The Caller

by Chris Carter

  ‘Let me get you another chair,’ Mr. J said as they entered the room.

  ‘That’s not really necessary, Mr. Jenkinson,’ Hunter replied. ‘I can stand, it’s not a problem.’

  ‘Please, I insist. It will take me two seconds.’

  Once Mr. J left the room, Hunter pulled down the hood of his forensic coverall, walked over to the bookcase and browsed some of the volumes. The majority of them were business and finance books, with a few scattered ones on law, accounting and architecture.

  Garcia checked the opposite wall, which was adorned by framed photographs and achievement awards.

  ‘Here we go.’ Mr. J re-entered the room, carrying a high-back chair, which he placed by the Chesterfield, before finally taking a seat behind his desk.

  ‘Thank you,’ Hunter said, taking the chair. Garcia took the Chesterfield.

  ‘We’ll try to take as little of your time as possible, Mr. Jenkinson,’ Garcia said, reaching for his smartphone. ‘Do you mind if we record this interview?’

  Mr. J shook his head. It was time to put his A-game forward.

  Once Garcia hit ‘record’, Hunter began.

  ‘Mr. Jenkinson, I know that what you’ve been put through will be hard to revisit, and I apologize for having to ask you to do so, but could you tell us as much as you can remember about the video-call you received. The more detailed you can be, the more it will help us.’

  Mr. J looked down at his sun-beaten and wrinkled hands, which were tightly clasped and resting on the desk in front of him. After several silent seconds, he finally lifted his eyes to meet Hunter and Garcia’s gaze. For the next twenty minutes, he recounted only what he wanted to recount of the video-call, but he did it all in tremendous detail. Hunter and Garcia interrupted him sporadically to clarify certain points, but for most of it they simply allowed him to tell his story in his own time. As Mr. J reached the part where the killer asked him for his wedding date, he paused and looked down at his hands again. They were shaking. Embarrassed, he moved them to his lap and went completely quiet.

  Hunter and Garcia waited.

  In a faltering voice, Mr. J told them that he tried, but he couldn’t remember. He just couldn’t remember. Then, without realizing it, he whispered the words, ‘I’m so sorry’.

  Neither Hunter nor Garcia said anything. They both knew that those words weren’t meant for them. They were meant for Cassandra. Guilt had already settled in and spread itself on to every corner of Mr. J’s body. Whatever psychological damage that video-call would cause him, the guilt that came from not knowing the answer to that damn question would make it a lot worse.

  And that was when Mr. J finally realized what he had done – seventh of March was his son’s birthday. That was why the date kept on flashing so intensely inside his head when he was asked for his wedding date.

  PING.

  And just like that, as if a dark veil had suddenly been lifted from his memory, his wedding date appeared before his eyes, clear as daylight.

  April tenth. He and Cassandra had gotten married on April tenth.

  Mr. J’s eyes closed and he threw his head back as if he’d been stabbed in the stomach by a fire dagger.

  Why? He silently cursed himself, his memory, his brain, his whole existence. Why couldn’t I remember that earlier?

  He finished his account without ever meeting the detectives’ gaze again. He never told them about the demon’s hysterical laugh.

  ‘Could I ask you how long you were in in Fresno for?’ Hunter began once Mr. J was done.

  ‘I left here on Thursday morning.’

  ‘And before that, when was the last time you were away?’

  Mr. J paused before deliberately but very delicately allowing his eyes to move up and to the right. He knew that both detectives would be monitoring everything about him, especially his facial expressions and eye movements. Textbook behavior psychology preached that if the eyes went up and to the left, the subject was trying to access his/her visual constructive cortex. In other words, trying to create a mental image that wasn’t there to start with. If the eyes moved up and to the right, the subject was searching his/her memory for visually remembered images – memories that did exist.

  ‘About three and a half weeks ago,’ he replied truthfully, his voice tired and defeated. ‘I had to fly to Chicago for a couple of days.’

  ‘Business again?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Hunter wrote the information down in his notebook. ‘Does anyone else, other than you and your wife, have a key to this house?’

