by Chris Carter
‘Sure there has,’ Agent Fisher replied. ‘But it doesn’t mean that we’ll be able to understand it or even explain it. Maybe in the killer’s eyes these four victims were the ones who better suited his work. Remember, he’s not after them as people; he’s after them as objects – the best match for the big picture, for whatever sadistic art piece he’s creating. That’s why he doesn’t hurt them. So yes, there probably was something quite specific about the victims that drove the killer to them, but that’s something we might never understand. We might never be able to explain it because it could be something that is specific only to the killer and no one else. No matter how hard we try, we might never see things through his distorted eyes.’
Hunter knew that that was very true. Catching murderers didn’t necessarily mean that they would understand the way they thought, their motives, their reasoning . . .
‘How about the traveling?’ Garcia asked. ‘Even if the killer had a specific type of person in mind, let’s say, one who best matched whatever crazy art piece he wanted to create, like you suggested, why pick them from four different cities . . . four different states?’
Agent Fisher went quiet.
‘The killer’s first murder was committed in Detroit,’ Garcia added. ‘A city with a population of almost 700,000 people. I’m sure he would’ve had no problems finding an eighty-four-year-old ex-janitor who also lived in Detroit for his second outing, or a young and attractive model for his third, or an African American male for his fourth. Why go from Michigan to Kansas, to California and now Arizona? What was so special about these four people that made him cross state lines just to get to them?’
‘Maybe it’s not about them being special,’ Agent Fisher suggested. ‘Maybe traveling is just part of what he does as a job. He could be a sports scout, or a pharmaceutical salesman, or something along those lines. Something that forces him to hop from city to city. He would then use the convenience of his job to choose his victims, picking them from different locations, knowing full well that that fact alone would make finding him a hell of a lot harder.’
Garcia thought about it for a moment, but his brain was too tired and everything was still too fresh for him to be able to think logically. In the space of less than twenty-four hours they had gone from a single victim back in LA, to four, spread over four different states. Absolutely nothing made sense at the moment and the craziest of all theories was the one that best matched the facts they had.
Hunter stayed quiet, but he couldn’t help thinking that the murders seemed too elaborate for the killer to be picking his victims due to the convenience of a traveling job.
All of a sudden Agent Fisher’s eyes widened, as a new thought exploded inside her head.
‘Passenger manifests,’ she said, addressing Agent Williams. ‘If the killer really is traveling because of the job he does, then there’s a chance he flies to wherever he’s got to go, including the murder cities. If that’s the case, his name will be on passenger manifests. We need to get in touch with every airport in Detroit, Wichita, LA and Tucson, maybe even Phoenix. Let’s get a team checking every airline’s passenger manifests and cross-checking them all with each other. We’ve got to search at least three weeks each side of the murder date, inclusively. If we’re lucky, we might get a name repeating itself flying in and out of all these four cities.’
‘It’s a hell of a long shot,’ Agent Williams agreed. ‘But it’s definitely worth a try. I’ll get a team on it first thing in the morning.’
Sixty-Two
Agent Brandon had gotten everyone a room at the Lodge on the Desert, a hacienda-style boutique hotel situated on five acres of land, right in mid-town Tucson. The place was as stunning as it was grand, featuring as its backdrop nothing less than the imposing Santa Catalina Mountains.
‘Damn,’ Garcia whispered as he and Hunter stepped out of the car and collected their bags. ‘The FBI does have it a lot better than we do. Just look at this place. If the LAPD were banking this trip, we’d probably be sleeping in the car.’
‘May I carry your bag for you, sir?’ a young porter asked in a tone that sounded way too cheerful for that time of the morning.
Garcia smiled back at him. ‘You certainly may.’
‘And you, sir?’ the porter addressed Hunter.
‘I’m OK,’ Hunter replied, slinging his bag over his right shoulder. ‘It’s not a heavy bag.’
Check-in was done quickly and smoothly, thanks to the three large capital letters that graced the top of the reservation page on the receptionist’s computer screen. Maybe those letters were also the reason why the five best rooms available were allocated to them.
