by Chris Carter
‘Yes, of course I remember Susan,’ Hunter said.
‘Have you ever heard from her in all these years?’ Lucien asked.
Hunter’s psychological training took over, and he finally realized what was happening. Lucien’s defense and fear mechanisms were kicking in. Sometimes, when a person is afraid, or too nervous, to talk about a delicate subject, he/she might, almost unconsciously, try to steer the conversation away from that fragile topic, and avoid talking about it, at least for a little while, until their nerves settle. That was exactly what Lucien was doing.
As a psychologist, Hunter knew that the best way to deal with that was to just play along. Nerves would settle in time.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘After her graduation, I never heard from her again. Did you?’
Lucien shook his head. ‘Same here. Not even a little note.’
‘I remember she’d said that she wanted to go traveling. Europe or something. Maybe she did and decided to stay over there for some reason. Maybe she met somebody and got married, or found a career opportunity.’
‘Yes, I remember she talked about traveling, and maybe she did,’ Lucien agreed. ‘But even so, Robert. We were together pretty much all the time. We were friends . . . good friends.’
‘Things like that do happen, Lucien,’ Hunter said. ‘You and I were best friends, and we didn’t keep in touch after college.’
Lucien looked up at Hunter. ‘That’s not entirely true, Robert. We did keep in touch for a while. A few years, actually. Until you finished your PhD. I went to the ceremony, remember?’
Hunter nodded once.
‘I thought that maybe she had kept in touch with you.’ Lucien shrugged. ‘Everyone knew that Susan was into you.’
Hunter said nothing.
Lucien gave Hunter a friendly smile. ‘I know that you never got together with her because you knew that I really liked her.
‘That was very cool of you. Very . . . considerate, but I don’t think I would’ve minded. The two of you probably would’ve made a very nice couple.’
Lucien’s eyes avoided Hunter’s for a second.
‘Do you remember when we went with her to that tattoo parlor because she wanted to get that horrible thing on her arm?’ he asked.
Hunter did remember it. Susan had decided to get a tattoo of a red rose, where its stem, full of thorns, was wrapped around a bleeding heart, giving the impression that it was strangling it.
‘I do remember it,’ Hunter said with a melancholic smile.
‘What the hell was that? A rose strangling a heart?’
‘I liked that tattoo,’ Hunter said. ‘It was different, and I’m sure it meant something to her. I thought it looked very good on her arm. The tattoo artist did a great job.’
Lucien pulled a face. ‘I don’t really like tattoos. Never did.’ He paused and his eyes moved to a random spot on the cinder-block wall. ‘I miss her. She could always make us laugh, even in the worst of situations.’
‘Yes, I miss her too,’ Hunter said.
Silence took over the room for several seconds. Hunter filled a paper cup with water from the cooler and placed it on the table in front of Lucien.
‘Thank you,’ he said, taking a quick sip.
Hunter poured himself one as well.
‘They’ve got the wrong man, Robert,’ Lucien finally said.
Hunter paused and looked back at his old friend. It sounded like Lucien’s nerves were finally starting to settle, and he was now ready to talk. Hunter questioned with his eyes.
‘I didn’t do it,’ Lucien said, his voice full of emotion again. ‘I didn’t do what they’re saying I did. You have to believe me, Robert. I’m not a monster. I didn’t do those things.’
Hunter stayed quiet.
‘But I know who did.’
Fifteen
Behind the large two-way mirror, inside the observation room next door, Special Agents Taylor and Newman were attentively watching every movement made and listening to every word spoken by Lucien Folter. Doctor Patrick Lambert, a forensic psychiatrist with the FBI Behavioral Science Unit was also present.
On a table by the east wall, two CCTV monitors were showing highly detailed images of Lucien taken from different angles. Doctor Lambert was patiently examining every facial movement, and scrutinizing every different voice inflection the prisoner produced, but that wasn’t all. Both monitors were also hooked up to a computer equipped with state-of-the-art facial analysis software, which was capable of reading and evaluating the most minuscule of facial or eye movements. Movements that could not be controlled by the interviewee, triggered subconsciously as his state of mind altered from calm to nervous, to anxious, to irritated, to angry, or to any other state. Inside that observation room, they were all sure that if Lucien Folter lied about anything at all, they would know.
