‘Robert, it’s Susan,’ the caller announced. ‘Do you have a minute?’
Dr. Susan Slater was one of the best lead forensics agents California had to offer. She had worked closely with the UVC Unit in a number of cases.
‘Of course, Doc,’ Hunter replied. ‘Is there something wrong?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Dr. Slater said before a brief pause. ‘There might be.’
Intrigued, Hunter readjusted his position on his seat. ‘OK, I’m listening.’ His eyes moved to the diary on his desk and he instinctively flipped back a few pages, just to be one hundred percent sure that the UVC Unit wasn’t waiting on any forensics test results.
He was right.
‘This is a funny story,’ Dr. Slater began. ‘This morning, as I was leaving my house to come to the lab, I checked my mailbox, as I do every morning. Besides the usual weekend junk mail, I found a regular office-size envelope. The envelope had my name in large letters across the front of it, but that was about it.’
‘What do you mean?’ Hunter asked.
‘It didn’t have my home address, Robert,’ the doctor explained. ‘Just my name. There was no stamp, no US postal service mark, and no return address either.’
‘Which means that it was hand-delivered.’
‘Exactly,’ Dr. Slater agreed.
‘Have you opened it yet?’
‘I have, but obviously, after all the necessary precautions. What I was presented with, was a book.’
‘OK?’ Hunter frowned at the phone.
‘Well, to be more specific . . . it’s some kind of journal, really.’
‘What sort of journal?’
There was another brief pause.
‘The kind of journal that I think you and Carlos need to come have a look at.’
Three
Hunter’s long-term partner at the Ultra Violent Crimes Unit was Detective Carlos Garcia. They shared the same office space – a claustrophobic 22-square-meter concrete box with a single window, two desks and not much else, but it was still a completely separate enclosure from the rest of the Robbery Homicide Division floor, which, if nothing else, kept prying eyes and the endless buzzing of voices locked out.
While Hunter was on the phone to Dr. Slater, Garcia was seated at his desk, going over some electronic paperwork.
‘Want to take a ride to the FSD Criminalistics Lab?’ Hunter asked him, as soon as he disconnected from the call, already reaching for his jacket.
The FSD Criminalistics Lab, part of the LAPD’s Forensics Science Division (FSD), was comprised of eight specialized unit laboratories, which provided support services to investigations conducted by the various departments of the LAPD. Most of those labs operated out of the Hertzberg-Davis Forensic Science Center, located inside the campus of the California State University in Alhambra, in the western San Gabriel Valley region of Los Angeles.
‘The Criminalistics Lab?’ Garcia asked, his eyes narrowing at his partner. ‘Do we have a result pending?’
‘No,’ Hunter replied, before quickly recounting the conversation he’d just had with Dr. Slater.
‘A notebook?’
‘That’s what she said,’ Hunter confirmed.
‘And the Doc gave you nothing more?’ Garcia got up, also reaching for his jacket.
‘Just that we needed to have a look at it.’
‘Yeah, of course I’m in,’ Garcia said. ‘I’ve always been a sucker for suspense.’
Four
In city traffic, on a Monday afternoon, it took Hunter and Garcia around twenty-eight minutes to cover the almost six miles between the Police Administration Building on West 1st Street, and the California State University in Alhambra. After parking in the area reserved for law enforcement officers, the two detectives made their way to the Hertzberg-Davis Forensic Science Center – an impressive five-story building, situated in the southwestern quadrant of the university campus. Once they cleared reception, Hunter and Garcia took the stairs up to the second floor, where the Trace Analysis Unit lab was located and where Dr. Slater had told Hunter to meet her.
‘Are you looking forward to the ball tomorrow?’ Garcia asked, as they cleared the first flight of stairs.
‘You mean the LAPD Christmas Ball?’ Hunter replied, his facial expression totally lacking excitement. ‘Are you?’
‘Yeah.’ Garcia, on the other hand, looked genuinely thrilled. ‘I’ve got my Zombie-Santa outfit and all.’
‘Zombie-Santa?’ Hunter’s lips stretched into a thin line. ‘Really?’
‘Hell, yeah! Those parties are so boring. Need to inject a little bit of fun into them.’
‘And a Zombie-Santa outfit is your idea of how to inject fun into a party?’ Hunter asked.
‘You’re just jealous cause you can’t wear a costume,’ Garcia countered. ‘You and Captain Blake are at the mayor’s table, aren’t you?’
Hunter nodded as he rolled his eyes. ‘That will be a ton of fun.’
Garcia chuckled. ‘Yeah, I bet.’
The Trace Analysis Unit was one of the eight units that comprised the FSD Criminalistics Lab. Its main function, as the name suggested, was to perform analyses on trace evidence that might have occurred as a result of physical contact between suspect and victim during a violent crime. It also analyzed any traces of materials, organic or not, that might have been found at a crime scene.
At the lab double doors, which were kept locked at all times, Hunter pressed the buzzer and waited. A couple of seconds later, the doors unlocked with a subdued hiss.
The lab, which was easily the size of the entire Robbery Homicide Division’s floor, was chilled to a couple of degrees below comfortable, but was still relatively warm compared to the temperature on the streets. Several forensics agents, all of them in long white lab coats, were busy at different workstations. Soothing classical music played at very low volume in the background.
‘Over here, guys.’
Both detectives heard Dr. Slater call, as the doors slowly closed behind them.
The doctor was sitting in front of an inverted microscope, not that far from where Hunter and Garcia were standing.
In her mid-thirties, Dr. Susan Slater was five-foot seven, with a slim, toned body, high cheekbones and a delicate nose. Her long blonde hair was pulled back into a disheveled bun at the top of her head. Her makeup was subtle and brought out the light blue of her eyes.
‘Thanks for coming over so quickly,’ she said as she greeted both detectives with a simple head nod.
‘Well, you really hooked us with that mysterious phone call,’ Garcia said with a smile. ‘So what is it that you got?’
‘Exactly what I told Robert over the phone,’ Dr. Slater replied. Her voice was soft and jovial, but also full of knowledge and experience. ‘Someone hand-delivered a package to my mailbox over the weekend – probably late last night or in the early hours of this morning. The envelope alone grabbed my attention.’
‘Why?’ Garcia asked. ‘What was wrong with it?’
‘No address or stamp, to start with. Just my name. No return address either.’ She indicated a large, see-through evidence bag that was on the worktop by the inverted microscope in front of her. Inside the evidence bag they could all see a brown envelope. Across the front of it, handwritten in large black capital letters, was her name – Susan Slater.