The train was upon the bridge.

‘His choices . . .’ Brandon said, this time with no emotion in his voice whatsoever, ‘led me to mine.’

Time was over.

Hunter saw Brandon’s feet leave the concrete ledge and step onto nothing at all.

‘NO,’ Hunter yelled, taking a step forward and throwing himself at the kid, stretching his body, reaching with everything he had. His fingers brushed against Brandon’s left shoulder as gravity did its job, dragging the kid’s body faster and faster toward the train tracks tens of feet beneath them. Hunter closed his fingers fast and with all the strength he could muster, but all he managed was to pinch a tiny portion of the fabric on Brandon’s shirt.

Hunter almost had him, but he didn’t get there fast enough.

Brandon’s body escaped Hunter’s grasp and plunged downward like a rock.

The next sound Hunter heard was that of Brandon’s body being disintegrated as it met the oncoming train.

The train number shown at the front of the engine car was 678.

Ninety-Eight

The briefing room had been absolutely quiet throughout Hunter’s accounts, and the stunned silence persisted for a few seconds afterward. Everything now starting to slot into place – SSV, 678, 0123.

‘I remember you telling me about it,’ Garcia eventually said, surprise still showing on his face.

Captain Blake nodded. So did she.

‘So the phone call to you at the beginning of all this,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t by chance or because of your reputation, as we once thought.’

‘No,’ Hunter agreed. ‘It was because I was the one on the bridge. Because I wasn’t fast enough. And because I was the one who failed to dissuade Brandon from jumping.’

‘But how do our three victims fit into this?’ Garcia asked.

Hunter nodded, pressing the button on the clicker again. The image on the projection screen was substituted by three low-quality photographs. There was no doubt that the pictures showed the Sixth Street Viaduct on that fateful night. They were slightly out of focus and a little grainy, but on all three of them, though his face was obscured by shadows, everyone could clearly see Brandon Fisher standing on the concrete ledge at the west end of the bridge. In the second and third photographs, Hunter was easy to identify. He was also on the bridge, standing just a few feet away from Brandon, bathed by the yellowish light that came from a bridge lamppost. His demeanor showed signs of tension.

‘These pictures were taken by the passerby who called 911 that night, using a cellphone camera,’ Hunter clarified. ‘As we all know, central dispatch general police radio calls are usually scanned by crime reporters looking for a scoop. The crime desk at the LA Times was scanning that night. I’m not sure if the passerby was persuaded to, or if he sold them of his own accord, but the pictures he captured on the bridge ended up with the LA Times crime reporter who came to the scene.’

Hunter paused and pressed the clicker button again. A new portrait photograph took over the screen. One that was now very familiar to Hunter, Garcia, Captain Blake and Michelle Kelly.

‘The name of the passerby who made the call and took the pictures,’ Hunter said, looking at the portrait. ‘Kevin Lee Parker. Our first victim.’

Garcia filled his cheeks with air and blew it out slowly. ‘Let me guess. Christina Stevenson, the killer’s second victim, was the LA Times reporter who showed up to cover the story.’

‘The one and the same,’ Hunter confirmed. ‘She was with the crime desk back then. She not only used the three photographs taken by Kevin Lee Parker that night but she also added this picture to her article, obviously looking for the “shocking” factor.’

Another click.

The same close-up photograph of Brandon Fisher’s scarred face Hunter had shown them just minutes before, taken about twelve months after his accident, returned to the screen.

‘Shit!’ Michelle said. ‘She exposed the kid’s face and with it his entire internal struggle to everyone.’

Hunter nodded. ‘Christina’s article made sure that Brandon’s injuries became public domain. Now anyone could pull pitiful, shocked or disgusted faces. Anyone could make comments, jokes or whatever about the “disfigured” kid who jumped from the bridge.’ Hunter took a moment and had a sip of water. ‘Maybe because Christina was in a hurry to finish the article, which came out a day after Brandon’s suicide, it would be fair to say that her efforts into researching the story properly weren’t her best.’

A new picture took over the projection screen – Christina Stevenson’s article.

‘I got this from her editor at the LA Times late last night,’ Hunter said.

‘I’ll be damned,’ Captain Blake exclaimed, before reading the title of the article out loud. ‘The Devil Inside.’

‘What the killer left us on the glass door inside Christina Stevenson’s bedroom,’ Hunter reminded everyone, ‘was the title of the article she wrote. The piece goes on to suggest that a bullied, rejected, cast-aside and troubled Brandon Fisher was unable to cope with the devil inside him. The devil of his injuries. A devil that had slowly but surely worked its way through Brandon’s sanity, finally driving him to suicide.’ Hunter paused for a beat. ‘Christina also used words such as—’ he pointed them out as he spoke ‘—“another teenager’s suicide”, which implies triviality, something unimportant, something that happens too often for anyone to really care. And “disturbing the quiet night”, which suggests Brandon’s death was nothing more than a simple burden that the city of Los Angeles could do without, like pickpockets or muggers.

‘Unfortunately,’ Hunter added, ‘Christina’s poor choice of words trivialized what happened that night. Just another sad story to be forgotten seconds after it’s been read.’

No comment was made, so Hunter proceeded.

‘And then we have this.’

One more click and once again the images on the screen changed, but this time they weren’t static. They weren’t pictures. They had a video.

The surprised expression was uniform across everyone’s face.

The video showed the final fifteen seconds of Brandon’s life. He was standing on the ledge facing south. Hunter was standing a few feet from him, his back to the camera. Brandon was saying something to Hunter the camera’s microphone wasn’t able to pick up. All they could hear was the loud sound of a train approaching. Then it all happened very fast. Brandon turned around quickly, but didn’t jump as such. He simply stepped away from the ledge and onto thin air, as if stepping into a room, or out of a house. Gravity did the rest. At that exact moment, Hunter sprang to life, taking a step forward and launching himself in Brandon’s direction, stretching his body like Superman in mid-flight. Then the camera panned fast downward, just quick enough to catch the moment of impact as the train rushed past beneath the bridge and struck the kid’s small body with all its force.

The room was filled with curse words and anxious murmurs. Hunter saw everyone in the room cringe, including the SWAT captain.

Hunter paused the footage.

‘This was captured by the driver of the next vehicle that came along onto the bridge, several seconds after I blocked the traffic. He so happened to have a camcorder with him. His name . . .’

Click.

A new portrait photograph appeared on the screen. The same one Hunter and Garcia had on the pictures board inside their office.

‘Ethan Walsh,’ Hunter said. ‘The killer’s third victim.’

A few seconds of stunned silence.