Neither Doctor Lambert, nor Special Agents Taylor and Newman, needed the facial analysis program to pick up all the anxiety and nervousness in Lucien’s tone of voice, eye movement and facial expressions. That was something they were already expecting. After all, he was talking for the first time since he’d been arrested for a very brutal double homicide. Add to that the fact that he was now face to face with an old friend he hadn’t seen since his college days, and Lucien was bound to be nervous and anxious. It was a common psychological human reaction. As was the initial avoidance of the subject. Talking about something common to him and his old friend was an easy and secure way to calm his nerves, to steady his uneasiness. They all waited, knowing that Detective Hunter would soon start slowly steering Lucien toward talking, but Hunter didn’t even need to. Lucien went back to the subject of his own accord. But his last few words caught everyone by surprise.
‘They’ve got the wrong man, Robert.’
The tension inside the observation room went up a notch, and instinctively everyone craned their heads forward in the direction of the monitors, as if that would make them see or hear better.
‘I didn’t do it. I didn’t do what they’re saying I did. You have to believe me . . .’
‘Of course he didn’t,’ Newman said with a half-chuckle, looking over at Taylor. ‘They never do. Our prison system is full of innocent people, isn’t that right?’
Taylor said nothing. She was still carefully watching the screens, and so was Doctor Lambert.
‘But I know who did.’
Those last five words were something no one was expecting, because in truth, those words equated to an admission of complicity. Even if Lucien Folter hadn’t been the one who’d murdered and decapitated both of those women, by admitting that he knew who’d done it, not alerting the police, and being picked up transporting the women’s heads cross-state, made him an accessory to murder with at least a couple of aggravating circumstances. And in Wyoming, where he was arrested and the death penalty was still enforced, the District Attorney’s office would no doubt push for it.
Sixteen
Despite his surprise, Hunter did his best to appear calm and relaxed. He was certain that Lucien’s last five words had been enough to bring the tension inside the observation room next door up a few degrees, but now that Lucien’s nerves seemed to have settled down enough for him to start talking, Hunter knew he had to keep the conversation between them going as smoothly as possible. Simply steer it in the right direction and allow his old friend to talk.
Hunter pulled a chair and sat across the table from Lucien. ‘You know who did it?’ he asked, his tone as tranquil as someone asking for the time.
Interrogators usually hold a standing, more authoritative position, while the person being interrogated is kept in an inferior, sitting-down one. The theory behind it is that it works as an intimidation technique – the person asking the questions is at a higher level, talking down at the person who is answering them. It plays on, and appeals to, a childhood memory that most people will probably have of a parent reprimanding them when they’d been bad. But the last thing Hunter wanted right now was for Lucien to feel any m
ore intimidated than he already was. Having a seat directly in front of him did away with the authoritative position, bringing Hunter level with Lucien. Psychologically, Hunter’s move would hopefully have an unthreatening effect, keeping the tension in the room down to a minimum.
‘Well,’ Lucien said, leaning forward and placing his elbows on the table, ‘I don’t really know “exactly” who did it, but it’s a logical conclusion. It has to be either the person who I was supposed to be delivering the car to, or the one who delivered the car to me. If they didn’t directly do it, they’ll know who did. They are the ones you have to go after.’ Lucien paused and let go of a deep, heartfelt breath. ‘You have to help me, Robert. I’m not the one the FBI wants. I didn’t do this. I’m just a delivery boy.’
For the first time, Hunter noticed a slight emotional trepidation in Lucien’s voice. He knew the car wasn’t registered in Lucien’s name. The FBI had told him that, but this was the first he’d heard of Lucien delivering the car to someone else.