  Mr. J’s reply came with a very slight lift of the shoulders. ‘My son.’

  ‘No one else? A cleaner perhaps?’

  ‘No. Cassandra did all the cleaning herself, once a week,’ Mr. J explained. ‘She said it relaxed her. We use a pool cleaning company for the pool in the backyard, but they don’t have a copy of the key.’

  ‘Have you, your wife, or your son lost those keys recently?’ Hunter insisted. ‘Do you know?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of. I’ve never lost my keys. I don’t think Cassandra ever did either. As for Patrick, if he has, he’s never told me about it, but I can ask him when I talk to him.’

  Hunter nodded. ‘We’d appreciate it if you did.’

  Mr. J didn’t say anything because he didn’t want the detectives in his office to become suspicious of how much he knew about police interrogations and interviews, but the line of questioning they were pursuing could mean only one thing – no signs of forced entry had been found all throughout the house. They had no idea of how his wife’s killer had got in.

  ‘You said that a hammer and chisel were used,’ Hunter asked, finally moving the subject along. ‘Are you sure it was a chisel, not a nail?’

  ‘It was a masonry chisel with a pointy end,’ Mr. J replied confidently. ‘Not a nail. I’m sure of that. But the hammer was a regular claw hammer.’

  ‘Did it belong to this house?’ Hunter asked. ‘Is that something he would’ve found inside a drawer, maybe?’

  Once again, Mr. J shook his head. ‘No, neither the hammer nor the chisel belong to this house. He must’ve brought them with him.’ He regarded both detectives intensively. ‘From your line of questioning, I take it that none have been found.’

  ‘No,’ Hunter admitted. ‘The house and its grounds have been searched, but we’ve found nothing. In the morning we’re widening the search to include neighboring streets.’

  The look Mr. J gave Hunter and Garcia was totally lacking in confidence.

  ‘How about Cassandra’s phone?’ he asked. ‘This psycho used her phone to call me. Have you found it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Garcia this time. ‘We found it inside the microwave in the kitchen.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s worthless. Even Forensics won’t be able to get anything out of it.’

  Mr. J played dumb for a moment. ‘Can’t you contact her cellphone company? Ask them for a digital copy of the call?’

  ‘They won’t have any,’ Hunter replied.

  ‘How come?’

  Hunter gave Mr. J the explanation he already knew.

  ‘We did find a black Asus laptop on the kitchen counter,’ Garcia said. ‘Did that belonged to your wife?’

  Mr. J nodded. ‘It was Cassandra’s, yes.’

  ‘You said that the perpetrator was wearing a mask?’ Garcia asked, taking the subject back to the killer’s video call.

  Mr. J nodded. ‘The fucking coward. Man enough to break into my house and murder a defenseless woman. Man enough to place a goddamn video-call to me just so he could play God. But not man enough to show his face.’

  A vein on Mr. J’s forehead threatened to explode.

  ‘Could you describe this mask for us?’

  Mr. J’s description of the killer’s mask was identical to the one Tanya Kaitlin had given them two days ago.

  Garcia looked at his partner but said nothing. ‘And you also mentioned that the caller told you that calling the police would be a waste of time, is
that right?’

  ‘Yes. He said that the police would never make it in time.’

  Another quick look exchange. They would have to check the nine-one-one records for bogus calls once again, but Hunter and Garcia were both sure that the killer had used the same tactics as before.

  Hunter decided to bring the questioning a little closer to their first victim.

  ‘Do you know if your wife knew someone by the name of Karen Ward?’ he asked.

  Mr. J’s eyes narrowed for a beat, while he repeated the name to himself a couple of times.

  Hunter observed him attentively.

  ‘The name doesn’t really ring any bells,’ he replied. ‘But Cassandra knew a lot of people who I never met. People from her gym. People from the charity shops she volunteered at. People from the support groups she attended. Her circle of friends was much bigger than mine.’ He fixed Hunter down with a new serious stare. ‘Why? Who is she?’

  ‘We don’t know yet,’ Hunter lied. ‘Her name was on a card we found outside on the street.’

