‘Isolated? Why?’ Garcia sounded concerned.

‘Have you seen the body? It’s covered in blisters and sores.’

‘Yes, we’ve seen it. We thought they were burn marks or something like that.’

Doctor Phillips shook his head. ‘I can’t tell you what they are without a biopsy, but they certainly aren’t burn marks.’

‘Definitely not,’ the paramedic agreed.

‘Viral?’ Hunter asked.

Doctor Phillips looked at him intrigued. ‘At first glance, yes. Like a disease.’

‘A disease?’ The astonished question came from Garcia. ‘There must be some kind of mistake, doc, he’s a murder victim.’

‘Murder?’ Doctor Phillips looked perplexed. ‘Those blisters weren’t inflicted on him by anyone. His own body produced them as a reaction to something, like an illness or an allergy. Trust me, what killed that man was some sort of terrible disease.’

Hunter had already figured out what the killer had done.

He’d infected the victim with some sort of deadly virus. But it had only been a day since the dog race – how could the reaction have come so quickly? What disease could kill a man in a day? Once again he would depend on Doctor Winston’s autopsy examination to give him any sort of clue to what had happened.

‘We need to determine what this disease is, if it is indeed a disease, and if it’s contagious or not.’ The doctor’s eyes wandered over to the paramedic. ‘That’s what we were talking about, first-hand contact with the patient. Have any of you two…’

‘No,’ the answer came in unison.

‘Do you know of anyone who did come in contact with him?’

‘Two agents from the Special Tactics Unit,’ Hunter snapped back.

‘They’ll probably have to come in for some tests, depending on the biopsy result.’

‘And when are you expecting the results?’

‘As I’ve said, the body just came in. I’m gonna send a tissue sample to the lab as soon as possible with an urgent request. If we’re lucky we might get a result sometime today.’

‘How about the body and the autopsy?’

‘The body will be sent to the Department of Coroner today, but its condition and the fact that it has to be kept in isolation make things more difficult, so I can’t tell you exactly when. Look, detective, I’m not gonna lie to you, I’m very concerned about this. Whatever killed that man did it very fast and in a very painful manner. If it’s some sort of contagious disease, judging solely by his state when he came in, we could be facing some very horrific epidemic here. The whole city could be in danger.’

Twenty-Eight

The rest of the day passed in a state of limbo. There was very little Hunter or Garcia could do but wait. Wait for the forensic team to finish processing the crime scene, wait for the biopsy result to come through, wait for the body to be sent to Doctor Winston and wait for his autopsy report.

Both detectives went back to Griffith Park just before darkness set in. If the crime lab team came across anything, no matter how small, they wanted to know, but the search was laborious and slow. The high grass, heat and humidity made things even more difficult, and by one in the morning the team had found nothing.

The loneliness of Hunter’s apartment was overwhelming. As he opened the door and turned on the lights he wondered what it would be like to be coming home to someone who cared, someone that could give him some hope that the world wasn’t on the road to hell.

He tried to fight the destructive guilt that had gradually crept in since the dog race, but even his experience and knowledge couldn’t keep his mind from wondering. If only I’d picked dog number two. At this point in time the killer was also winning the psychological battle.

He poured himself a double dose from the twelve-year-old bottle of Laphroaig, dropped in his usual single cube, dimmed the lights and collapsed onto his old, stiff sofa. He felt physically and mentally exhausted, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep. His mind kept playing back everything that had happened in the past few hours and it intensified his pounding headache.

‘Why couldn’t I have chosen a simple profession, why couldn’t I have been a chef or a carpenter?’ he thought out loud. The reason was simple. Cliché or not, he wanted to make a difference, and every time his investigations and hard work caught a killer, he knew he’d made that difference. It was a high unlike any other – the self gratification, the exhilaration, knowing how many lives he saved by following the evidence, staying calm and piecing together a scene that seemed lost and diluted in time. Hunter was good at what he did and he knew it.

He had another sip of his single malt and swirled it around in his mouth before swallowing it down and welcoming the burning sensation. He closed his eyes and dropped his head back, trying his best to clear his mind of all the day’s events, but they were hammering his memory with a thunderous force.

The message alert from his cell phone made him jump. He felt his pockets for it but found they were empty.

‘Shit!’

The phone was on the small glass bar. He’d left it there together with his wallet and keys.

Placing his glass on the floor Hunter slowly stood up and glanced at his watch.

‘Who the hell would be sending me a message at this godforsaken hour anyway?’ He checked the phone.

I hope you are OK. It was very nice seeing you again this afternoon, even if it was just for a few minutes – Isabella.

Hunter had forgotten all about their quick lunch in the afternoon. He grinned and at the same time felt guilty for having to run out on her for the second time. He quickly typed a reply message.

Can I call you? He pressed the ‘send’ button and went back to the sofa.

A minute later the phone vibrated and played its message alert, breaking the silence in the room.

Yes.

Hunter had another sip of his single malt and pressed the ‘call’ button.

‘Hello… I thought you’d be asleep by now,’ she said softly.

‘I thought the same about you. Isn’t this a little late for a researcher? Don’t you have to be in the lab early tomorrow?’ Hunter asked with a little smile.

‘I never sleep much. Usually five to six hours max every night. My brain is always busy. Research work does that to you.’

‘Five to six hours only. That really isn’t much.’

‘Look who’s talking. Why aren’t you asleep?’

‘Insomnia is part of the package. It comes with the job.’

‘You need to learn how to unwind.’

‘I know. I’m working on it,’ he lied.

‘Talking about the job – is everything OK? You looked a little distressed after that phone call this afternoon.’

Hunter paused for a minute and rubbed his tired eyes. He thought of how innocent the majority of the people were, not knowing the evil that awaits just a stone’s-throw away. Part of his job is to make sure these people stay innocent.

‘Everything is alright. It’s just the job. It always carries that sort of pressure.’

‘I’m sure… more pressure than I can imagine. Anyway I’m really glad you called.’

‘I’m sorry I had to leave in such a hurry again. Maybe I can make it up to you.’ He could swear he heard her smile.

‘I’d like that… and that’s what I was thinking about. How would you like to have dinner with me at my place on Saturday evening?’

‘A dinner date?’ Hunter teased.

‘Well, now that the check out lunch date is out of the way, I thought dinner would be nice. Are you busy this Saturday?’

‘No, no, I’m free. Saturday is fine. What time shall I come over?’

‘How about six o’clock?’

‘That sounds great. I’ll bring a bottle.’

‘Fantastic. Do you remember the address?’

‘You’d better give it to me again, just in case. I was pretty drunk that night.’

‘Don’t I know it?’

They both laughed.