‘It’s 4:22 a.m.’ Agent Williams said as he collected his key. ‘I’d say that we all need to get at least four hours’ sleep. So how about we all meet down at the breakfast room at eight thirty?’
Everyone agreed.
Hunter’s accommodation was number 221, a spacious Old El Paso decorated room, just past a cactus garden in the hotel’s west wing.
As he closed the door behind him and allowed his bag to slip from his shoulder to the floor, Hunter felt exhaustion take hold of every corner of his body like an untreatable illness. Right then he knew that nothing, not even his insomnia, would be able to keep him from falling asleep. Not this time. But despite how tired he felt, he decided to have a quick shower before bed. He was sure that he could still smell the stomach-churning scent from the morgue on his skin.
Hunter undressed by the plush and very comfortable-looking king-sized bed, before making his way into the bathroom.
‘Wow,’ he whispered under his breath as he paused by the door. He was unsure of what had impressed him more – the Mexican Talavera tiles that no doubt brought a lot of color into the bathroom, or its sheer size – about equal to his entire living room. The soft and relaxing scent of primrose and lily of the valley that loitered in the air was also a very nice touch.
Inside the shower enclosure, Hunter closed his eyes, leaned forward, rested his forehead against the colorful-tiled wall and allowed the strong, lukewarm water jet to massage the tense muscles on his neck, shoulders and upper back. If there was such a thing as heaven, this had to be its wet version.
The warm water relaxed him, but still his brain wouldn’t fully disconnect. How could it, really, after the events of the past twenty-four hours? There was so much he needed to process that for the first time in his career, Hunter didn’t really have a clue where to start. What should he analyze first? The murders themselves? The victims? The killer’s MO? The killer’s signatures? The messages? The crime scenes? The locations? The bizarre theory they had come up with? All of it at once?
Hunter could feel his head starting to spin inside his skull, so he decided to use the little strength he still had left to push all those thoughts to one side. He concentrated on scrubbing his whole body until he couldn’t smell death on him anymore. By the time he turned off the water, his naturally tanned skin had acquired a light pink tint and his fingertips had wrinkled.
Back in the bedroom, without concerning himself with drying his hair, Hunter collapsed onto the bed. The sensation he got as his skin came into contact with the luxury white linen was that he had slumped onto a fluffy cloud. His eyelids didn’t even flutter. They simply came down like heavy shutters at the end of a very long day. Less than a minute later he was asleep.
Sixty-Three
At exactly 8:25 a.m., Hunter stepped outside his room. As he did, Garcia rounded the corridor corner.
‘Wow,’ Garcia said. ‘How is this for perfect timing, huh?’
Hunter closed the door behind him.
‘I thought you’d be in the breakfast room already,’ he said.
‘In different circumstances, I would be,’ Garcia agreed. ‘But I really don’t feel like facing those two by myself this early in the morning. I’m not a masochist, you know?’
Hunter chuckled. ‘Yes, I guess I see your point. I don’t think Special Agent Fisher likes you ver
y much, Carlos.’
‘Me?’ Garcia’s surprised face was almost sincere. ‘Rubbish. Everyone likes me. I’m charming, good-looking, smart, and loads of fun to be around. What’s there not to like?’ He lifted his arms up to about chest height, spread them wide and used both hands to point at himself. ‘Plus, I’m Brazilian. Everyone likes Brazilian people because we can samba.’
‘Can you samba?’
‘Can I hell. But that’s beside the point. You’re hungry, right?’
‘Starving,’ Hunter admitted. He didn’t even have to ask. Despite how skinny Garcia was, he was always hungry.
‘So,’ Garcia asked as they made their way down the corridor. ‘How big and colorful are these rooms? Did you see the size of that bathroom?’
‘Bigger than my apartment.’
Garcia laughed. ‘That wouldn’t be too hard, Robert. You live in a shoebox.’
‘I like where I live.’
‘Of course you do.’