  ‘Outside on the street like what?’ Mr. J asked, buying it. ‘On my front yard? On the street in front of the house? Where?’

  Hunter had to think fast. ‘That’s the reason I asked. It was found on the street a little further up the road. It’s probably nothing, but we’ll check with every house on the street anyway.’

  Mr. J wasn’t able to tell if that was a lie or not, but he immediately committed the name to memory. He would have to ask Brian Caldron to check on who she was.

  Hunter quickly moved the subject away from Karen Ward. ‘You mentioned your wife and support groups?’

  ‘Cassandra lost her mother to an undiagnosed heart condition several years ago,’ Mr. J explained. ‘Support groups helped her a lot during that time, but she’s the kind of person who likes helping others too.’ He paused, realizing his mistake. His pain was almost palpable. ‘Was the kind of person who liked helping others,’ he corrected himself. ‘So every now and again she would attend support-group sessions for people who had lost loved ones to illnesses. Try to help them in some way. That’s the kind of person she was.’

  ‘Do you have any other details on these support groups?’ Hunter asked. ‘Names? Locations where they met? Anything?’

  ‘No. Not really. But I can call a few of her friends and try to find out.’

  ‘That would be very much appreciated,’ Hunter said, though he would get a team on to it straight away as well.

  ‘Did your wife used any type of social media network sites?’ Garcia asked.

  ‘Doesn’t everyone nowadays?’

  ‘Yes, that’s very true,’ Garcia accepted it. ‘Did she ever mention anything to you about anyone trolling her, or sending her inappropriate messages, or anything?’

  Mr. J brought a hand to his face and used his thumb and index finger to rub his exhausted eyes.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Never. But she mainly used it just to keep in touch with some old friends from Santa Ana. Nothing like what most kids do nowadays, like my son, spending most of his time online.’

  ‘How about you, Mr. Jenkinson,’ Garcia asked. ‘Do you have a social media page?’

  ‘I do, yes. My company also has a business page.’

  Hunter knew that his next question would sound a little strange. ‘The question about your wedding date, Mr. Jenkinson . . .’

  Mr. J locked eyes with Hunter and in them Hunter saw devastating pain.

  ‘Can you remember if you’ve been asked that same question recently, maybe in the past year? Maybe while out with friends, at a dinner party, by anyone you have worked with, while having a few drinks at a bar . . . anywhere?’

  Mr. J did find the detective’s question somewhat strange.

  ‘No, I don’t recall ever being asked anything about my wedding date in . . .’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t even know how long.’

  ‘Do you remember who it was? The person who asked you about it?’

  Mr. J’s look became distant for a moment, before switching to sadness. ‘Cassandra. That’s how she used to remind me of it because I used to forget it every year. She’d wait until late at night, just before we went to bed, and then she’d say something subtle like, “What’s the date today, do you know?” And that was when I knew that I had screwed up big time and it was way too late to dig up an excuse. It didn’t use to be like that, you know?’ he said, as if he saw the need to defend himself before both detectives. The look in his eyes became even sadder, yearning for a time long gone. ‘I used to remember it every year, buy her gifts, flowers, take her to dinner . . . I don’t really know what happened. I don’t really know how or why I let all that go, but even she gave up on reminding me a few years back. I guess she thought that there was no point in doing it anymore.’

  Hunter remained silent, waiting for Mr. J to push the memory all the way to the back of his mind.

  ‘Can you think of anyone who for whatever reason would want to harm your wife?’ he asked at last.

  Mr. J sat back in his chair and rested his elbows on the chair’s arms. His stare moved to the picture frame on his desk.

  ‘Cassandra was the most gentle of souls,’ he replied, his voice almost strangled by the knot in his throat. ‘And I’m not just saying that because she was my wife. Ask anyone who knew her. She was a caring and loving person. Polite to everyone. Humble. Understanding. Generous. Helpful. I don’t think that she has ever upset anyone in her life.’

  ‘Can you think of anyone who could possibly want to harm your wife to . . . maybe get back at you?’

  Mr. J’s acting was flawless, adding a perfect layer of shock to his words and expressions.

