Hunter said nothing.

Garcia sat back in his chair and pinched his chin. ‘I was just checking the results from your national search on brunette victims with any sort of stitching to their mouths, sexual organs or both.’

‘And . . . ?’

‘Not a goddamn thing. It seems like most of the files only date back fourteen to fifteen years. Beyond that, we’ve got almost nothing.’

Hunter thought about it for a moment. ‘Damn.’

‘What . . . ?’

‘Police records only started to be properly digitized . . . what? Maybe ten, twelve years ago at a stretch?’

‘Something like that.’

‘The problem is that the amount of everyday cases is so huge, most police departments around the country don’t have the budget or the personnel to deal with the backlog. Most cases older than maybe fifteen years are probably just sitting inside boxes, getting dusty, down in basement storage rooms. Database searches will never get to them.’

‘Great. So even if we’re right, but it happened over fifteen years ago, we’ll never know?’

Hunter was already typing away on his computer. ‘Police files and databases might not be properly backlogged yet, but . . .’

Garcia waited but nothing else was forthcoming. ‘But what?’

‘But newspaper ones certainly are. I was stupid, I should’ve thought of that at first and searched the national news archives as well as the police ones.’

Hunter and Garcia searched the net and specific newspaper databases for hours, scanning through any piece that flagged up according to their search criteria. Three and a half hours later Garcia started reading a 20-year-old local newspaper article and felt a shiver run down his spine.

‘Robert,’ he called, placing both elbows on his desk, clasping his hands together and squinting at his screen. ‘I think I might have something here.’

Eighty-Four

Los Angeles was a trendy nightclub Mecca full of see-and-be-seen clubs, which made the existence of a local bar like the Alibi Room a blessing. It dated back to the days of smoke-filled interiors and drunken games of pool. The place was really just one room with some vintage carpet, a line of locals bellied up to the bar, a single pool table with iffy geometrics and dead rails, a decent jukebox packed with rock albums and the best dive bar attraction of all time: cheap booze.

Whitney Myers spotted Xavier Nunez as soon as she walked through the door. He was sitting at one of the few low oak tables next to a window to the left of the bar. Two bottles of beer and a basket of corn tortillas were on the table in front of him.

Nunez was an odd-looking man. In his mid-thirties, he had a shaved head, long pointy face, large dark eyes, bowl ears, small crooked nose, pitted skin and lips so thin they looked like they’d been drawn using a marker pen. The slogan on his shirt read – Tell your tits to stop staring at me.

Nunez was another of Myers’ contacts, whom she paid very handsomely when she needed information. He worked for the Los Angeles County Department of Coroner.

‘Nice shirt,’ Myers said as she came to his table. ‘Get loads of girls when you wear it, do you?’

Nunez took a swig of his beer and looked up at her. Nunez was about to comment on her remark, but Myers smiled at him, and all he could do was melt in his seat.

‘So, what have you got for me?’

Nunez reached for the plastic folder on the seat next to him.

‘These were really hard to get.’ He spoke with a heavy Puerto Rican accent.

Myers had a seat across the table from him.

‘That’s why I pay you so well, Xavier.’ She reached for the folder but he pulled it away from her.

‘Yeah, but special circumstances cases are really, really hard to get, d’you know what I mean? Maybe I deserve a little extra for it.’

Myers paused and smiled again, but this time there was no warmth in it. ‘Don’t go there, honey. I can be very nice when you play the way the game should be played. You know that I pay you more than enough. But if you wanna play hardball, trust me . . .’ she placed her hand on his and gave it a subtle but firm squeeze, ‘. . . I can become a real bitch. The kinda bitch you and your homies don’t wanna fuck with. So are you sure you wanna roll like this?’

Something in her voice and her touch made Nunez’ mouth go dry.

‘Hey, I was just joking. I know you pay me enough. I was talking more like you know . . . you and me . . . dinner . . . sometime . . . maybe . . .’

The warmth came back to her smile. ‘As attractive as you are, Xavier, I’m already taken,’ she lied.

He tilted his head from side to side. ‘I’d settle for meaningless sex.’

Myers finally took the folder from Xavier. ‘How about you settle for what we agreed?’ Her voice was menacing.

‘OK, that will do too.’

Myers flipped open the folder. The first photograph was of Kelly Jensen’s face. The stitches to her mouth hadn’t been removed yet. She stared at it for several seconds. Though she’d been told about it by Hunter, seeing the photographs brought a new dimension to the evil of the crime.

Myers moved to the next picture and froze. They were of the second set of stitches to Kelly Jensen’s body. Hunter had never told her about those. She had to take a deep breath before moving on. The next photo was a wide shot of Kelly Jensen’s entire body. Myers studied it carefully.

‘Where are the cuts?’ she whispered to herself, but it didn’t escape Xavier’s ears.

‘Cuts?’ he said. ‘There are none.’

‘I was told the killer used a knife to kill her.’

‘Apparently he did. But he didn’t cut her on the outside.’

Myers looked questioningly.

‘He inserted it into her.’

Myers’ whole body turned into gooseflesh.

‘And the knife is no knife I’ve ever seen. There’s a picture of it in there.’

Myers quickly leafed through all the photos until she found it.

‘Jesus Christ . . . What in the name of God . . . ?’

They were dealing with a monster here. She had to find Katia. And fast.

Eighty-Five

Hunter looked up from his computer screen. Garcia had his stare fixed on his PC monitor, his brow creased in a peculiar way.

‘What have you got?’

A couple more seconds before Garcia finally looked up. ‘A 20-year-old article.’

‘About what?’

‘A family murder/suicide. Husband found out that his wife was sleeping with someone else, lost his head, killed the someone else, his 10-year-old kid, his wife and then blew his head off with a shotgun.’

Hunter frowned. ‘Yes, and . . . ?’

‘Here’s where it gets interesting. It says that the husband stitched parts of his wife’s body shut before killing her.’

Hunter’s eyes widened.

‘But that’s all. It gives no further details as to which body parts.’

‘Did he shoot his wife?’

‘Again, it doesn’t say, and that’s what’s strange about it. It’s a potentially big story, but the article is quite brief.’

‘Where did this happen?’ Hunter got up and approached Garcia’s desk.

‘Northern California, Healdsburg in Sonoma County.’