Hunter and Garcia spotted Special Agents Fisher and Williams as soon as they entered the hotel’s restaurant breakfast room. The two agents were sitting at a table by the floor-to-ceiling window on the east wall. They both wore their standard, FBI-issued sunglasses and dark suits. Agent Fisher’s hair was loose and still wet from her morning shower.
Garcia held fast on a laugh. ‘Are they both wearing sunglasses . . . inside? They are, aren’t they?’
From the door, Hunter greeted them with a nod before making his way toward their table.
‘Do we really need to sit with them?’ Garcia whispered.
‘I thought you said everyone liked you,’ Hunter replied.
‘And they do,’ Garcia confirmed. ‘But that doesn’t mean that I have to like them back.’
‘Maybe you can samba your way into their hearts,’ Hunter said.
Garcia shook his head disapprovingly. ‘Robert, you’re brilliant at a lot of things, but making jokes on the spot isn’t one of them. You’d best leave them jokes to me.’
‘I thought that was a pretty good effort.’
Garcia wasn’t the only one who wasn’t in the mood for a reunion that early in the morning. As soon as Agent Fisher saw Hunter and Garcia at the entrance to the breakfast room, she leaned over toward her partner.
‘I told you we should’ve picked a table at the back,’ she murmured. ‘Hidden from everyone. Now we’re going to have to share ours.’
‘I thought you liked Detective Hunter,’ Agent Williams whispered back.
‘And I do. I’ve got absolutely nothing against Robert. It’s his partner who gets on my nerves.’
‘Oh, it’s Robert now, is it?’
She shrugged at him. ‘Whatever.’
Despite keeping their voices to a whisper and turning their heads a little sideways as they spoke, Hunter had no problems reading their lips.
‘Good morning,’ Hunter said, coming up to their table.
‘Morning,’ both agents replied in unison.
‘I thought you would’ve preferred a table at the back, hidden from everyone.’ Hunter couldn’t resist.
Both agents looked back at him, wondering.
‘In view of all the new developments,’ Agent Fisher announced even before Hunter and Garcia had taken the seats across the table from them, ‘Director Kennedy has authorized a press conference. Special Agent Brandon is organizing it as we speak. A very condensed press release will be sent to all the major news channels this afternoon. At the press conference, we’ll be answering a very select number of questions and that’s all. I will not allow it to turn into a media circus. The whole thing won’t take more than ten minutes, fifteen tops.’
‘Hi, welcome to the Lodge on the Desert hotel,’ a brunette waitress in her early twenties said, approaching their table as soon as Hunter and Garcia took their seats. The smile on her lips was fake, but still terribly welcoming. ‘What can I get you this morning?’
‘What’s the biggest breakfast you have?’ Garcia asked, returning the smile.
‘That would be the Lodge on the Desert Arizona full breakfast,’ the waitress replied. ‘It includes—’
‘It’s OK, darling.’ Garcia stopped her. ‘I’ll have it anyway. Whatever is in it, I’ll eat it. Just bring it over.’
‘How would you like your eggs done?’ the waitress asked.
‘Over easy, please,’ Garcia replied.
‘And your steak?’
Garcia did a double take. ‘There’s a steak?’ He sounded truly surprised.
‘Twelve ounces,’ the waitress confirmed, studying Garcia’s frame. ‘It’s a pretty large dish. Most people aren’t able to finish it all. If you prefer I can ask the chef to hold the steak, or you could go for a less substantial dish.’
‘Nope, steak is just fine. Bring it on.’ Garcia smiled. ‘As for finishing it all – challenge accepted. I’ll have my steak medium rare, please.’
Hunter decided to skip the cooked breakfast and stick with the choices on the buffet. Agent Fisher and Agent Williams followed his example. All four of them ordered black coffees.
‘The press release,’ Hunter said to Agent Fisher, once the waitress had moved away from their table. ‘What is it going to say?’
