Gallery of the Dead

by Chris Carter

  They always met at the old park, the one behind the ugly, disused school. No one played there anymore. No one walked their dogs or rode their bicycles there anymore either. With the school closure just a few years back, the whole area was slowly forgotten, which suited them just fine.

  ‘No one can know about our meetings, OK?’ he had told the girl the first time they had met, four weeks ago. ‘They won’t let us meet if they find out.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ she had replied. ‘My mother really wouldn’t like that.’

  With every meeting they got a little more comfortable with each other, and that was another reason for the girl’s barely containable happiness. Last Friday they’d held hands for the first time. It had made her feel like she had never felt before – warm inside, goose bumps on the outside, happy all over. She really hoped that he would hold her hand again today.

  That thought alone brought a new smile to the girl’s lips and a new, more animated rhythm to her improvised song. Her arms punched the air in front of her one at a time in a syncopated movement.

  ‘OK, OK,’ she told herself, bringing her enthusiasm down several notches. Before she could see him again, she had to go to school, and before that she had to get ready.

  She turned and checked the bedside clock one last time. Definitely time to get up.

  She swung her feet over the bed and sat at its edge. Right then, an idea came to her – before leaving for school, why not sneak into her mother’s bedroom and hide one of her perfume bottles in her school bag? Her mother wouldn’t mind, would she? She had so many of them. Plus, she wasn’t stealing it; she was just borrowing it. She would return it when she got back. Maybe she could even borrow a pair of earrings – those shiny ones her mother only wore on special occasions. Those were beautiful. Everybody loved them, and if she wore them, he would love them too, wouldn’t he?

  ‘Yes, of course he would.’

  Maybe he would even love her.

  Sixty-Five

  The reality of what Hunter had just suggested hit everyone square in the face.

  ‘There’s only one way the killer could’ve placed that call at the exact time Owen Henderson stepped into Timothy Davis’s house,’ Hunter said.

  ‘He was still there,’ Agent Williams said.

  Hunter sat back on his chair.

  ‘I don’t think that he was still inside the house,’ he said. ‘Too risky, but he was certainly close enough to have seen Owen Henderson arriving. Once he was sure that Owen had entered the house, he made the 911 call, probably also knowing that Tucson PD’s response time would be under five minutes.’

  ‘Wait a second,’ Agent Fisher interrupted. ‘If the killer really waited for the reporter to enter Mr. Davis’s house before making the 911 call, then I think you might be wrong, Robert. You said that you think that the killer did all this because he wanted the press conference to happen, but I don’t think so. Let’s try to look at this logically. If the killer called 911 as soon as he saw the reporter entering the house, obviously it was because he wanted the reporter to be picked up by the police. If he wanted the reporter to be picked up by the police, it was because he wanted the reporter to talk to us. Clearly he knew that we would be interrogating anyone found at the crime scene. So, if he wanted the reporter to talk to us, it was because he wanted the reporter to try to get as much information out of us as he possibly could, which was exactly what happened.’

  ‘Yes and no,’ Hunter replied.

  Agent Fisher stared at Hunter blankly.

  ‘Yes,’ Hunter explained. ‘The killer wanted Owen Henderson to be picked up by the police and he wanted him to talk to us, but no, the intention wasn’t for him to get information out of us. The cold-reading idea came from Owen Henderson himself, not the killer. There’s no way the killer could’ve predicted how the interrogation would play out. Owen Henderson wanted to get information from us because he’s a reporter and that’s what they do. The killer’s intention was to make us aware that now an ambitious reporter knows about the murders.’

  ‘What that means,’ Garcia jumped in, ‘like I’ve mentioned before, is that now there’s no way we can keep this whole thing under wraps anymore – if we don’t say anything, Owen Henderson will. To put it simply, Agent Fisher, the killer has just forced us to call a press conference.’

  Agent Fisher considered everything for a long moment.

  ‘So you think that this killer is your typical, textbook, attention-seeking serial killer?’ she asked. ‘He did all this because he wants to be on the news?’

