by Chris Carter
The man shook his hand and gave him a reassuring head nod.
‘That was the kindest thing I’ve ever seen happen in here,’ the checkout girl said once the young man had collected his groceries and left. Tears had also welled up in her eyes.
The tall man simply smiled back at her.
‘I’m serious,’ she reiterated. ‘I’ve been working at the checkout in this supermarket for almost three years. I’ve seen plenty of people come up short when it comes to paying, plenty of people having to return items, but I’ve never seen anybody do what you just did.’
‘Everybody needs a little help every now and then,’ the man replied. ‘There’s no shame in that. Today, I helped him, maybe someday he’ll help someone else.’
The girl smiled as her eyes filled with tears again. ‘It’s true that we all need a little help every once in a while, but the problem is, very few are ever willing to help. Especially when they need to reach into their pockets to do so.’
The man silently agreed with her.
‘I’ve seen you in here before,’ the checkout girl said, ringing through the few items the man had with him. It came to $9.49.
‘I live in the neighborhood,’ he said, handing her a ten-dollar bill.
She paused for a moment and locked eyes with him. ‘I’m Linda,’ she said, nodding at her nametag, and extending her hand.
‘Robert,’ the man replied, shaking it. ‘Pleasure to meet you.’
‘Listen,’ she said, returning his change. ‘I was wondering. My shift ends at six this evening. Since you live in the neighborhood, maybe we could go for a coffee somewhere?’
The man hesitated for a brief moment. ‘That would be really nice,’ he finally said. ‘But unfortunately, I’m flying out tonight. My first vacation in . . .’ He paused and narrowed his eyes at nothing for an instant. ‘I don’t even remember when I last had a vacation.’
‘I know the feeling,’ she said, sounding a little disappointed.
The man collected his groceries and looked back at the checkout girl.
‘How about if I call you when I get back, in about ten days? Maybe we can have a coffee then.’
She looked up at him and her lips stretched into a thin smile. ‘I’d like that,’ she replied, quickly jotting down her number.
As the man stepped outside the supermarket, his cellphone rang in his jacket pocket.
‘Detective Robert Hunter, Homicide Special,’ he answered it.
‘Robert, are you still in LA?’
It was the LAPD’s Robbery Homicide Division’s captain, Barbara Blake. She was the one who, just a couple of days ago, had ordered Hunter and his partner, Detective Carlos Garcia, to take a two-week break after a very demanding and exhausting serial killer investigation.
‘Right now, yes,’ Hunter replied, skeptically. ‘I’m flying out tonight, Captain. Why?’
‘I really hate to do this to you, Robert,’ the captain replied, sounding sincerely sorry. ‘But I need to see you in my office.’
‘When?’
‘Right now.’
Three
In lunchtime traffic, the 7.5-mile drive from Huntington Park to the LAPD headquarters in downtown Los Angeles took Hunter a little over forty-five minutes.
The Robbery Homicide Division (RHD), located on the fifth floor of the famous Police Administration Building on West 1st Street, was a simple, large, open-plan area crammed with detectives’ desks – no flimsy partitions to separate them or silly floor lines to delimit workspace. The place sounded and looked like a street market on a Sunday morning, alive with movement, murmurs and shouts that came from every corner.
Captain Blake’s office was at the far end of the main detectives’ floor. The door was shut – not that unusual due to the noise – but so were the blinds on the oversized internal window that faced the floor, and that was undoubtedly a bad sign.
Hunter slowly started zigzagging his way around people and desks.
‘Hey, what the hell are you doing here, Robert?’ Detective Perez asked, looking up from his computer screen as Hunter squeezed past Perez and Henderson’s desks. ‘I thought you were supposed to be on vacation?’
Hunter nodded. ‘I am. I’m flying out tonight. Just having a quick chat with the captain first.’
‘Flying?’ Perez looked surprised. ‘That sounds rich. Where are you going?’
‘Hawaii. My first time.’
Perez smiled. ‘Nice. I could do with going to Hawaii right about now too.’
