‘And the more he thought about it,’ Hunter carried on, ‘the more certain he was of what he saw – Terry Wilford being pushed, or thrown, from the 7th Street Bridge.’ He took a breathing pause. ‘Randy Douglas didn’t care if I believed his story or not, Captain. He just needed to tell someone, and by someone, I mean “the authorities”. He needed to get it off his chest, do the right thing… clear his conscience. Whether we believe him or not isn’t his problem. For him, the important thing is that the suffocating guilty feeling is gone – the information has been passed on.’
‘Well,’ Garcia said, walking back to his desk and grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair. ‘Great story, Robert, but none of that really matters because we already knew that there had to be a second person up on that bridge. We already knew that Terry Wilford was dead before he “jumped”. And we already knew that part of this killer’s MO is to fake his victims’ deaths.’
Hunter halted his partner with a subtle headshake. ‘Well, not exactly, Carlos.’
Despite Garcia looking back at Hunter a little confused, it was Captain Blake who asked the question.
‘Not exactly what, Robert? Not exactly that part of this killer’s MO is to fake his victims’ deaths?’
‘No,’ Hunter replied. ‘Not exactly – none of that really matters – because that’s not all I got from Randy Douglas.’
The room seemed to hold its breath in anticipation.
Garcia returned his jacket to his chair.
‘What else did he give you?’
‘It turns out,’ Hunter began, ‘that Mr. Douglas is sort of apickup truck aficionado. He not only drives one, but he reads specialized mags, watches documentaries, goes to shows… the whole nine yards.’
‘He saw the killer’s pickup truck?’ Garcia’s mouth dropped half-open.
‘Not exactly,’ Hunter replied.
‘Robert,’ Captain Blake called, her tone half an octave lower, her voice forcibly steady. ‘If you say “not exactly” one more time, I swear to God that tomorrow morning you’ll be handing out parking tickets in Compton.’
‘I was born in Compton, Captain.’
‘Nuh-uh.’ The captain shook her head in a way that Hunter and Garcia both knew meant she wasn’t joking. ‘Thin ice all around you, Robert. You better think hard about your next step.’
‘Randy Douglas couldn’t exactly see the pickup truck up on the bridge because it was too dark.’ There was no play in Hunter’s voice anymore. ‘All he saw was a silhouette.’
Garcia’s shoulders dropped.
‘And that’s where being an aficionado pays off,’ Hunter said, reaching for his phone. ‘He didn’t have to see the truck. He recognized its shape, even just as a silhouette.’ He tapped the screen on his phone a couple of times to call up a photograph. ‘Our guy drives a twin-cab Dodge RAM, and it’s either the 2500 or 3500 – one of the newer models.’
Garcia and Captain Blake stepped closer to have a look at Hunter’s cellphone screen. The pickup truck shown in the photo was a large, twin-cabin model, with a spacious cargo bed. The truck also appeared to be a little higher off the ground than the average street truck.
‘What do you mean by “one of the newer models”?’ Garcia asked.
Hunter handed him the phone and reached for his notepad. ‘Randy Douglas told me that the RAM 2500 and the 3500 got asmall facelift in 2019. Nothing major, but the headlights and the front grill are different than earlier models. The grill is wider and a little higher, which forced a small modification to the edge of the hood. The truck looks meaner, according to Mr. Douglas. The problem is – the main differences between the 2500 and the 3500 models are all under the hood – the engines are different when talking horsepower, fuel consumption and so on, but look-wise, they’re both basically identical. And Mr. Douglas was absolutely certain that the truck he saw up on the bridge that night was either the 2500 or the 3500, new model, Dodge RAM.’
Garcia’s eyes stayed on the photo for a few seconds longer.
‘The 3500,’ Hunter continued, ‘is Dodge’s largest and most expensive RAM model to date. The 2500 is a little cheaper, but not by much, which indicates that our killer isn’t a street bum. He is either employed, with a good, steady job, or he runs his own business, which is doing comfortably well.’ He returned his notepad to his pocket. ‘I’d say that he’s probably somewhere in his mid-thirties to mid-forties. He is strong and well built. Terry Wilford weighed about two hundred pounds, and our killer managed to lift him over the bridge’s guardrail. Fine,’ Hunter accepted it. ‘The 7th Street Bridge guardrail isn’t that high, but still, our killer did it alone. Also, whatever job he does, it probably allows him plenty of free time.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Captain Blake asked, finally handing Hunter’s cellphone back to him.
‘We’ve already figured out that his victims are carefully chosen, right?’ Hunter said. ‘They’re all essentially loners, but how does he know that?’
‘Because he either knows his victims well enough,’ Garcia replied. ‘Or he studies them. He follows them around.’
‘Exactly,’ Hunter agreed. ‘If instead of previously knowing his victim, he follows them around, then he does it for weeks… months, maybe. It’s the only way to make sure that his next victimis essentially a loner. You don’t figure that out by following someone for just a few days.’
‘And you need a lot of free time to be able to do that,’ Garcia commented.
Hunter nodded. ‘But there’s something else. Something that we don’t yet know.’
‘What something else?’ the captain asked, once again checking her watch.
