcia considered this. ‘So he adapts and has to use the same blood to mark both photos.’

Hunter stopped dead and faced Garcia. ‘He didn’t use their blood,’ he murmured.

‘What?’

‘The killer was at a crime scene when he left both pictures on the mantelpiece.’

‘Yeah, so?’

‘So he could’ve used Amanda’s blood. She was right there and he wouldn’t even have needed that much to draw two small numbers on the back of the photos. Why didn’t he use her blood?’

Garcia shook his head slowly.

‘He also could’ve used Father Fabian’s blood,’ Hunter carried on. ‘He obviously had some with him to draw the number four on Amanda’s back. He wouldn’t have needed any more than a small dab for each number.’

Garcia chewed on his bottom lip as he thought about it. ‘Maybe he drew the numbers on the back of the pictures before getting to the house in Malibu,’ he suggested.

‘OK, so why not use Father Fabian’s blood? As I said, he had some with him since the Seven Saints murder.’

‘Maybe he had some blood left from the previous victims.’

‘According to the test results, it’s not Amanda’s blood, it’s not Father Fabian’s blood and it’s not the same blood as the one the killer used on the priest, the pregnant woman’s.’

‘So if your assumptions are correct and the killer really is using the blood of a previous victim to mark his next one, the blood used on the pictures wouldn’t have come from victims two, three or four.’

‘That’s right.’

Garcia leaned against his desk. His eyes studied Hunter for a brief moment. ‘I can see from the look on your face that you don’t believe the blood belongs to the first victim either.’

‘I think the killer keeps only a small amount of victim’s blood so he can number the next one. After that, my guess is that he disposes of what he has left.’