‘Want me to bring you back a lei necklace or a Hawaiian shirt?’
Perez pulled a face. ‘No, but if you can manage to slip one or two of those Hawaiian dancers into your suitcase, I’ll take them. They can do the hula up on my bed every goddamn night. You know what I’m saying?’ He nodded like he meant every word.
‘A man can dream,’ Hunter replied, amused by how vigorously Perez was nodding.
‘Enjoy yourself over there, man.’
‘I’m sure I will,’ Hunter said before moving on. He paused before the captain’s door, and instinct and curiosity made him tilt his head to one side and check the window – nothing. He couldn’t see past the blinds. He knocked twice.
‘Come in.’ He heard Captain Blake call from the other side in her usual firm voice.
Hunter pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Barbara Blake’s office was spacious, brightly lit and impeccably tidy. The south wall was taken by bookshelves packed by perfectly arranged, and color-coordinated hardcovers. The north one was covered by framed photographs, commendations and achievement awards, all symmetrically positioned in relation to each other. The east wall was a floor-to-ceiling panoramic window, looking out over South Main Street. Directly in front of the captain’s twin-pedestal desk were two leather armchairs.
Captain Blake was standing by the panoramic window. Her long jet-black hair was gracefully styled into a bun, pinned in place by a pair of wooden chopsticks. She was wearing a silky white blouse, tucked into an elegant navy-blue pencil skirt. Standing next to her, holding a steaming cup of coffee, and wearing a conservative black suit, was a slim and very attractive woman, who Hunter had never seen before. She looked to be somewhere in her early thirties, with long, straight blonde hair, and deep blue eyes. She looked like someone who would normally be entirely at ease in whatever situation she found herself in, but there was something a little apprehensive about the way she held her head.
As Hunter entered the office and closed the door behind him, the tall and slim man who was sitting in one of the armchairs, also in a soberly dark suit, turned to face him. He was in his mid-fifties, but the heavy bags under his eyes and his fleshy, saggy cheeks, which also gave him a somewhat hound-like look, made him look at least ten years older. The thin flock of gray hair he still had left on his head was neatly combed back over his ears.
Taken by surprise, Hunter paused, narrowing his eyes.
‘Hello, Robert,’ the man said, standing up. His naturally hoarse voice, made worse by years of smoking, sounded surprisingly strong for a man who looked like he hadn’t slept in days.
Hunter’s gaze stayed on him for a couple of seconds before moving to the blonde woman, and finally to Captain Blake.
‘Sorry about this, Robert,’ she said with a slight tilt of the head, before allowing her stare to go rock hard as it honed in on the man facing Hunter. ‘They simply turned up unannounced about an hour ago. Not even a goddam courtesy call,’ she explained.
‘I apologize again,’ the man said in a calm but authoritative tone. He was definitely someone who was used to giving orders, and having them followed. ‘You look well.’ He addressed Hunter. ‘But then again, you always do, Robert.’
‘So do you, Adrian,’ Hunter replied unconvincingly, stepping toward the man and shaking his hand.
Adrian Kennedy was the head of the FBI’s National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime (NCAVC) and its Behavioral Analysis Unit – a specialist FBI department that provided suppor
t to national and international law enforcement agencies involved in the investigation of unusual or serial violent crimes.
Hunter was well aware that unless it was absolutely mandatory, Adrian Kennedy never traveled anywhere. He now coordinated most of NCAVC operations from his large office in Washington, DC, but he was no career bureaucrat. Kennedy had begun his life with the FBI at a young age, and quickly demonstrated that he had tremendous aptitude for leadership. He also had a natural ability to motivate people. That didn’t go unnoticed, and very early in his career he was assigned to the prestigious US President protection detail. Two years later, after foiling an attempt on the president’s life by throwing himself in front of the bullet that was destined to kill the most powerful man on earth, he received a high commendation award, and a “thank you” letter from the president himself. A few years after that, the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime was officially established in June 1984. They needed a director, someone who was a natural leader. Adrian Kennedy was the name at the top of the list.
