The captain hesitated for a split second and then shrugged back as if saying ‘why not?’.

Wilson turned towards Hunter. ‘I’m Detective Wilson, but you can call me “Sir”,’ he said, handing the note to Hunter. ‘Welcome to the Robbery Homicide Division, pretty boy. Enjoy your first easy case, because it will only get worse.’ He paused before reaching the door. ‘Oh, and do me a favor – get rid of that cheap suit, will you? You look like an idiot.’

Chapter 2

The apartment was on the twenty-eighth floor of a towering block in Cypress Park, a working-class neighborhood in Northeast Los Angeles.

Hunter exited the claustrophobic elevator and found himself at the end of a long corridor with brick walls, lined with doors on both sides – twenty-four in total. A strip of tube lights that ran down the center of the ceiling kept the hallway bright. The apartment he was looking for was number 2813, located about halfway down the corridor on the right-hand side. A uniformed officer was standing just outside the door. He looked bored. Hunter proudly flashed his new and shiny Detective’s badge at him and pushed the door open.

The first thing he noticed was that the safety chain hung from the door, its wall mounting dangling from the chain’s end. The doorframe had cracked and splintered where the four screws had once secured the metal mounting to the wood.

‘We had to kick it open,’ a senior police officer standing in the living room explained.

Hunter turned and looked at him.

‘I’m Officer Travis,’ the policeman said. ‘My partner and I were patrolling just a block from here when we received a call from Central Bureau’s dispatch to come knock on the victim’s door. Her mother, who is confined to a wheelchair, had been unable to get in touch with her for three days, which I know, isn’t that unusual, except for the fact that the daughter visited her mother every Monday without fail. Had done so for the past two years. According to the mother, if the daughter were going to be even a little late, she would always let her mother know in advance. If her car had broken down or something, she would’ve called. This afternoon the mother called the station worried sick. The daughter is bipolar, which can sometimes complicate things.’

Hunter’s eyebrows arched.

‘Anyway,’ Travis moved on. ‘We came by, knocked, but got no response. We called the building’s superintendent, who unlocked the door for us, but the safety chain was on, and there was this faint smell of putrid meat coming from somewhere inside. Obviously something was wrong. That was when we rammed the door and broke in. We found the daughter in the bedroom.’ He threw his thumb over his shoulder, pulling an ‘I’m sorry’ face.

‘Had she attempted suicide before?’ Hunter asked.

‘If she had, it wasn’t mentioned.’

Hunter nodded and allowed his eyes to circle the living room for an instant. It was spacious enough, decorated on a budget but with plenty of style. A black leatherette sofa, positioned at the edge of a fluffy black and red rug, faced a shiny black and white TV module. There was also a glass and chrome four-seater dinner table, a chest of drawers that matched the TV module, a stylish black console by the window, and a very elegant bookcase with no books, just decorative artifacts like vases, glass bowls and candle holders.

Crossing to the other side of the room, Hunter slipped on a couple of blue, plastic shoe-covers, a pair of latex gloves, a mouth and nose mask, and pushed the bedroom door open. Officer Travis followed him in.

The air inside the bedroom was hot, stuffy, and heavy with the sickening smell of dead flesh as it entered rotting stage.

Hunter’s attention was immediately drawn to the queen-size bed with its headboard pushed up against the north wall. Lying on the blood-soaked bed sheets was the naked body of a five-feet-six brunette woman. From the note Detective Wilson had handed him, Hunter knew that she was only thirty-three years old. Her name was Helen Webster, and she was a self-employed interior designer.

A Medical Examiner was standing by a dresser unit near the window, quietly speaking on his cellphone. He quickly terminated the call as he saw Hunter and the officer enter the room.

‘Are you from Homicide?’ he asked, looking a little dubious.

Hunter nodded and quickly introduced himself.

The doctor looked surprised but he refrained from asking the detective how old he was.

Hunter approached the bed, being careful to avoid the large pools of dried blood that had formed on the floor. The curtains on the window to the left of the bed were speckled with blood, and so were both bedside tables. Hunter noted the pattern, before his attention reverted back to the woman.

Blisters, caused by the release of gases from body tissues, had already started to form all over the woman’s body. Her skin had taken on a greenish-blue color, but body bloating was still in its very early stages. That, together with a few blowflies buzzing around the bed, told Hunter that she’d been dead for at least thirty-six hours. She was lying on her back. Her legs were close together and stretched out. Her arms were wide open, as if she was ready to hug a long-lost relative, but her wrists had both been cut horizontally. Two large and deep incisions that had clearly severed the main blood vessels in the forearms.

‘Rigor mortis has come and gone,’ the ME said. ‘From the state of the body I can tell you that she’s been dead for no less than thirty-six hours, and no longer than seventy-two. We’ll be able to get a better time frame after the autopsy.’

Hunter nodded, still studying the body. ‘What did she use on her wrists?’

‘This.’ The doctor showed Hunter a clear plastic evidence bag. Inside it was a blood-covered utility knife. ‘It was on the floor by the right side of the bed,’ the doctor clarified.

Hunter bent down to get a better look at the woman’s hands, wrists, and arms. ‘She’s been photographed, right?’ he asked. ‘Is it OK if I disturb the body a little, Doc?’

The doctor nodded before shrugging. ‘Suit yourself. My work here is pretty much done.’

Hunter used his index finger to clear some of the dried blood from the woman’s wrists, and took his time examining the cuts.

‘The incisions were deep and precise,’ the doctor offered. ‘Even before the autopsy I can tell you that they have severed both the radial and the ulnar arteries. Blood loss was intense and fast. Over fifty percent, I’d say.’ He indicated the pools of blood on the floor. ‘Which would have caused her to go into hypovolemic shock, leading to heart failure.’

‘Was there a suicide note?’ Hunter asked.

‘None that we have found,’ Officer Travis replied.

Hunter found that peculiar but carried on studying the woman’s hands and fingers.

‘Now,’ the doctor said, approaching the body. ‘Let me show you something interesting.’ From his coat pocket he produced a pen-sized Maglite and a small magnifying glass before using his thumb and index finger to pull open her eyelids. ‘Have a look,’ he said.

Hunter moved closer.

Travis followed.

Her corneas were cloudy and opaque, which was expected, but the eyes and their lids were dotted with tiny red specks.

Hunter frowned. ‘Petechiae?’

The doctor looked back at him, impressed. He wasn’t expecting a detective to recognize the condition he was looking at, especially such a young detective.

‘Pâté . . . what?’ Travis asked, trying to look over Hunter’s shoulders.

‘Petechiae,’ the doctor repeated. ‘They are tiny hemorrhages in blood vessels. They can occur anywhere in the body, and for a number of reasons, but when they occur on the eyes and eyelids like we have here, it is usually due to blockage of the respiratory system. In other words – suffocation.’