‘This picture was taken about twelve months after the accident,’ Hunter explained, ‘once the scars had pretty much healed. He’d also already had two cosmetic surgeries to try to lessen their effect, and this was as good as it would get. Doctors and more operations could do little more for him.’
‘Poor kid,’ Michelle whispered.
‘You don’t need me to tell you that such severe, life-changing facial disfigurement is something most people will rarely find a way to completely cope with,’ Hunter said. ‘No matter how much time passes, or how much support they get.’ He paused for breath. ‘As I’ve said, Brandon was an already shy and withdrawn kid. It’s no surprise that the accident sent him down a bottomless depression dark hole. He wasn’t able to play football anymore, or any other sport for that matter. Despite healing properly after the fractures, his legs and left arm weren’t as fast or as strong as they used to be, and, after being perforated, his left lung worked in a reduced capacity. At first, the few friends he had tried to be supportive, but kids will be kids, and slowly but surely they began distancing themselves from him. It wasn’t long before the gossiping, the jokes and the name-calling started happening behind his back. But things like that never stay “behind the back” for too long. He knew. His girlfriend also ended their relationship, and that devastated him.’
‘Didn’t he get any psychological help?’ Captain Blake asked.
‘He did. As soon as he was able to,’ Hunter confirmed with a head nod and a half shrug. ‘Three one-hour sessions a week, that was all.’
‘Yeah,’ one of the SWAT agents chuckled. ‘How much do you think that’s going to help?’
‘And even if it does,’ another one added, ‘with only three sessions a week, how long do you think it will take?’
‘Too long,’ Hunter agreed.
Murmuring came back to the room.
Hunter pressed the clicker button once again. The image that took over the screen this time was that of a bridge in downtown Los Angeles.
‘Twenty-nine months ago, on a Tuesday night,’ Hunter proceeded, and the room quieted down again, ‘Brandon kissed his mother and father goodnight and went to his room, but he didn’t go to bed. He waited until the house was silent before exiting it through his bedroom window and making his way to the 6th Street Bridge in downtown LA, just a few blocks away from where he lived, in Boyle Heights.’
The briefing room was completely silent. Everyone had their eyes on Hunter.
‘Brandon had been at this for weeks, maybe months,’ Hunter moved on. ‘He had everything planned out, including time schedules. When the correct time came, he jumped off the bridge.’
Captain Blake and Michelle Kelly shifted uncomfortably on their chairs.
‘As you all know,’ Hunter said, ‘the 6th Street Bridge not only provides a crossing over the Los Angeles River but also over several train tracks. Brandon chose the tracks instead of the river.’ Hunter paused and cleared his throat again. ‘As I’ve mentioned, Brandon seemed to have had everything planned out to the last detail, including the train’s schedule. He timed his jump to perfection. A split second after his feet touched the tracks, an oncoming cargo train hit him at full speed. His body almost disintegrated.’
Another button click and the picture on the screen changed to a section of the train tracks that ran underneath and just past the 6th Street Bridge. A forensics evidence marker had been placed next to something that looked like a human leg.
‘His body parts were scattered over a fifty-yard area,’ Hunter added.
More nervous chair shuffling. This time it came from everyone in the briefing room.
Hunter wasn’t finished yet. ‘Before jumping off the bridge, Brandon said that most of the world believed in the stupid misconception that everything we do in life is ultimately down to us. That we always have a choice, whether we want it or not.’ Hunter paused and folded his arms over his chest. ‘And then Brandon said, “What about the choices other people make that end up completely changing your life, not theirs? Where is our choice there, then?”’
‘Wait a second,’ one of the SWAT agents said, lifting a hand as if requesting his teacher’s permission to speak. ‘How do you know what the kid said on the bridge?’
Hunter took a deep breath before looking back at the room.
‘Because I was there.’
Ninety-Seven
Twenty-nine months ago
Whittier Boulevard,
about twenty seconds away from the 6th Street Bridge
01.19 a.m.
Hunter had given up the fight against another sleepless night. As he had done so many times before, and was sure to do countless times again, instead of sitting at home and staring at his dull and faded walls, all in desperate need of a new coat of paint, he had decided to go for a drive. Once again, he drove around aimlessly, going nowhere, searching for nothing. The city simply washed past the windshield as he drove. Empty minded, he allowed the streets and turns to guide him.
For no particular reason, or maybe it was because he had done the exact same thing just a few days ago, and had then decided to drive down to Venice Beach, tonight he chose to drive around downtown LA.
With the financial district and the city supposedly asleep, the streets of central Los Angeles seemed disturbingly quiet, too alien to what most people were accustomed to.
Hunter had just driven through Boyle Heights, turned right on El Camino Real and joined Whittier Boulevard, heading toward the 6th Street Bridge, when the police radio in his car crackled loudly.
‘Attention any downtown units near the 6th Street Bridge. We just received a 911 call about a possible suicide attempt on the bridge. Subject appears to be in his teens. According to the caller, the kid looks like he’s going to jump. We need immediate response. Is anyone close enough?’
Hunter looked up from his dashboard, where his eyes had rested while he listened to the call from dispatch. The first thing he saw was the large green road sign announcing the bridge that lay straight ahead, less than fifteen seconds away. Though many call it the 6th Street Bridge, the official name, and the one shown in all the city road signs, was Sixth Street Viaduct.
Hunter quickly reached for his radio.
‘Dispatch, this is Detective Robert Hunter, LAPD Homicide Special. I am practically on the bridge, approaching it from the east side – coming from Whittier Boulevard. I’ll be there in about ten seconds. Is there any info on the subject?’
‘Roger that on location, proximity and ETA on the bridge, Detective Hunter, but on subsequent info on the subject, that’s a negative. Caller was a passerby who spotted the subject on the ledge. There’s nothing else I can offer at this point. I’m sorry.’
‘Roger that,’ Hunter replied. ‘I’m coming to the bridge now and I have visual on the subject. He’s up on the north-facing ledge – west end of the viaduct. I repeat – subject is up on the north-facing ledge, at the west end of the Sixth Street Viaduct. Send backup in the form of the fire brigade, and a psychologist ASAP.’
‘10-4 on backup and medical help, Detective. Good luck.’
Hunter reduced his speed and stopped his car halfway through crossing the bridge, blocking all westward traffic. He did none of that briskly. There was no screeching of the tires, no slamming of the doors, no loud sound or abrupt movement that could potentially worsen an already extremely tense situation. The dashboard clock read 01:21 a.m.
As Hunter had described to dispatch, the subject was standing on the north-facing ledge, at the west end of the viaduct. His back was toward Hunter, but instead of looking down at what awaited him if he jumped, he was looking ahead in the distance, as if waiting for something, or maybe contemplating a change of mind. That was a good sign.