‘This is Special Agent Courtney Taylor,’ Kennedy said, nodding at the blonde woman.
She moved closer and shook Hunter’s hand. ‘Very nice to meet you, Detective Hunter. I’ve heard a lot about you.’
Taylor’s voice sounded incredibly seductive, combining a sort of soft, girlish tone with a level of self-assurance that was almost disarming. Despite her delicate hands, her handshake was firm and meaningful, like that of a businesswoman who had just closed a major deal.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you too,’ Hunter replied, politely. ‘And I hope that some of what you’ve heard wasn’t so bad.’
She gave him a shy, but truthful smile. ‘None of it was bad.’
Hunter turned and faced Kennedy again.
‘I’m glad we managed to catch you before you’d left for your break, Robert,’ Kennedy said.
Nothing from Hunter.
‘Going anywhere nice?
Hunter held Kennedy’s stare.
‘This has got to be bad,’ he finally said. ‘Because I know you’re not the sort to sugar-talk anyone. I also know you couldn’t care less about where I am going on my break. So how about we drop the bullshit? What’s this about, Adrian?’
Kennedy took a moment, as if he had to carefully consider his answer before finally replying.
‘You, Robert. This is about you.’
Four
Hunter’s attention wandered over to Captain Blake for a brief moment; as their eyes met, she shrugged apologetically.
‘They didn’t tell me much, Robert, but the little I know sounds like something you would want to hear.’ She went back to her desk. ‘It’s better if they explain.’
Hunter looked at Kennedy and waited.
‘Why don’t you have a seat, Robert?’ Kennedy said, offering one of the armchairs.
Hunter didn’t move.
‘I’m fine standing, thank you.’
‘Coffee?’ Kennedy asked, indicating Captain Blake’s espresso machine in the corner.
Hunter’s gaze hardened.
‘All right, fine.’ Kennedy lifted both hands in a surrender gesture, while at the same time giving Special Agent Taylor an almost imperceptible nod. ‘We’ll get on with it.’ He returned to his seat.
Taylor put down her cup of coffee and stepped forward, pausing just beside Kennedy’s chair.
‘OK,’ she began. ‘Five days ago, at around six in the morning, while driving south down US Route 87, a Mr John Garner suffered a heart attack just outside a small town called Wheatland, in southeastern Wyoming. Needless to say, he lost control of his pick-up truck.’
‘It was raining heavily that morning, and Mr Garner was the sole occupant of the truck,’ Kennedy added before signaling Taylor to carry on.
‘Maybe you already know this,’ Taylor continued. ‘But Route 87 runs all the way from Montana to southern Texas, and like most US highways, unless the stretch in question is going through what’s considered a minimum populated area or an high accident-risk one, there are no guardrails, walls, high curbstones, raised center island divisions . . . nothing that would keep a vehicle from leaving the highway and venturing off in a multitude of directions.’
‘The stretch that we’re talking about here doesn’t fall under the minimum populated area, or high accident-risk category,’ Kennedy commented.
‘By pure luck.’ Taylor moved on. ‘Or lack of it, depending what point of view you take, Mr Garner suffered the heart attack just as he was driving past a small truck-stop diner called Nora’s Diner. With him unconscious at the wheel, his truck veered off the road and drove across a patch of low grass, heading straight for the diner. According to witnesses, Mr Garner’s truck was in a direct line of collision with the front of the restaurant.
‘At that time in the morning, and because of the torrential rain that was falling, there were only ten people inside the diner – seven customers plus three employees. The local sheriff and one of his deputies were two of the customers.’ She paused to clear her throat. ‘Something must’ve happened right at the last second, because Mr Garner’s truck drastically changed course and missed the restaurant by just a few feet. Road accident forensics figured that the truck hit a large and deep pothole just a few yards before getting to the diner, and that caused the steering wheel to swing hard left.’
‘The truck crashed into the adjacent lavatory building,’ Kennedy said. ‘Even if his heart attack hadn’t killed Mr Garner, the collision would have.’