‘You were taking that blue Ford Taurus to someone?’ Hunter asked.
Lucien’s eyes averted Hunter’s once again. When he finally spoke, his tone was back to being calm and controlled, but it carried a hint of anger this time.
‘The reality is, life doesn’t treat everyone equally, my friend. I’m sure you know that.’
Hunter was uncertain of what Lucien was really talking about, so he waited.
Lucien’s gaze quickly moved to the cameras on the ceiling, and then to the large two-way mirror just behind Hunter. He knew he was being recorded. He knew that nothing he said would be private to only Hunter and himself, and for the briefest of moments he looked embarrassed.
Hunter picked up on his friend’s sudden discomfiture, followed his stare, but there was nothing he could do about others listening in. This was the FBI’s show, not his. He gave Lucien a moment.
‘After I left Stanford, I made a few mistakes,’ Lucien said. Paused. Rethought his words. ‘Actually I made quite a few mistakes. Some of them very bad.’ He finally looked back at Hunter. ‘I guess I should start from the beginning.’
Seventeen
For some reason, Lucien’s words had an atmospheric chilling effect, as if all of a sudden someone had switched on an air-conditioner unit inside the interrogation room.
Hunter felt the awkward chill trickle down his neck and travel down his spine, but held steady.
Lucien had another sip of his water, and as he did so, the look in his eyes became melancholic.
‘I met a woman during my second year at Yale,’ he began. ‘Her name was Karen. She was British, from a place called Gravesend, in southeast England. Have you heard of it?’
Hunter nodded.
‘I hadn’t,’ Lucien said. ‘I had to look it up. Anyway, Karen was . . .’ He considered what to really say. ‘. . . different from what most people would expect a Yale PhD student to be like . . . or look like.’
‘Different?’ Hunter asked.
‘In every aspect. She was a free spirit, if you believe people can be such things. You remember the kind of girls I used to go for, right?’
Hunter nodded again, but said nothing, allowing his old friend to carry on uninterrupted.
‘Karen was nothing like any of them.’ A timid smile parted his lips. ‘When we met, she was forty-two. I was twenty-five.’
Hunter had started taking mental notes.
‘She was five-foot-one. A whole twelve inches shorter than me . . . and curvy.’
Hunter remembered that Lucien used to be attracted only to tall, slim women – five-foot-ten or over, with a lithe, dancer’s body.
‘She also had quite a few tattoos,’ Lucien continued. ‘A lip piercing, a nose piercing, her left ear was stretched to a full centimeter, and she had this Bettie Page-style fringe.’
This time it was hard for Hunter not to show surprise.
‘I thought you didn’t like tattoos.’
‘I don’t. And I don’t much care for facial piercings either. But there was just something about Karen. Something I can’t really explain. Something that grabbed hold of me and didn’t let go.’ Another sip of his water. ‘We started dating just a few months after we met. It’s funny how life is always full of surprises, isn’t it? Karen looked nothing like any of the girls I used to go for, she didn’t act like them either, but nevertheless, she was the one I fell head over heels for.’ Lucien paused and looked away. ‘I guess I can say that I was truly in love.’
Hunter saw a muscle flex on his friend’s jaw.
‘She was a very sweet woman,’ Lucien said. ‘And we got along fantastically well. We did everything together. Went everywhere together. Spent every second together. She became my haven, my heaven, my heart. I was living a dream, but there was one problem.’
Hunter waited.
‘Karen had gotten involved with some very bad people.’
‘What kind of bad?’ Hunter asked.
‘Drugs bad,’ Lucien said. ‘The kind of bad you don’t mess with, unless you’ve grown tired of this life and feel like exiting it in a very violent way.’ He finished the rest of his water in three large gulps before crushing the paper cup in his right hand.
Hunter took note of his friend’s silent angry outburst, stood up, poured him a new cup of water, and placed it back on the table.
