by Chris Carter
Hunter could feel the pain in Mr. Wilson’s voice.
‘Sometimes,’ the old man carried on, ‘out of pure anger, our soldiers may see fit to use against them, the same psychological warfare weapons that they have used against us or our allies. Please tell me that you understand that, son?’
‘I do,’ Hunter replied. He might’ve understood the old man’s explanation, but it didn’t mean that he agreed with it.
‘Now, going back to your question.’ Mr. Wilson paused again, this time for breath. ‘In the context you mentioned, son, B-F-O-A would mean – “By Force Of Arms”.’
Hunter closed his eyes and his lips pressed against one another in a pain-stricken expression.
‘What that essentially means is—’
‘To achieve something by force and/or the use of weapons.’ Hunter cut Mr. Wilson short. ‘In this case – rape under gun-point. I should’ve figured that one out.’
‘No, son, that’s just it. You should not have known that. That particular abbreviation or acronym is never used. The term is always used in full and it’s usually used in relation to battles and conflicts. In a personal sense, like in the sentence you’ve mentioned . . . in respect to rape . . . it would mean that the person in question did not commit rape even when ordered to.’
Hunter now clearly understood why the old man had had to explain everything before finally getting to the definition.
Though Hunter had very little doubt of what Mr. Wilson was really alluding to, he didn’t want to leave any stone unturned.
‘So just to be very clear here, sir,’ Hunter said gently. ‘The person who has written that sentence . . . you would say that the chances of him having been with the military are high.’
‘I would say that there’s absolutely no doubt of that whatsoever, son. And this person, whoever he is, has seen combat – and I mean frontline combat.’
Forty-Nine
Hunter disconnected from the call and, from his facial expression alone, Garcia could tell that he had come across something new. He waited, but Hunter stayed silent, his brain moving information around as fast as it could, trying to slot it into the correct place.
‘So who was that on the phone?’ Garcia asked. ‘And what have we got?’
Nothing.
‘Robert?’ Garcia called again.
Hunter shook his thoughts away. ‘Sorry.’
‘Who was that on the phone?’
‘Just an old friend who used to be with the military.’
‘Used to be?’
‘Yes, he’s retired now.’
‘OK, and what did he tell you? Do we know what BFOA means?’
Hunter kept it simple, giving Garcia just the definition of the acronym and what it actually meant in the context used.
‘So you were right,’ Garcia said, his tone troubled. ‘This killer is with the military. That could easily complicate things.’
‘Was with the military,’ Hunter corrected his partner. ‘Not is.’
‘How would you know that?’
‘Because it would explain a few things, other than just the terms he used in the diary.’
Hunter couldn’t remember the exact words, so he quickly reloaded the image titled ‘page 1’ onto his computer screen.
‘Here,’ he said, indicating on the text. ‘On the very first page of the diary – Elizabeth Gibbs’ entry – the killer talks about his memory not being what it used to be. His exact words were – My memory isn’t so good anymore. I forget things. I forget a lot of things, and it’s just getting worse. That’s one of the reasons why I decided to keep this journal.’
‘Yes, I remember,’ Garcia replied, pushing his chair away from his desk so he could better see Hunter.
‘Maybe he’ll talk a little more about his loss of memory in the pages that we’re still to read,’ Hunter explained. ‘But judging by these few lines, especially when he mentions that he forgets a lot of things, and it’s just getting worse, it sounds like his cognitive decline is at least moderate to severe, would you agree?’
Garcia nodded ‘It sounds about right.’
‘OK,’ Hunter continued. ‘So most clinicians who deal with cognitive decline, or dementia, use one of two scales to measure a patient’s memory deterioration – the Seven Stage Model of Dementia and the Global Deterioration Scale, which is also divided into seven stages. I’m not going to bore you with long clinical explanations, but on both scales, moderately severe cognitive decline falls into stage five.’ Hunter used the fingers on his right hand to emphasize his point. ‘Which is quite an advanced stage in the progression of dementia and memory loss.’
Once again, Garcia agreed with a nod. ‘OK.’
‘But Angela told us that the person who she stole the diary from, the person who came after her in her apartment, was in his late thirties or, at a push, very early forties, no older. That’s way too young for anyone to be showing signs of stage-five dementia,’ Hunter explained. ‘That would mean that the onset of the disease would have to have come about in his late twenties, or very early thirties. OK, it’s possible,’ Hunter accepted it. ‘But we would be talking one in a million possibility here.’
Garcia leaned forward on his desk and rested his chin on his knuckles. ‘But what if his loss of memory isn’t caused by dementia?’
‘Exactly.’ Hunter’s right index finger shot in his partner’s direction. ‘It probably isn’t. My guess is that his memory problem comes from trauma, either blunt, psychological, or a combination of both, and if this killer has really seen frontline combat, the kind of combat where he was ordered to use rape by force of arms as a psychological weapon . . .’
‘It probably means that he has not only witnessed, but also taken part in extremely harrowing action,’ Garcia concluded.