  ‘Nothing typical about him,’ Garcia countered. ‘But why not? From the level of emotional detachment this killer has shown toward other human beings, even animals, there’s no doubt that he is a high-grade psychopath and, as such, I’m sure he truly believes that he is indeed superior to everyone else around him . . . in every sense.’ Garcia paused, allowing his words to sink in for an instant. ‘People like fame, Agent Fisher. They like to be remembered. Revered if possible. It’s a fact. To some, it doesn’t even matter if that fame is good or bad. Fame and notoriety can both be very powerful motivators, especially for people who believe that they are much more than what they really are.’

  It was Garcia’s turn to hold Agent Fisher down with a serious stare.

  ‘You said so yourself, remember?’ he continued. ‘Certain killers want not only us, but the whole world to know how great they really are.’

  ‘He’s got a point, Erica,’ Agent Williams commented.

  ‘Is it really hard to believe that a killer who goes through all this trouble and preparation with every single one of his murders,’ Garcia added, ‘would want recognition for his work? Think about it – the professional removal of body parts, the Latin clues, the completely crazy way in which he drained one of his victims of all his blood, the canvas-like staging of the crime scenes, everything. He’s showing off. What good is creating works of art if no one is able to appreciate them? This guy wants to be recognized for his . . . “talent”.’

  While trying to organize their thoughts, all three FBI agents regarded the two detectives sitting opposite them.

  ‘All right, that’s a valid argument,’ Agent Fisher finally accepted. ‘But if this killer is after notoriety, why not go straight to the press with everything? We already agreed that he probably photographs his crime scenes for his own pleasure, for his “gallery of the dead” or whatever, so why not send a copy of everything to a newspaper or a TV station? That would guarantee him prime-time viewing, wouldn’t it? Why go through such an elaborate plan, sending a reporter to the crime scene so he could get arrested . . . so we could talk to him . . . and so on? Doesn’t all this sound too nuts to anyone?’

  ‘Once again,’ Hunter replied. ‘Credibility.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘If he contacts the press himself,’ Hunter explained, ‘his story would lack credibility – he could be just another psycho looking for attention. Whatever photos he sends in could’ve been created using image-editing software. But even if they want to believe his story, any newspaper or TV station would have to confirm it either with the FBI or local police departments before printing or broadcasting anything. The story could very easily be played down by law-enforcement agencies and instead of prime time he would get a bottom corner on the fifteenth page.’

  ‘But if the Federal Bureau of Investigation breaks the story in a national press conference,’ Garcia said, jumping into Hunter’s train of thought, ‘he gets the credibility, the prime time and the ego boost he’s after because this would be you, the FBI, admitting that you’re struggling with the case.’

  Garcia’s words seemed to enrage Agent Fisher.

  ‘Well,’ she countered, ‘the FBI certainly won’t be admitting struggling with anything. Not in this press conference. I will not inflate this freak’s ego in any way, shape or form. Actually, for this conference, we think that it would be best if the two of you stayed away from the cameras and let us do all the talking. After all,
this is primarily an FBI investigation.’

  Garcia fixed his ponytail while consulting Hunter with a simple look. Not that he needed to. Hunter hated being in front of cameras.

  ‘Sure,’ Hunter agreed. ‘That’s absolutely fine by us.’

  Sixty-Six

  After two more bathroom breaks and a total of almost seven hours behind the wheel, the man whom the FBI had initially called The Surgeon finally parked his car on his driveway. It had been a terribly long and awfully exhausting trip, but by all means worth every second, every drop of sweat, every bated breath. His latest piece of work had been exquisite. He wasn’t shy to admit it. If he could actually put a price on it, he would have to say that Timothy Davis had been his most valuable item yet – inspirational.

  The man couldn’t help wondering how astounded the police, the FBI, even the coroner would be once the true extent of his ingenuity and intelligence was revealed through the autopsy examination. A catheter threaded directly through the inferior vena cava? Simply magnificent. Truly the work of a superior mind. No doubt that now they would have to at least recognize his genius, even if they didn’t understand it.

