Hunter considered. ‘It would depend on how mentally vulnerable the person was at the time. But yes, deeply disturbing photographs can easily initiate something inside a person’s mind.’

Captain Blake paused while she thought about it. ‘But the kills aren’t exactly the same as the one in Healdsburg. Our victims aren’t tied down. The words he uses aren’t exactly the same either.’

‘That’s not uncommon, Captain. A trauma can be like a large picture that’s flashed in front of your eyes. Not everyone will remember every single detail perfectly. Adaptation is also a major consequence of crimes derived from early traumas. That’s what he’s doing.’

Captain Blake closed her eyes and shook her head slowly.

‘There’s one more thing, Captain,’ Hunter said, standing up. ‘Emily Harper, the woman that was stitched shut and killed in Healdsburg twenty years ago was a schoolteacher.’

‘Yeah, I know, you told me that. And . . . ?’

Hunter paused by the door. ‘She taught arts and music.’

Eighty-Nine

Hunter thought about driving to Healdsburg, but even with zero traffic it would’ve taken him at least seven hours to cover the four hundred and fifty miles. Spending over fifteen hours on the road was simply out of the question.

So Hunter caught the 6:30 a.m. nonstop flight from LA’s LAX to Healdsburg municipal airport. The flight was on time, and by 8:10 a.m. Hunter was driving his rental Chrysler Sebring out of the relatively empty Hertz forecourt.

Even without a map or an in-car navigation system, it took Hunter no longer than fifteen minutes to get from the airport to the Healdsburg Police Department in Center Street.

Chief Suarez was in his late fifties, stocky, intimidating, with a presence that projected itself without him having to speak. He looked like a man who had spent way too much time in the same job. As he’d told Hunter over the phone, he’d never heard of the Harper case. It had happened eleven years before he was transferred to Healdsburg. But Chief Suarez was also a very thorough and inquisitive man, and overnight he researched what he could.

‘One of the first people I met when I moved here was a guy named Ted Jenkins,’ the chief told Hunter after showing him into his office. ‘Coffee?’ he gestured towards an aluminum thermal flask on his desk.

Hunter shook his head. ‘I’m OK, Chief, thanks. I grabbed one as I was leaving the airport.’

Chief Suarez laughed. ‘Yeah, and I bet it tasted like cat piss.’

Hunter conceded. ‘Probably just a step above it.’

‘No, no. You’ve gotta try this.’ He grabbed a mug from a tray on top of the metal filing cabinet by the window and poured Hunter a cup. ‘No one makes coffee like my Louise. She’s got a gift. Like a family secret. How do you take it?’

Hunter had to admit that even from that distance, the coffee smelled incredible. ‘Black is great.’

‘I like you already. That’s how coffee is meant to be drunk.’ The chief handed Hunter the cup.

‘You were telling me about Ted Jenkins,’ he said before having a sip. ‘Wow.’ His eyes widened.

Chief Suarez smiled. ‘Good, isn’t it? I’ll ask Louise to make you a flask before you leave.’

Hunter nodded his thanks.

‘OK. Ted Jenkins. He’s the editor for the Healdsburg Tribune. Back then he was just a reporter. I had a drink with him last night after I got off the phone with you. He certainly remembers what happened. A terrible case where a cheated husband lost his head and killed his wife, his kid, the wife’s lover and then blew his own head off with a shotgun. Huge for a place like Healdsburg, but for an LA cop . . . ?’ Chief Suarez leaned forward, placed both hands on his desk and interlaced his fingers. ‘One of the reasons I made chief of police is because I’m a very curious man, Detective. And your phone call yesterday got my curiosity steaming.’ He paused and took a sip of his coffee. ‘I looked you up. Had a quick chat with your captain this morning too.’

Hunter said nothing.

The chief reached for his reading glasses and his eyes moved to a notepad on his desk. ‘Los Angeles Police Department – Homicide Special Section. Your specialty – ultra-violent crimes. Now that’s something us folks over here only see in movies.’ His eyes returned to Hunter over his spectacles. ‘Your captain told me you’re the best there is. And that got my old brain thinking. Everyone knows Los Angeles is a crazy town, Detective. Gangs, drugs, drive-by shoot-outs, serial killers, mass murderers, killing sprees, and worse. Why would a murder case that happened twenty years ago in a small town like Healdsburg interest the Homicide Special Section in LA?’

Hunter sipped his coffee.

‘So late last night I went down to our archives room to look for the case files. Turns out that anything older than ten years was stuck under piles and piles of junk inside unmarked cardboard boxes at the back of a smelly and cobweb-filled room. It took me and an officer nearly five hours to find them.’ He tapped a very old-looking paper folder next to his desktop PC.

Hunter moved to the edge of his seat.

‘Imagine my surprise when I saw the pictures and read the reports of what had really happened.’ He handed the file to Hunter.

Hunter flipped it open and the first photograph he saw made his heart skip a beat.

Ninety

The woman was in her late twenties, early thirties. It was hard to tell from the photo because her face was swollen and battered, but even so, Hunter could see she’d been pretty, very pretty.

A large bruise covered the left side of her forehead, eye and cheekbone. Her shoulder-length black hair was wet and sticking to her face. Her large hazel eyes, that Hunter was sure had once dazzled many men, were wide open. Her terrifying fear was frozen in them like a snapshot. Just like Laura, Kelly and Jessica, her lips had been stitched tightly shut with thick black thread, but the stitches were neat and tidy, unlike those on the victims in Los Angeles. Blood had seeped through the needle punctures and run down to her chin and neck. She was alive when he stitched her up. A brownish substance had also accumulated between her lips and at the corners of her mouth – vomit. She had been sick and the discharge had had nowhere to go.

The second picture was a close-up of the words that had been written the wall – HE’S INSIDE YOU. Ray Harper had used blood to write them. The third picture showed the next set of stitches on her body. Her groin and inner thighs were also smeared with blood that had seeped through the puncture wounds. She’d been tied to the bed by her wrists and ankles in a spread-eagled position. But the bed had been tipped on its end and pushed up against a wall, placing the victim in a standing position and facing the inside of the room.

Hunter moved to the next picture – a male body lying on the floor directly in front of the bed and the female victim. His entire head and most of his neck were missing. A double-barreled shotgun was lying partly over his torso and partly in an enormous pool of blood. Both of his hands were resting on the gun’s stock. From the destruction to his head, Hunter knew he’d discharged both rounds simultaneously, and that the barrel ends had been placed under his chin.