‘I’m sure he has,’ Hunter agreed. ‘And blunt or psychological trauma could easily have been a consequence of battle and the pressures thereof, not to mention post-traumatic stress disorder, which is practically guaranteed to induce memory loss, among several other problems. Either way, once back in the country after a tour of duty, every serviceman must go through a battery of physical and psychological tests. Memory loss isn’t something one can simply hide, regardless of what has caused it. Once that was diagnosed . . .’ Hunter’s right hand moved across the front of his neck in a cut-throat gesture. ‘ . . .It would be the end of his military career. Whoever this killer is, he’s not an active serviceman anymore.’
‘It makes sense,’ Garcia agreed, pulling his chair closer to his computer once again.
Hunter cupped his hands together and slowly ran them over his nose and mouth. ‘I should’ve thought of that.’
‘Thought of what?’
‘PTSD,’ Hunter replied. ‘War trauma. If we’re right about this, it could also explain the voices. It could also explain how he was able to halt them and object to their command. But what if something else is triggering those voices . . . triggering the schizophrenia?’
‘Something else?’ A crease came between Garcia’s eyebrows as they arched. ‘Now you’re losing me again.’
Hunter got to his feet. ‘Veterans who suffer from PTSD,’ he clarified, ‘can have an episode or a seizure initiated by a number of different factors – a sound, a smell, an image, an object . . . even a face that reminds them of someone can trigger it. If it’s something like that that is triggering the voices in our killer’s head, it could explain how come he’s able to halt them and tell them “no”.’
Garcia lifted a hand. ‘Hold on. OK, I do get how a loud bang – the sound of a helicopter, the smell of fireworks, or something similar – could trigger an episode. In this case, the voices in our killer’s head; but how does that explain him being able to halt them like you’ve said?’
‘Because PTSD episodes triggered by external factors,’ Hunter explained, ‘are always directly related to a traumatic memory that the subject has lived through. Now imagine if that traumatic memory involves a superior officer, or even just so
meone who was in charge at the time, ordering our guy to do something he wasn’t prepared to do or compromise on – like rape someone, even if “by force of arms”.’
The fog began to clear for Garcia. ‘So let me see if I’ve got this right. You’re saying that if the voices in our killer’s head, which could have been triggered by some external factor – if they are repeating an order that he was given while fighting, an order that he was brave enough at the time to counter, then it’s understandable that he could do the same again this time around.’
‘Exactly. He did it once. He can do it again.’
Garcia quickly went back to his computer and reloaded the first image in the file that Dr. Slater had sent them.
‘So . . . if the first victim mentioned in this diary was taken on February 3rd 2018 and we know for sure that there have been other victims before Elizabeth Gibbs, it means that we’re looking for someone who is ex-military and who has returned from a tour of duty around what . . . 2017? 2016?’
‘Maybe even earlier,’ Hunter suggested. ‘Without knowing how many victims there were prior to Miss Gibbs and the timeframe between victims . . .’ He simply shook his head as he considered the impossible task.
Garcia looked away for an instant, as if something in the air around them was troubling him.
‘You do know that we’ll get no help with this, right?’ he asked. ‘Like you’ve said, servicemen are put through a battery of tests once they return from a tour of duty. If PTSD or any other psychological problem is diagnosed, the army takes care of them. They have their own doctors, their own psychiatrists, their own psychologists . . . you know that. The only way for us to gather any sort of information on any ex-combatant is to approach the army itself.’ Garcia chuckled. ‘We do that and they won’t care if this guy is a serial killer or not. Due to the fact that he’s one of their own, we’ll have every door slammed shut right in our faces.’
‘Yes, I know that,’ Hunter replied. ‘But we might not need to approach the army. We don’t know. We haven’t got to the end of his diary yet.’
At that exact moment, a knock came at their office door.
‘Come in,’ Hunter called, turning to face the door.
Officer Makalsky pushed the door open, walked over to Hunter’s desk and handed him the evidence bag containing the diary that he had collected from Dr. Slater.
Hunter waited until the officer had left the room before retrieving a pair of latex gloves from one of his drawers and ripping open the package.
Garcia stood up to get a better line of vision.
Hunter placed the thick, black leather book on his desk but didn’t flip it open. Instead, he took a deep breath and stared at the cover.
‘I guess the real fun starts now, huh?’ Garcia said, nodding ever so gently.
Hunter looked back at him.
‘You and I have very different concepts of what fun is.’
Fifty
With the killer’s diary in hand, Hunter once again started at the beginning, but this time, instead of concentrating on the words, he turned his attention to the physical pages. He still had no idea of what he was looking for.
Using a magnifying glass and starting with the first page, Hunter carefully checked its outside edges and corners for any markings, impressions, dents, bends, tears . . . anything that might seem odd or out of place.
He found nothing.
Next, he tried the internal edge of the page as it curved into the spine of the book. All he found were residues of fingerprint dusting powder. The technicians at the FSD lab had obviously been very thorough.
Despite the killer having used only the front of each page, leaving its reverse completely blank, Hunter checked it with the same determination that he had checked the first page. At the lower, internal edge of it, closer to the book’s spine, he did find a couple of tiny dents on the paper, but they were just that – dents on the paper – nothing else.
