During her time in prison, Tabatha’s foster parents hadn’tbeen kind about Jennifer, spinning horrible stories about her to Tabatha and doing away with every letter Jennifer had ever sent her daughter, making her believe that her birthmother never truly cared for her.
For the past two years, Jennifer had done everything in her power to try and locate Tabatha, to no avail.
But tonight wasn’t about Tabatha. For the first time since Jennifer had left prison, tonight was all about Jennifer.
She checked herself in the mirror one last time.
Jenny,the mirror said, knowing what Jennifer was just about to do.We’re done here. You look great, girl. Go.
Jennifer hesitated.
GO, already!
‘OK… OK.’ She turned off the bathroom lights, grabbed her handbag, and finally stepped out of her studio apartment in Van Nuys, San Fernando Valley.
Twenty-Five
Captain Blake hadn’t exaggerated when she had told Hunter and Garcia that she had just come back from another ridiculously long and equally pointless budget meeting. She was exhausted, she couldn’t wait to get home, and she desperately needed a large glass of wine. What she definitely didn’t need was to try to decipher another one of Hunter’s riddles.
‘We might be poking at the wrong end of the loophole?’ she asked Hunter, dipping her chin and using her right hand to slide her glasses to the tip of her nose.
Garcia also looked back at him a little uncertainly.
‘We’ve only been talking about the medical side of the loophole,’ Hunter began, indicating several photos as he spoke. ‘The fact that the kind of injuries that this killer inflicts onto his victims prior to death can easily be mistaken for the sort of injuries that would’ve occurred had the accidents not been faked.’
‘Yeah, well, you brought it up,’ Captain Blake said.
‘I did,’ Hunter agreed. ‘But like I said – that kind of information isn’t too hard to come by.’
‘So what are you talking about, Robert?’ the captain asked, checking her watch. ‘Which side should we be “poking” at?’
‘The “unclaimed body” side of the loophole.’ The answer came from Garcia. His gaze skipped over to Hunter, who nodded.
‘Look,’ Captain Blake said, as she used her thumb andforefinger to slightly lift up her glasses so that she could pinch the bridge of her nose. She tried her best to keep her voice steady. ‘It really has been a bitch of a long day. I’m tired. I want to go home. And I need a glass of wine like a baby needs a nipple, so can we all stop with the fucking conundrum and just get to the point here.’ She allowed her glasses to slide back onto her nose before her piercing, magnified eyes looked back at Hunter and Garcia.
‘This killer knows that if a body goesunclaimedfor more than just one to two weeks…’ Garcia got there before Hunter. ‘The body is donated to medical studies, where only a small number of them end up in the hands of pathology students, and an even smaller number end up getting a full autopsy exam.’
Another nod from Hunter. ‘No autopsy, no chance of finding out the inconsistencies.’
Captain Blake paused, her brain too tired to fully engage. ‘So what does that actually mean?’
‘It means that his victim selection isn’t a random process, Captain,’ Hunter replied. ‘He doesn’t pick just anyone off the streets… any passer-by. His victims are carefully selected.’
The captain took a step back, allowing her attention to return to the board for a long moment. ‘So then his criteria would be what? That they’re all loners? That they have no one who will claim their bodies once they’re gone?’
‘Bingo,’ Garcia said, turning to face Hunter. ‘Unless you’ve found out something very different from what I did.’
Hunter shook his head. ‘It doesn’t sound like I did.’
‘You guys just lost me again,’ Captain Blake said, sounding like she was about to give up.
Garcia quickly explained what he and Hunter had spent the afternoon doing.
‘I had just got back from The Varnish when you popped up at the door, Captain,’ he told her. ‘We haven’t had the chance to compare findings yet.’
‘So what did you find out?’ the captain asked.
‘Not much.’ Garcia went first. ‘And exactly that – that Terry Wilford seemed to have been a bigger loner than we initially thought.’ He walked over to his desk and grabbed his notepad. ‘It’s Tuesday, not the busiest of evenings for a cocktail bar, but I did talk to everyone who was at The Varnish tonight – the bartender, the waitresses, the owner, and the few customers who dripped through the door just as they opened.’