‘Now,’ Taylor said, lifting her right index finger. ‘This is the first twist. As Mr Garner’s truck missed the diner and headed toward the lavatory building, it clipped the back of a blue Ford Taurus that was parked just outside. The car belonged to one of the diner’s customers.’
Taylor paused and reached for her briefcase that was by Captain Blake’s desk.
‘Mr Garner’s truck hit the Taurus rear hard enough to cause the trunk door to pop open,’ Kennedy said.
‘The sheriff missed it.’ Taylor again. ‘Because as he ran outside, his main concern was to attend to the truck driver and passengers, if there had been any.’
She reached into her briefcase and retrieved an 11x8-inch colored photograph.
‘But his deputy didn’t,’ she announced. ‘As he ran outside, something inside the Taurus’ trunk caught his eye.’
Hunter waited.
Taylor stepped forward and handed him the photograph.
‘This is what he saw inside the trunk.’
Five
FBI National Training Academy, Quantico, Virginia.
2,632 miles away.
For the past ten minutes Special Agent Edwin Newman had been standing inside the holding cells control room in the basement of one of the several buildings that made up the nerve center of the FBI Academy. Despite the many CCTV monitors mounted on the east wall, all of his attention was set on a single and very specific one.
Newman wasn’t one of the academy’s trainees. In fact, he was a very experienced and accomplished agent with the Behavioral Analysis Unit, who had completed his training over twenty years ago. Newman was based in Washington DC, and had specially made the journey to Virginia four days ago just to interview the new prisoner.
‘Has he moved at all in the past hour?’ Newman asked the room operator, who was sitting at the large controls console that faced the monitors’ wall.
The operator shook his head.
‘Nope, and he won’t move until lights off. Like I told you before, this guy is like a machine. I’ve never seen anything like it. Since they brought him in four nights ago, he hasn’t broken his routine. He sleeps on his back, facing the ceiling, hands locked together and resting on his stomach – like a cadaver in a coffin. Once he closes his eyes, he doesn’t move – no twitching, no turning, no restlessness, no scratching, no snoring, no waking up in the middle of the night to go pee, no nothing. Sure, at times he looks scared, as if he has no fucking idea why he’s here, but most of the time
he sleeps like a man with absolutely no worries in life, crashed out in the most comfortable bed money can buy. And I can tell you this –’ he pointed at the screen – ‘that bed ain’t it. That is one goddamn uncomfortable piece of wood with a paper-thin mattress on top.’
Newman scratched his crooked nose but said nothing.
The operator continued.
‘That guy’s internal clock is tuned to Swiss precision. I shit you not. You can set your watch by it.’
‘What do you mean?’ Newman asked.
The operator let out a nasal chuckle. ‘Every morning, at exactly 5:45 a.m., he opens his eyes. No alarm, no noise, no lights on, no call from us, and no agent bursting into his cell to wake him up. He just does it by himself. 5:45, on the dot – bing – he’s awake.’
Newman knew that the prisoner had been stripped of all personal possessions. He had no watch or any other kind of timekeeper with him.
‘As he opens his eyes,’ the operator continued, ‘he stares at the ceiling for exactly ninety-five seconds. Not a second more, not a second less. You can watch the recording from the past three days and time it if you like.’
No reaction from Newman.
‘After ninety-five seconds,’ the operator said, ‘he gets out of bed, does his business at the latrine, and then hits the floor and starts doing push-ups, followed by sit-ups – ten reps of each in each set. If he isn’t interrupted, he’ll do fifty sets with the minimum of rest in between sets – no grunting, no puffing, and no face-pulling either, just pure determination. Breakfast is brought to him sometime between 6:30 and 7:00 a.m. If he hasn’t yet finished his sets, he’ll carry on until he’s done, only then will he sit down and calmly eat his food. And he eats all of it without complaining. No matter what tasteless shit we put on that tray. After that, he’s taken in for interrogation.’ He turned to look at Newman. ‘I’m assuming you are the interrogator.’
Newman didn’t reply, didn’t nod, and didn’t shake his head either. He simply carried on staring at the monitor.