‘Thank you.’ He stared at the cup. ‘I’m sorry to say that I wasn’t strong enough, Robert,’ Lucien continued. ‘I’m not sure if it was because I was too much in love, or if I was just swallowed up by the moment, but instead of talking her out of it, I ended up joining her, and trying some of the stuff she was using.’
There was a pain-stricken, embarrassed pause.
Hunter carried on observing his friend.
‘The problem is,’ Lucien moved on, ‘and I’m sure you know this, some of this shit is hard to only try.’ He looked down at his hands. ‘So I got hooked.’
‘What kind of drugs are we talking about here?’
Lucien shrugged. ‘The heavy kind. Instant hook stuff . . . and alcohol. I started drinking a lot.’
Hunter had seen so many strong people fall victim to those kind of drugs, he’d lost count.
‘From then on everything went downhill, and in a hurry. All the money I had went into supplying Karen’s habit and mine. It ate away at my finances faster than you could imagine. My entire life started suffering. I dropped out of Yale in my third year, and would do anything to get my daily fix. I ran up debts everywhere, and with the wrong kind of people. The people Karen had introduced me to. The really bad kind.’
‘You didn’t have anyone you could turn to for help?’ Hunter asked. ‘I’m not talking about financial help. Someone who could help you kick the habit, bring you back.’
Lucien’s gaze met Hunter’s and he chuckled derisively. ‘You know me, Robert. I never had that many close friends. The few I had, I had broken contact with.’
Hunter read the hint. ‘You could’ve still looked me up, Lucien. You knew where I was. We were best friends. I would’ve helped you.’ Hunter paused and his stare went hard as he realized his mistake. ‘Shit, you were already hooked when you flew down for my PhD graduation, weren’t you? That’s why you only stayed in LA less than twenty-four hours. But I was so consumed by the moment that I didn’t even notice. That was you asking for my help.’
Lucien looked away.
Hunter felt a stab of guilt cut through his flesh. ‘You should’ve said something. I would’ve helped you. You know I would’ve. I’m sorry I didn’t notice it.’
‘Maybe I should have. Maybe that’s just another one of my bad mistakes. But I’m not going to cry about things long gone, Robert. Things that can’t be changed. Everything that happened to me was my own doing, my own fault, nobody else’s. I know it, and I accept that. And yes, I know that everyone needs a little help every once in a while. I just didn’t know how to ask for it.’
It was Hunter’s turn to have a sip of his water. ‘Were you still wit
h Karen when you went to LA?’ he asked.
Lucien nodded. ‘She also quit Yale, and did some very . . . very stupid things to get hold of cash.’ He hesitated, took a deep breath, and his eyes saddened. ‘We stayed together for three years. All the way until she overdosed.’ A long pause. ‘She died in my arms.’
Lucien looked away as his toughness began showing cracks. Tears came into his eyes, but he held steady.
Silence took over the room for a long moment.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Hunter finally said.
Lucien nodded and rubbed his face with his shackled hands.
‘What happened then?’ Hunter asked.
‘Then I really went to hell, and I did it a step at a time. I lost my way, big time. I hit depression hard and at full speed. Instead of learning from what happened to Karen and kicking the habit, I got deeper into it.’ Lucien stole a peek at the two-way mirror once again. ‘I should’ve been dead by now, and in many ways I really wish I were. The fight-back was very long, very slow, and very painful. It took me many years to manage to get my addiction under control. A few more to finally kick it. All the while I just got myself into more and more debt, and involved with the worst kind of characters society has to offer.’
Blood tests run by the FBI had shown that Lucien Folter was clean. Hunter knew that.
‘So when did you finally kick it?’ he asked.
‘Several years ago,’ Lucien said, being deliberately vague. ‘By then, I had lost all hope of a career in psychology or in anything decent, really. I went through a series of odd jobs, most of them awful, some of them not quite legit. In the end, I hated what I had become. Even though I was clean, I just wasn’t the person I once was anymore. I wasn’t Lucien Folter. I had become someone completely different. A lost soul. Someone I didn’t recognize. Someone no one recognized. Someone I really didn’t like.’