by Chris Carter
Thirty-Six
Given what Adrian Kennedy and Special Agents Williams and Fisher had already seen on the picture board, it didn’t take Hunter and Garcia too long to run them through the little they had on Linda Parker’s investigation so far.
‘That’s pretty much it,’ Garcia announced, leaning against the left side of the picture board. ‘Robert and I were regrouping here in the office to discuss our next move when we walked into Special Agent Erica Fisher here snooping around. Officially, our investigation into the murder of one Linda Parker only started a few hours ago.’
Captain Blake checked her detective with a suspicious look. ‘You’re not going to mention the “art” theory?’
‘Art theory?’ Kennedy asked. The surprise in his tone was directed at Hunter. ‘You guys have formed a theory already?’
‘I wouldn’t go as far as calling it a theory,’ Hunter replied. ‘But after we discovered the carvings to the victim’s back, something was suggested by the lead forensics agent at the scene last night that did seem to link a few loose dots.’
‘Can we hear it?’ Kennedy asked. He was already craving another cigarette.
Hunter let Garcia guide the FBI crew through that specific bumpy ride. When Garcia was done, the entire room went quiet one more time. Captain Blake was the first to break the silence.
‘Nuts? Yes, but whatever that is –’ she referred to the picture board, ‘– that’s not the work of a sane person.’
‘Agreed,’ Agent Fisher said, as she and Agent Williams restudied the photographs taken of the walls and the furniture inside Linda Parker’s bedroom. ‘And I’ll admit that in a standalone situation it makes a kind of crazy sense. If these really aren’t the result of a bleeding victim trying to get away from her attacker – and given the message the killer has carved into the victim’s back – I can clearly see how that theory would’ve surfaced. But . . .’ she turned and faced Hunter and Garcia, ‘. . . when put into context – The Surgeon’s first two victims, the state of their crime scenes and the carvings to their backs – this “art” theory kind of loses all of its momentum, don’t you think? No blood on the walls in either of his first two crime scenes. No “bloody brush strokes”, to quote Detective Garcia. One victim was left in a dirty shed, the other inside his own bedroom, which I might add was squeaky-clean. Nothing artistic about that.’
‘And then we have the phrases the killer has carved into the backs of his first two victims,’ Agent Williams added. ‘ “Beauty is in the relationship” and “beauty is in the eye of the beholder”. They also don’t fit this art theory.’
‘Sure,’ Garcia accepted, folding his arms in front of his chest. ‘If you’re asking me for an on-the-spot flash assessment, right here, right now, I’d have to agree with you. This art theory was suggested when we had only one victim, one scenario, not three, and we all know that theories can easily change during the course of any investigation, but we’re not prepared to discard any possibilities just yet.
‘The FBI has been running with this for over two months, but we’ve just been invited to the party. We haven’t had a chance to do anything yet – read over the investigation files, listen to any of the interview tapes, talk to any POIs . . . We haven’t even had a chance to properly scrutinize any of the photographs you’ve shown us, but from the little I’ve seen and heard so far, if this killer really turns out to be mad enough to believe that he’s an artist, if he turns out to be mad enough to see murder as an art form and to treat his crime scenes as a canvas, that wouldn’t really surprise me. Would it surprise you?’
Kennedy paused and looked back at his agents. Neither of them said anything back, but the vacant look in their eyes gave away how deep in thought they were.
‘One thing we all know when it comes to serial offenders leaving behind messages,’ Garcia continued, ‘cryptic or not, is that there’s always a deeper meaning to them than to simply taunt the police.’ He picked up one of the photographs that showed the carvings to Linda Parker’s back. ‘Sure, we have deciphered these, but we haven’t yet figured out the real meaning behind any of these phrases, because I think that this is the killer reaching out. Whatever it is that he thinks he’s accomplishing with these murders, he wants us to understand him, however crazy his reasons might be. He wants us to understand why he’s doing what he’s doing.’
In silence, Kennedy and both of his agents breathed in Garcia’s argument.