Before moving on to the next page, the one with the Polaroid of Elizabeth Gibbs stapled to it, Hunter paused as he considered a new thought.
‘Taking a break already?’ Garcia asked.
‘Not exactly,’ Hunter replied, flipping the page back to where he had started.
Garcia watched attentively as his partner placed the tips of his fingers on the page and slowly began moving them from left to right, along the text line – as though he were reading Braille. Hunter moved from line to line until he got to the end of the page.
‘Anything?’ Garcia asked.
‘Not yet.’
‘This is starting to look like National Treasure,’ Garcia joked. ‘Maybe we should try some lemons and heat next.’
Hunter had begun running his fingers over the reverse of the first page. ‘National Treasure?’
‘Oh, sorry,’ Garcia apologized, pulling a face. ‘I forgot that you barely watch any films. Yes, National Treasure is an old movie starring Nicolas Cage,’ he explained. ‘They’re looking for a secret treasure and one of the clues is hidden on the reverse of the Declaration of Independence. In the film, they use lemon juice and some heat to—’
‘Reveal invisible ink?’ Hunter got there first.
Garcia was truly impressed. ‘No way. You’ve seen that film?’
‘Yes, I’ve seen that film,’ Hunter admitted. ‘But that information is wrong. Lemon juice is used as invisible ink. Not to reveal it. You never had fun writing secret codes using invisible ink when you were a kid?’
Garcia’s lips stretched into a comical smile. ‘You and I indeed have very different concepts of what fun is.’
‘I guess we do,’ Hunter accepted. ‘Anyway, we won’t need lemon juice and heat. This killer hasn’t used invisible ink on this.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because you only use lemon juice and heat when you’re a kid and you don’t have the right equipment.’
Garcia’s expression remained blank.
‘The best prop to reveal invisible ink is UV light, Carlos,’ Hunter explained. ‘The same light used by forensics agents when searching for fingerprints. According to Dr. Slater, every page in this diary has already been tested for prints. If this killer had used invisible ink, someone in the FSD lab would’ve found it.’
‘Point taken,’ Garcia agreed, before returning to the text on his computer screen.
Hunter moved along to the next page, the one that had the first Polaroid photograph stapled to it. He started with the photo, but once again, he found nothing out of the ordinary – no markings, no impressions, no dents, nothing anywhere on that photo that could’ve suggested some sort of hidden code or information.
Hunter got to the end of the page and minutes later to the end of the entry – absolutely nothing.
Before moving on to the next diary entry, Hunter checked his watch. As the seconds rushed toward that five o’clock deadline, they seemed to be ticking faster and faster, while he seemed to be working slower and slower.
‘Where are you in the diary?’ he asked Garcia.
‘About to start with the fourth entry, you?’
‘About to begin the second one again.’
‘Anything that’s got you wondering? Even remotely?’
‘Not yet, but it’s still early in the game. There are still a lot of pages to go. What worries me is our timeframe, and the fact that I have no idea of what we’re searching for here, or even if there is . . .’ Hunter paused and tilted his head slightly right then left, as he studied the diary from different angles.
‘Everything all right?’ Garcia asked.
‘Yes,’ Hunter replied. ‘But I just had a . . . crazy idea.’
Garcia chuckled. ‘As if that was a first. What new crazy idea would that be?’
‘Maybe there’s a way that we can get to him, even if we don’t find what’s so important about this diary.’
Now Garcia was intrigued. ‘And which way is that?’
‘The diary itself,’ Hunter said before clarifying. ‘Maybe there’s a way th
at we can hide some sort of tracker in this book. Maybe if we can get inside the cover without damaging it. Something that he wouldn’t notice, at least not straight away.’
Garcia’s entire face lit up with excitement. ‘So the idea here is – at five o’clock, you follow his instructions and return the diary to him, but there’s no need for a SWAT or an SIS team to tail you too closely, maybe even not at all. Then, when he thinks he’s home safe . . . BOOM . . . we crash this sicko’s party.’
‘Something like that, yes,’ Hunter agreed.
‘Do we have any sort of tracker that we can fit into a book without it being obvious?’ Garcia asked.
‘Only one way to find out,’ Hunter said, already reaching for the phone on his desk.
Fifty-One
The Los Angeles Police Department Electronics Unit was one of the four specialized units that comprised the LAPD Technical Investigation Division (TID). The unit’s function was to provide technical investigative support for the Police Department by means of electronic surveillance devices. The vast majority of those devices were designed, constructed and modified in-house to match the nature of the investigation they were supporting, which meant that even if they didn’t have a tracker device small and discreet enough to fit into the killer’s diary, they could probably create one. The only problem they would have, Hunter thought, would be the ticking clock.
It had just gone ten in the morning when Vince Keller’s phone rang on his desk.
The five-foot five, thirty-two-year-old head engineer for the LAPD Electronics Unit was as intelligent as he was short. With a Computer Engineering degree from UCLA and a PhD in Electrical Engineering and Computer Science from MIT, Keller had already won several awards for his electronic creations by the time he was offered the position with the Electronics Unit. He was twenty-six back then, making him the youngest ever person to take on that role.