Free I Am Death by Chris Carter

one certainty – a killer who was bold enough to write a message in blood and carefully place it in his victim’s throat, knowing full well that
it would be found during the post mortem examination, a killer confident enough to call himself DEATH – didn’t do it for fun. He didn’t do it just to tease the police, or to
inflate his own ego. He did it for one reason. To let everyone know that this wouldn’t end here.
    At the southwest end of the airport, Garcia turned right on to Pershing Drive, and geared down his car.
    The area had been cordoned off and a perimeter had already been established by the police. Due to its semi-secluded location there were very few curious onlookers hanging around. The ones that
had ventured their luck were being kept too far back to be able to catch a glimpse of anything interesting, and looked bored and ready to give up at any second.
    A single reporter was trying his best to obtain any kind of information from the officers by the yellow tape that read: Police Line – Do Not Cross.
    Despite decreasing numbers in recent years, murder in LA was still a very common occurrence – on average, one person was murdered every thirty-nine hours in the City of Angels. Though
newspapers and TV news stations still covered a number of them, murder just didn’t constitute big news anymore, unless the crime was shrouded by some sort of attention-grabbing factor, like a
celebrity being involved, extreme violence or it being attributed to a serial killer.
    As Garcia approached the perimeter at the other end from where the reporter was, a uniformed officer signaled for him to turn left and move on, but instead Garcia simply slowed down further.
Irritated, the officer shook his head and murmured something to himself before taking a couple of steps toward Garcia’s car.
    ‘Sir, as you can see the road is closed,’ the officer said in a bored voice, first indicating the police line, then gesturing to his left. ‘You need to go around
the—’
    Garcia lifted his left hand, interrupting the officer and displaying his credentials.
    The officer stopped midsentence and nodded apologetically.
    ‘Sorry, sir.’
    As he handed Garcia the crime-scene logbook so he and Hunter could sign it, a Boeing 777 finished its approach on the west route and touched down on runway 7R, its engine noise so loud and
powerful Garcia’s car windows rattled.
    ‘You can park on the road right over there, sir, by that black and white unit,’ the officer said, collecting the logbook.
    Garcia did exactly that.
    Two other uniformed officers stood under the shade of a tall and leafy tree next to some more yellow tape that denoted a smaller, internal perimeter. A third officer was sitting inside his Ford
Interceptor, apparently text messaging someone. Most activities, including crime scene forensics, had already ceased.
    All the officers looked up as Hunter and Garcia stepped out of the car. They didn’t need to flash their badges; the officers knew that the only people allowed past the police line would be
CSIs or detectives. With zero concern, they returned their attention to whatever it was that they were doing.
    From where Hunter stood, just by Pershing Drive, he paused and studied his surroundings. Garcia joined him and did the same for several seconds.
    The location had been very well picked out. The field was well away from prying eyes, sandwiched between the airport and a water treatment plant. There were no residential homes within a
one-mile radius of it. The road they were on, which was parallel to the field and provided its only access route, served only as a shortcut between Culver Boulevard and Dockweiler Beach. Traffic
would be minimal during the day, and even less so at night.
    Only two yellow evidence-number placards had been placed on the field. The first, displaying the number 1, had been positioned in a direct line with the large tree by which the two officers were
standing, about eight feet east of