‘Look,’ said Hunter, joining the conversation, breaking the tension that was clearly building up inside their office. ‘All we’re saying here is that we can’t be sure of anything at this point and for that reason we can’t discard any possibilities just yet. With someone like The Surgeon, The Artist, The Doctor, or whatever name anyone wants to call him, we need to keep an open mind, we need to think out of the box, because one thing is for certain – whoever this guy is, he’s resourceful, knowledgeable, skilled, and he plays by no rules.’
‘And I know I can’t speak for you folks at the FBI’s NCAVC.’ Garcia finished Hunter’s thought. ‘After all, we’re just PD detectives here, but just by looking at all this, I can tell you one thing – this guy’s like no other killer we’ve ever encountered before.’
Thirty-Seven
In one fast movement, Officer Palmer pushed the second basement door open and immediately rotated his body into the room, both hands firmly gripping the handle of his gun, his heart double-timing every beat, his eyes wide open – twenty percent scared, eighty percent searching the room like a hawk.
Bishop took a deep breath, swallowed dry and followed directly behind her partner.
It took both trained police officers just a fraction of a second to find their target – a man standing across the room from them.
The man, who was tall and slim, was no doubt caught by surprise. The fright made him jump back awkwardly.
A whole new slow second went by before Officers Palmer and Bishop realized that the man had something in his hands, but his arms were low, denying both officers a clear view of what it was.
Police training kicked in as it should.
‘Drop it,’ Palmer called out in a loud, nervous voice, his weapon now aimed at the man’s chest.
The man hesitated.
‘I said drop it,’ Palmer shouted one more time, hoping his voice sounded a little steadier than it had just a second ago.
The man’s gaze quickly bounced from one police officer to the other.
‘Drop it,’ Palmer ordered one last time. ‘Or I swear we’ll drop you.’
Outgunned and outnumbered, the man finally complied, letting whatever he had in his hands fall to the ground. Both officers heard something heavy hit the floor with a loud clunk, but their view was obstructed by a metal-framed hospital-style bed.
‘Hands where I can see them,’ Palmer instructed the man, who hesitated again before taking a step back.
‘Easy there, partner,’ the man said in return, clearly trying to buy himself some time.
Palmer’s finger tightened on his trigger. ‘Hands where I can see them . . . now.’
The man planted his left foot next to his right one, being sure to keep them shoulder-width apart.
‘Let me see your hands.’ Palmer’s voice was still a little shaky. ‘Now.’
Despite all his training, curiosity got the better of Palmer and for a fraction of a second, the officer’s eyes wandered down toward the bed.
The man noticed Palmer’s eye movement.
It took Palmer another second to understand what he was looking at and as he did, adrenaline exploded into his veins, making his whole body tense up.
Officer Bishop, who was a step behind Palmer and a little to his right, also finally registered the entire scene.
Her heart took a break from beating.
‘Jesus Christ!’
Thirty-Eight
At the end of their meeting, it was decided that instead of cramming everyone into a cell-sized sweatbox at the Police Administration Bu
ilding (Hunter and Garcia’s office), it would be better for everyone to coordinate their joint investigation from the Los Angeles FBI Headquarters in Westwood. The original suggestion had been to move the whole operation to Quantico and into the offices of the NCAVC, but Captain Blake put a swift end to that conversation. Unless absolutely necessary, she needed her detectives to stay in Los Angeles.
‘Jesus!’ Garcia said, sitting back on his chair and rubbing his tired eyes with his thumb and forefinger. ‘The sheer number of documents in these files is mind-boggling. How can they accumulate so much in only two months?’
‘Well,’ Hunter said, without diverting his attention from his computer screen. He had already told Garcia about the private conversation he’d had with Kennedy during his cigarette break. ‘Adrian has had an army of agents working the case from the get-go.’
‘Yeah, well that certainly shows,’ Garcia came back. ‘I’ve been reading solidly for the past three hours. My eyes are about to melt in their sockets here and I’ve barely made a dent in either of their two murder investigations.’
