Wilson had been in the force for eighteen years, the last nine of them as a detective for the RHD. At first he’d hated the idea of being paired up with a young and inexperienced detective, but Hunter was a fast learner and his powers of deduction and analysis were nothing short of astounding. With every case they solved Wilson’s respect for Hunter grew. They became the best of friends, inseparable on and off the job.

Los Angeles had never lacked in gruesome and violent homicides, but it did lack in detective numbers. Wilson and Hunter frequently had to work on up to six different cases at once. The pressure never bothered them; on the contrary, they thrived on it. Then a Hollywood celebrity investigation almost cost them their badges and their friendship.

The case had involved Linda and John Spencer, a well-known record producer who’d made a fortune after producing three consecutive number one rock albums. John and Linda had met at an after-show party and it had been one of those flash romances, within three months they were married. John had bought a magnificent house in Beverly Hills and their marriage seemed to have come straight out of a fantasy book, everything looked and felt perfect. They loved entertaining, and at least twice a month they’d throw an extravagant party by their piano-shaped swimming pool. But the fantasy story didn’t last long. By the end of their first year of marriage the parties had started to die down together with the romance. Public and domestic rows became a common thing as John’s drug and alcohol addiction took over his life.

One August night, after another heated argument, Linda’s body was found in their kitchen with a single.38 caliber revolver shot to the back of the head, execution style. There was no sign of a struggle or break in, no defense wounds or bruises on Linda’s arms or hands. The evidence found in the crime scene together with the fact that he had disappeared after his argument with Linda made John Spencer the primary and only suspect. Hunter and Wilson were assigned to the case.

John was only picked up days later drunk and high on heroin. In his interrogation he didn’t deny he’d had another row with his wife that night. He’d admitted their marriage had been going through a rough phase. He remembered the argument and leaving the house angry, agitated and drunk, but what he couldn’t remember was what had happened to him for the past few days. He had no alibi. But he also sustained that he would never hurt Linda. He was still crazy in love with her.

Homicide investigations involving celebrities in Hollywood had always attracted a lot of attention and the media was quick to create their own circus – ‘FAMOUS AND RICH PRODUCER MURDERS BEAUTIFUL WIFE IN JEALOUS RAGE.’ Even the mayor was calling for a swift resolution to the case.

The prosecution showed that John did own a.38 caliber revolver, but it had never been found. They also had no problem getting witnesses to testify to all the public rows John and Linda used to have. In most cases, John did all the yelling while Linda just cried. Establishing that John Spencer had an aggressive temper had been child’s play.

Wilson was convinced of John’s guilt, but Hunter was sure they had the wrong man. To Hunter, John was just a scared kid who had got rich too fast, and with the money and fame came the drugs. John had no history of violence. In school he’d been just another regular geeky-looking kid – torn blue jeans, strange haircut, always listening to his heavy metal music.

Hunter tried reasoning with Wilson many times.

‘OK, so he had rows with his wife, but you find me a marriage without them,’ Hunter argued. ‘In none of those rows had he ever hit or hurt Linda.’

‘Ballistics proved that the bullet that killed her came from the same stash found in John Spencer’s office desk drawer,’ Wilson shouted.

‘That doesn’t prove he pulled the trigger.’

‘All the fibers found on the victim came from the same clothes John was wearing the night we found him. Ask anyone who knew the couple. He had a foul temper on him, shouting at her all the time. You’re a psychologist. You know how these things escalate.’

‘Exactly, they escalate. Gradually. It doesn’t usually just jump from heated arguments to shooting someone in the back of the head in one single step.’

‘Look Robert, I’ve always respected your assessment of a suspect. It has guided us in the right direction many times, but I also like to follow my gut. And my gut tells me this time you’re wrong.’

‘The guy deserves a chance. We should carry on with the investigation. Maybe there’s something we missed.’

‘We can’t carry on.’ Wilson laughed. ‘It ain’t up to us to make that decision. You know better. We’ve done our part. We followed the evidence we had and we apprehended the suspect we were after. Let his attorneys deal with it now.’

Hunter knew what killers were made of and John Spencer simply didn’t fit the bill, but his opinion alone meant nothing. Wilson was right. It was out of their hands now. They were already behind on five other cases and Captain Bolter threatened Hunter with suspension if he wasted any more time in a case that was officially closed.

The jury took less than three hours to reach the verdict of guilty as charged and John Spencer was sentenced to life imprisonment. And life’s what he got. Twenty-eight days after his conviction John hung himself using his bed sheet. In his cell, next to his body a single note that read Linda, I’ll be with you soon. No more arguments, I promise.

Twenty-two days after John Spencer’s suicide, their pool cleaner was picked up in Utah. In his car they’d found John’s.38 caliber revolver together with some jewelry and lingerie that had belonged to Linda Spencer. Subsequent forensic tests showed that the bullet that had killed her had come from that same revolver. The pool cleaner later confessed to shooting her.

Hunter and Wilson came under severe scrutiny by the media, the Chief of Police, the Police Commissioner and the Mayor. They’d been accused of negligence and failure to conduct a proper investigation. If Captain Bolter hadn’t intervened in their favor and accepted half the blame they would’ve lost their detective badges. Hunter never stopped blaming himself for not having done more. His friendship with Wilson took a huge knock. That had been six years ago.

‘What is it? What can you see?’ Garcia asked moving towards his partner, who still hadn’t said a word. Hunter stood motionless and wide-eyed, staring at something carved onto the woman’s neck, something he’d never forget.

After tiptoeing to raise himself above Hunter’s shoulder, Garcia got a better look at the dead woman’s neck, but it still didn’t settle his confusion. He’d never seen the carved symbol before.

‘What does that mean?’ he asked, hoping for an answer from someone.

Silence.

Garcia moved closer. The symbol looked like two crosses in one, one right side up and the other upside down ‡, but the crossbars seemed quite far from each other, almost at the extremities of its vertical beam. To him it meant absolutely nothing.

‘Is this a sick joke, Captain?’ Hunter finally snapped out of his trance.

‘It’s sick alright, but no joke,’ the captain replied in a stern voice.

‘Will somebody fucking talk to me?’ Garcia’s impatience was growing.

‘Shit!’ Hunter blurted, letting the woman’s hair fall back onto her shoulders.

‘Hello!’ Garcia waved his hands in front of Hunter’s eyes. ‘I don’t remember taking my invisible pills this morning, so will somebody let me know what the hell this is all about?’ His irritation was barely disguised.

To Hunter the room had just gotten darker, the air heavier. His headache now hammering his brain made it hard for him to think. He rubbed his gritty eyes in a last hope that this had all been just a bad dream.