  ‘Get back at me? For what? I’m a simple business consultant, Detective? I have no debts. I don’t gamble. I have no grudges against anyone, and as far as I’m aware of, no one has any grudges against me. We were a simple family, living a simple life.’

  ‘So you’ve never received any sort of threats of any nature?’ Hunter asked.

  ‘Threats?’ Another award-winning surprised facial expression.

  ‘Yes. Either via emails, phone calls, text messages, letters, whatever.’

  ‘No. Never.’

  ‘How about your wife? Did she ever mention anything about being threatened? Anything about . . . letters or phone calls she’d received? Did she ever mention anything about a possible stalker?’

  Once again, Hunter’s question did truly surprise Mr. J, and this time there was no faking of his reaction.

  ‘A stalker?’ His mouth remained half open, while his eyes jumped from one detective to the other.

  ‘Did she ever tell you about any letters she’d received from someone who could possibly be pestering her?’

  ‘Letters from a stalker? No. Never. What are you talking about, Detective?’

  Hunter looked at Garcia, who quietly stood up and made his way towards the door.

  Mr. J’s sincerely confused gaze followed his every step until he exited the room, before shooting back to Hunter.

  ‘OK, what is going on, Detective?’

  ‘Are you sure you can’t recall your wife mentioning anything about being harassed by someone?’ Hunter insisted. ‘About receiving any sort of strange notes?’

  ‘Harassed? Strange notes? No. Never.’ Mr. J was adamant. ‘I have no idea of what you’re talking about, Detective.’

  ‘Do you think she would’ve?’

  ‘Would’ve what?’

  ‘Mentioned it to you.’

  Back came the head-creasing lift of the eyebrows. ‘That she thought that someone was stalking her? That she had received some sort of threatening note, or message, or whatever?’

  ‘Yes. Do you think that she would’ve mentioned it to you?’

  ‘Yes, she would definitely have mentioned it to me,’ Mr. J replied with the utmost confidence. ‘Why wouldn’t she?’

  At that exact moment, Garcia re-entered the room.

  Fifty-Four

  Still with a sinc
erely puzzled look on his face, Mr. J turned to look at Garcia, who had just re-entered the room. The first thing that he noticed was that the detective was carrying a medium-sized, see-through plastic evidence bag in his right hand.

  ‘Your wife’s handbag was found in your living room, Mr. Jenkinson, just by the sofa,’ Hunter explained. ‘Inside it, we found this note.’

  Garcia placed the evidence bag on Mr. J’s desk.

  His confusion lasted an extra couple of seconds before he managed to snap out of it and drag his attention to the note.

  Have you ever felt like you’re being watched, Cassandra?

  Mr. J blinked a couple of times, as if his eyes were having trouble focusing. Then he read the note again. And again. And again.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he finally said, his tone almost robotic.

  ‘There was also an envelope with her name across the front of it,’ Garcia added. ‘No address. No stamp. Which means that it was hand-delivered. Slid under the door, placed in the mailbox outside, left on her car, maybe at the place where she works . . . What we do know is that this note wasn’t posted to her.’

  ‘Was the name on the envelope a cut-out as well?’ Mr. J asked.

  ‘Letter by letter,’ Garcia confirmed.

  ‘She never mentioned this note to you?’ Hunter this time.

  Mr. J looked at him with a mixture of frustration and embarrassment. Just seconds ago, he had told Hunter with unflinching conviction that his wife would’ve certainly shared something like this with him.

  ‘No,’ he finally replied. His eyes, now heavy with anger, returned to the note. ‘Maybe she got this while I was away,’ he suggested. ‘This morning, yesterday morning or the day before.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Garcia accepted it. ‘But wouldn’t she have called you?’

  For an instant it looked like Mr. J hadn’t heard the question.

  ‘Mr. Jenkinson?’

  ‘No, she wouldn’t,’ he replied thoughtfully. ‘That was just the way Cassandra was. My business trips are usually very rushed, so when I’m away, she’d only call me if she considered whatever it is that she needs to talk to me about to be something very important.’