Hunter was beginning to feel just as frustrated. In accordance with their payback theory, the NCAVC had compiled a list of all the investigations Adrian Kennedy had personally been a part of in the past twenty-five years – four hundred and forty-four cases. From that list they’d conducted a staggering number of ‘whereabouts’ checks, interviews and surveillance operations. If Hunter and Garcia were to read every record . . . every transcript word for word, it would take the two of them a month just to get through the interviews, never mind the remaining documents.
‘This payback theory of theirs,’ Garcia said, opening two documents on his screen at the same time. ‘They just didn’t want to give up on it, did they?’
‘Apparently not,’ Hunter said.
‘Completely understandable at first,’ Garcia agreed. ‘After all, someone had murdered the niece of an FBI director, so payback would be the first theory on any investigator’s mind, but check this out.’ He repositioned himself on his chair. ‘Just a little over a month later, as we both well know, they were presented with their second victim – Albert Greene. Same MO. Same signature, but a new message, which we all know isn’t that unusual for a serial murderer. After the FBI turned up in Wichita and scrutinized the whole scene for a full day, there was superficial talk about this being the work of a serial killer. Superficial.’ He looked at Hunter sideways. ‘What they concentrated most of their efforts on was expanding the payback theory so Albert Greene would fit into it.’
Hunter nodded. ‘From payback murder to payback rampage.’
‘Exactly,’ Garcia confirmed. ‘A killer trying to punish not only Director Kennedy, but everyone who worked on a specific investigation. Everyone who the killer considered responsible for either sending someone to prison, or to his/her death.’
‘Which to be fair, Carlos,’ Hunter came back, ‘was still a very plausible theory. The NCAVC helps countless law-enforcement agencies all over the country every year. Not to mention the cases that they take on by themselves. In any one of their investigations, a number of special agents, detectives, officers and people from the District Attorney’s office will get involved.’ Hunter got up and walked over to the coffee machine. ‘Revenge, as we both know, is a very powerful motivator. If in his mind the killer really held Adrian responsible for the outcome of an investigation, it stands to reason that he would also hold everyone else linked to that investigation responsible – or at least the main players.’ He poured himself a fresh cup. ‘Coffee?’ he offered.
‘No, I’m OK, thank you,’ Garcia replied. ‘I’m definitely not arguing that point, Robert. Yes, payback rampage was still a very plausible theory, but they plowed through Albert Greene’s family tree to see if he was directly related to anyone in law enforcement, or even to someone in a District Attorney’s office, and they got nothing. No matter which way they looked at this, they just couldn’t slot Albert Greene into their theory. So one would’ve thought that they would finally push that theory to the sidelines and start considering other possibilities.’
Hunter had a sip of his coffee before going back to his desk. ‘But that’s what they did.’
Garcia chuckled. ‘Yeah, they came up with a spinoff of the payback theory. The possibility that Mr. Greene’s murder could’ve been a “throw-off” – something to get the NCAVC off the path they were pursuing. In short, they began investigating the chances of this killer going after a complete stranger, in this case, Albert Greene, using the same MO and signature used to kill Kristine Rivers, just so it would look like her murder had been the work of a serial killer.’ With wide-open eyes, Garcia held Hunter’s stare.
‘I can see how most people would think that that was a crazy thing to do,’ Hunter said. ‘But if you take a second, it isn’t nearly as crazy as it sounds.’
‘And how’s that?’
‘You know how united the LAPD, or any PD in the country gets as soon as a cop-killer surfaces, right? The entire department would stop at nothing to chase him down.’ Hunter shrugged. ‘You kill the niece of an FBI director and there’s no doubt that you’ll get the wrath of one of the most powerful law-enforcement agencies in the world chasing you with everything they’ve got – every resource, every ally. And Adrian Kennedy won’t give up . . . ever. But if you make it look like she was the unfortunate victim of a fanatical serial killer, in time the whole thing might just become another investigation in the FBI archives. See the logic?’