‘Not much,’ she replied with a headshake. ‘But so we don’t get a nasty surprise through a newspaper, I will have to mention everything that that goddamn freelance reporter knows. I won’t leave him any trump cards. He and his cold-reading party trick can go screw themselves. Because of him, I’ll have to mention the approximate timeframe of when the murders started, number of victims and so on, but I will not disclose any names. Not now. I also won’t mention anything about the carvings, the killer’s signatures, or his MO, and I will certainly not mention anything about the killer believing he’s making art out of his victims.’
As if on cue, Special Agent Brandon walked through the breakfast-room doors and approached their table.
‘Good morning, everyone,’ he said, taking a seat next to Agent Williams. He looked and sounded a lot more rested than everybody else at that table put together. ‘The press conference has been scheduled for today at nineteen hundred hours,’ he announced. ‘We’ll be using the conference room here at this hotel. It’s spacious enough.’
‘That’s fine,’ Agent Fisher said.
Agent Brandon turned to face Hunter.
‘And you were right about Mr. Davis’s neighbor – Mr. Christopher Pendleton – the person who was supposed to have made the 911 call. He didn’t. Nor was he supposed to be on vacation until the day after tomorrow. Mr. Pendleton runs his own law firm in downtown Tucson. He said that he only got home yesterday at around nine in the evening and was as surprised as anyone else to see all those police cars around his neighbor’s house. When I knocked on his door this morning, about an hour ago, he told me that that was the first time anybody had asked him anything.’
‘Does he live alone?’ Garcia asked. ‘Wife? Kids? Was anybody at home during the day yesterday?’
‘He’s divorced,’ Agent Brandon replied. ‘Two kids, both in college. The house is empty the whole day, most days.’
‘Was there any sign of a break-in?’ Garcia again.
‘None whatsoever. The house is also alarmed. There was no breach.’
‘Did Tucson PD confirm phone numbers after the 911 call?’ Agent Fisher asked, annoyance already back in her voice.
‘Apparently not,’ Agent Brandon confirmed.
‘So the killer made the 911 call,’ Agent Williams concluded.
‘That’s the most likely scenario,’ Agent Brandon agreed.
‘Why?’ Agent Fisher again. ‘Why would the killer first call that shitty reporter, get him to the house and then call 911? Where’s the sense in that?’
‘He did it because he wants the press conference to happen,’ Hunter said, his memory quickly connecting several facts.
‘What?’ Agent Fisher looked unsure, though she wasn’t the only one. ‘The killer wants the press conference to happen? I do
n’t follow.’
‘Well,’ Hunter began. ‘We all know that the killer was the one who called Owen Henderson back in Phoenix yesterday afternoon, right?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘We’re now also pretty sure that the killer was the one who made the 911 call. He added the bullshit story about the neighbor coming back early from his holiday because it would give the call a lot more credibility, also giving us the impression that we had gotten lucky. Now think back to yesterday. Owen Henderson told us that he arrived at Mr. Davis’s house at 5:40 in the afternoon, give or take a minute.’ Hunter faced Agent Brandon. ‘You told us that the 911 call came in at exactly 5:42 p.m., isn’t that right?’
‘Yes, that’s correct,’ the agent confirmed.
Hunter’s gaze rounded the table and he shrugged.
‘Now, does anyone here think that was a coincidence?’
Sixty-Four
The girl opened her eyes and slowly rolled over on the bed to have a look at her alarm clock, though she didn’t really have to. Like always, she woke up just as the sun began infusing its first light into the dense night sky.
For a moment, the girl didn’t move, her eyes fixed on the dim red glow of the digital timekeeper on her bedside table. Then, as the stupor of sleep finally began to dissipate, her lips stretched into a timid smile.
‘It’s Friday,’ she whispered to herself.
With those words, the timid smile gained confidence before the girl rolled over again, this time to face the ceiling.
‘It’s Friday,’ she told herself one more time, her voice a lot more animated than a second ago.
‘Yes it is. Yes it is. It’s Friday.’
Her words came out dancing to a silly melody that she had made up on the spot. As she sang her improvised verse, her hips shook from side to side and her head bobbed up and down to her own crazy rhythm.
The reason behind all that happiness was simple – today she would see him again, just like she had last Friday, and the Friday before last, and the Friday before that one.