  The man loved the little ‘wits’ game he’d been playing. He was proud of how perfectly puzzling, how deceiving, how ambiguous the clues he’d left at every scene were, and they had to be. In a case like this, he had no doubt that the FBI would’ve turned to their NCAVC’s Behavioral Analysis Unit – the topmost elite – the best of the best when it came to puzzle solving. But were they, really? Had they actually figured anything out yet? Would they ever understand the grandeur of his vision, or see the importance of his work?

  Despite how much the man enjoyed the game he’d created, he would be lying if he didn’t admit that he was somewhat disappointed with the ‘best of the best’. So far it had pretty much been a one-sided affair. By now, he had expected to see something on the news, or to hear something on the radio, or to at least read something in a newspaper or on the internet, but after over two months, he hadn’t read a word or heard a sound about his work anywhere. Even after Los Angeles.

  True, the man had never really cared much for cats. In his view they were animals without a purpose. All they ever did was eat and sleep. They were also disloyal, unashamedly befriending anyone who offered them food. But that wasn’t reason enough to kill them – the man acknowledged that. No, back in LA the man had placed the cat inside the freezer simply for the shock effect. He believed that that would have rubbed up the police and the FBI the wrong way. It was simply the logic of this crazy world – take the life of a human being and people might get angry – take the life of a domestic animal and people will get utterly outraged.

  But that wasn’t all. Also solely for the shock effect, the man had practically painted the walls, the furniture, the entire room in blood – and still, even after Los Angeles, not a word about his work anywhere. But things were about to change. The man had made sure of it. Bringing the freelance reporter into the action had been another simple but cunning idea.

  ‘There’s no more denying it now,’ he said out loud while staring into his own eyes in the rearview mirror.

  But his trip to Arizona had proven even more fruitful than he had expected, because by sheer luck, in a truck stop in the middle of shit-kickers-country USA, he had found her.

  Just a girl.

  Just a young girl.

  But perfect in every sense.

  From the moment he’d laid eyes on her photo, pinned to that dirty bulletin board inside that greasy diner, he knew his collection would be getting a new piece. Now that he was back home, all he had to do was research her, devise a brand-new plan and then set it in motion, and he just couldn’t wait to get started.

  Sixty-Seven

  Twenty-eight minutes. That had been how long it had taken Agent Brandon to drive from their hotel in downtown Tucson to Timothy Davis’s house in Catalina Foothills. By most standards the house was certainly impressive, but still modest when compared to the other four on East Miraval Place.

  Owen Henderson hadn’t lied. Timothy Davis’s property was surrounded by thick, overgrown vegetation. There was no way anyone could have seen into the house or grounds from a neighboring window, never mind witness someone breaking into the place.

  On the driveway, two white forensics vans were blocking a silver Buick Encore. Leaning against one of the vans, a forensics agent, dressed up in a blue Tyvek coverall, was just finishing a cigarette. Her charcoal hair was bunched up into a messy bun at the top of her head. She too looked like she’d been up for most of the night. As Agent Brandon parked the black SUV on the road outside, the forensics agent stubbed out her cigarette, cleared a couple of loose hair strands from her face and walked back into the house.

  Hunter, Garcia and all three FBI agents stepped out of the SUV, signed the crime-scene manifest and followed the footsteps of the forensics agent, rounding the driveway to the house’s front porch, but as they got to it, Hunter paused, turned around and regarded the area before him.

  ‘Something wrong?’ Agent Fisher asked, noticing the intrigued look on Hunter’s face.

  Hunter’s gaze moved left, in the direction they had come from. From where he was standing, he couldn’t see the road, the entrance to the driveway, or any of the vehicles parked on it.

  ‘Have forensics checked the live fence?’ he asked Agent Brandon, indicating the thick, desert-like shrubs that surrounded the house.

  ‘The fence?’ Agent Brandon asked in reply. ‘You mean like – in the bushes?’

  ‘Yes, in them.’