Garcia chewed on that thought for several long seconds. ‘OK, I admit, it makes a weird sort of sense, but not enough for the FBI to make it their top theory. They spent two months and countless man-hours talking to the wrong people and looking in the wrong places. There’s a reason why Director Kennedy told you that they haven’t moved an inch since they’ve begun investigating this.’
‘I know,’ Hunter replied. ‘And yes, they’ve made mistakes, but we’ve all been there before, Carlos. Adrian admitted that he was blinded by anger and, unfortunately, that anger stirred the investigation the wrong way. But talking about what should’ve been done won’t help us. The only thing we can do now is forget about those mistakes and move on.’
PING.
The text-message beep came from Garcia’s cellphone. He interrupted their conversation and quickly checked his display screen.
‘Oh shit!’ he said. The look in his eyes was pure fear.
‘Everything OK?’ Hunter asked.
The message Garcia had just received had come from his wife, Anna, and it contained three words, followed by an angry emoji.
Are you coming? ☹
‘I’m dead,’ he said. ‘I’m so dead they’re going to have to bury me twice.’ He quickly typed a message back.
On my way. ☺
‘What happened?’
‘I’ve got to go.’ Even Garcia’s tone of voice had changed. ‘I’m supposed to be having dinner with the in-laws tonight and I completely lost track of time.’
Hunter checked his watch – 7:12 p.m. He too hadn’t noticed the time go by so fast.
‘This is going to be like the tenth time I’m late for dinner with Anna’s parents.’
‘Oh, that can’t be good.’
Garcia reached for his jacket. ‘Are you staying?’ he asked as he got to the door. ‘It’s past seven, Robert, and it’s been a hell of a long day for everyone, not to mention that you got no sleep last night.’
‘Yeah, I know. I’m going to stay just a little longer. There are still a few more things I want to go over.’
‘You’re not superman, you know? You need to disconnect and give your brain some breathing time before that big vein across your forehead pops. Plus, your eyes are tired. I can tell. You look like you’ve just smoked a big doobie.’
‘Really?’ Hunter tried to catch his reflection against the window glass.
‘There’s no point in exhausting yourself on the first day of an investigation. I know we’re starting from the beg
inning again, but the forty-eight-hour rule doesn’t really apply to this guy. He’s been killing for months.’
‘I know, but I’m really not going to stay long.’ He tapped his watch with his index finger. ‘You, on the other hand, better get going.’
‘Yep. I’m out of here.’
‘Say hello to Anna for me, will you?’
‘I will, if she’s still talking to me, that is. By the way, if I disappear without a trace, please check my backyard for a shallow grave. If not, I’ll see you tomorrow at the Feds.’
Thirty-Nine
Anyone driving down Wilshire Boulevard would be forgiven for mistaking the Los Angeles FBI Headquarters for some sort of special federal prison, where the window bars couldn’t be seen from the outside. Despite its prime real-estate location, one thing was absolutely clear to everyone: the seventeen-story-high concrete box structure hadn’t been built with aesthetics in mind, a feature that repeated itself across every FBI building in the country.
Inside a corner office, on the eighth floor of that nondescript and enigmatic building, Special Agents Fisher and Williams had taken no time settling in. The room they were given was about four times the size of Hunter and Garcia’s office back at the PAB and equipped to the walls with hightech monitors, lightning-fast computers and gigantic curved 4K screens.
Both FBI agents had spent the last three hours looking over all the photos belonging to Linda Parker’s crime scene, as well as revising a series of files concerning their investigation into the murders of Kristine Rivers and Albert Greene – two victims whose life stories couldn’t have been any more different from each other.
‘Shit!’ Agent Fisher said, as she pushed her chair away from her desk. She stared at her computer screen for another second before hurling the pen she had in her hand at it.
‘Are you all right, Erica?’ Agent Williams asked, angling his body to look past his own screen at his partner. He was used to Agent Fisher’s sudden outbursts.