  ‘I know they’ve processed the outside of the house, including the driveway, but I don’t think they’ve gone as far as checking in the live fence. Why?’

  ‘I think it would be a good idea if they did,’ Hunter replied before explaining. ‘The killer placed the 911 call pretty much the second Owen Henderson entered this house.’ He pointed to the driveway. ‘The problem is, this front porch cannot be seen from the road, the driveway, or any of the neighboring houses.’ He turned to face the live fence. ‘But to make that “second-perfect” call, the killer would’ve needed eyes on this door.’ He shrugged. ‘Where would you have hidden?’

  ‘I’ll be damned,’ Agent Fisher said, her eyes, just like everyone else’s, slowly running the length of the live fence in front of them. The thick bushes would have provided anyone with a perfect hiding place, while allowing them a clear view of the house’s front door.

  ‘I’ll get them to start on it straight away,’ Agent Brandon said.

  Once they entered the house, they lost no time exploring any of the rooms, moving straight down into the basement and the crime scene. They’d been correct in the impression they’d had from the photographs Owen Henderson had taken – the entire space had indeed been transformed into a shrine to Timothy Davis’s late wife, Ronda. What no one could’ve guessed from the photos was that the nauseating smell of death that inevitably accompanied most crime scenes didn’t linger in that room. Instead, a light lavender scent graced the air, as if every object in that basement had been infused with Ronda Davis’s favorite perfume – a fact that somehow seemed to add an extra layer of sadness to an already heartbreaking scene.

  ‘I hate to admit it,’ Garcia said, coming up to Hunter, who had spent the last ten minutes studying the photograph-covered wall to the right of the entrance door. ‘But Agent Fisher was right. This room slowly swallows you into this choking combination of love and sadness, as if both feelings really did reside side by side on these walls. It elates you and rips you apart at the same time.’ Garcia looked around, as if he were searching for something. ‘It’s like some strange soul-draining quicksand. The longer you stay in here, the more divided you get.’

  ‘And do you think that was done on purpose?’ Hunter asked. ‘I mean, do you think that the killer knew about this room beforehand? This . . . love and sadness sanctuary?’

  Garcia pondered the thought for a minute. ‘If we’re correct about this whole “c
rime scene as a canvas” theory, if the meaning behind the killer’s Latin phrase used here – “beauty lives on the inside” – really refers to the beauty that lived inside Timothy Davis, maybe even inside this room, like Agent Fisher suggested, then he had to have known about it. No way this could’ve happened by chance, Robert.’

  ‘That’s the problem, Carlos,’ Hunter said, his eyes still on the photographs that hung from the wall. ‘How could he have known?’

  Sixty-Eight

  Agents Fisher and Williams had just joined Hunter and Garcia by the photograph-covered wall when Agent Brandon, who had stayed upstairs giving the forensics team a whole new set of instructions, walked into the room.

  ‘You were right,’ he said, his voice animated, his stare moving straight to Hunter. ‘It was worth checking with blood-donation centers around town. Timothy Davis did donate blood recently. In fact, he did it yesterday at a Red Cross blood bank in central Tucson at around eleven in the morning. After his donation, he was seen talking to a tall man in the snacks room at the blood center. The information we got is that they were seen leaving together, and that was the last time Mr. Davis was seen alive.’

  Agent Fisher first looked at Hunter as if asking, ‘When did you instruct anyone to check with blood-donation centers?’ before her gaze moved over to Agent Brandon with a new unspoken question: ‘And why wasn’t I informed about this before?’ But the agent managed to swallow her pride and the question she finally asked wasn’t a bickering one.

  ‘Please tell me that this blood bank downtown has a CCTV system in place?’

  ‘They do,’ Agent Brandon replied, but didn’t give anyone a chance to rejoice. ‘But unfortunately, it isn’t working.’

  ‘What? Are you joking?’ Agent Fisher looked like she was about to punch someone. ‘How convenient.’

  ‘No,’ Agent Brandon clarified. ‘The system hasn’t worked for months. It didn’t just all of a sudden stop working yesterday.’