by Chris Carter
‘Just a couple of times, Captain,’ Garcia jumped in. ‘Always at crime scenes, always with his nose mask on and the hood of his Tyvek pulled over his head.’
‘How come only a couple of times?’
‘He used to be a lab technician,’ Hunter explained. ‘And a very good one at that, apparently. He was also very clever, because he played his cards just right. He spent a year and seven months gathering information on his victims. During that time, he stayed as a lab technician. When he finally decided that he was ready to put his plan into action, he requested to be transferred to the crime-scene field team. That was five months ago.’
‘Convenient,’ the captain commented.
Hunter then explained that when he read the conclusion reached by the Collision Investigation Unit – that the accident that had claimed Holden’s entire family had been caused because the driver of the other vehicle was using her cellphone to take a selfie – something clicked inside Hunter’s brain and he remembered the driving selfies he had seen in Tanya Kaitlin and John Jenkinson’s social media pages. He remembered them because he had seen them that same day.
He showed Captain Blake both pictures.
‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ she said, things finally starting to connect for her.
‘That’s not all,’ Hunter said. ‘We got a third victim last night, remember?’ He loaded one last picture to his computer screen: another driving selfie – Erica Barnes and her sister, Dr. Gwen Barnes.
For a moment, Captain Blake was lost for words. Just like Hunter and Garcia, she didn’t subscribe to the ‘coincidence’ fan club.
‘So if you knew Nicholas Holden was your man,’ she said at last, ‘why didn’t you get a SWAT team to storm his place? Why didn’t you call Garcia? Why the hell did you go down there by yourself?’
Garcia looked at Hunter with the same crowd-silencing look from before. ‘Yes, why didn’t you call your partner?’
‘Because my whole theory was based on a memory, Captain. No matter how certain I believed I was, I had no real proof that Holden was the “video-call” killer. For that I needed confirmation that he really did have that same heart-shaped blood clot in his left eye, because that was the only real piece of evidence we had that could identify the killer.’
‘Ha,’ Garcia laughed. ‘Now tell her about your plan on how to get that confirmation.’
Captain Blake looked at Hunter questioningly.
‘I didn’t really have a plan,’ Hunter began. ‘I didn’t really know what to do, but I knew that I had come across all of this new mind-boggling information in the space of an hour. Information that had potentially given us the killer’s identity, and I didn’t want to sit on it until the morning to get confirmation.’
‘So he grabbed a fingerprint sheet from a case.’ Garcia took over. ‘Any case, it didn’t matter, and drove to Holden’s house.’
Captain Blake began to understand Garcia’s amusement. ‘Oh, please don’t tell me that your plan was to knock on his door with the excuse of asking him for his expert opinion on something . . . at around two in the morning.’
Garcia’s smile brightened. ‘Got it in one, Captain. That was his plan. Foolproof, don’t you think?’
The captain laughed.
‘OK, I agree, it was a crap plan,’ Hunter said. ‘But it somehow worked out in the end.’
He then told Captain Blake about everything that had happened from the time he got into Holden’s house, until the time he called it in.
‘Twelve people on the board?’ the captain asked, the amusement gone from her voice, her eyes full of shock.
‘The daunting thing is,’ Hunter said. ‘That was supposed to be just the beginning. He wasn’t going to stop after those twelve.’
Shock morphed into bewilderment. ‘What?’
‘Nicholas Holden’s mind is . . . broken,’ Hunter said. ‘The anger, the pain, the guilt, the never-ending heartache . . . it had all become way too much for him to take. It was destroying him from inside. The only way his mind could cope was by finding some sort of escape valve. A release from everything – the pain, the guilt, the anger. In his own words: something that could give his life a new purpose – a new meaning.’
‘So he decided to blame every driver in the world for his family’s death?’ Anger accented her words.
‘No, not every driver,’ Hunter said. ‘Only the ones on whom he could find evidence that they had taken a selfie while driving. In his mind, because ultimately that had been the action that had caused the demise of his entire family, they were all as guilty as the driver of that blue Ford Fusion.’
‘That’s just ridiculous.’ The captain shook her head.
‘It happens every day and all around the world, Captain,’ Hunter commented. ‘Racism, sexism, homophobia . . . it’s all stereotyping. That’s what Holden was doing – stereotyping down to a very personal level.’
Captain Blake hadn’t thought about it in that way. ‘Is he talking?’ she asked. ‘Have you interviewed him yet?’
‘We’ve tried,’ Garcia confirmed, ‘but he lawyered up from the get-go. He isn’t saying a word.’
‘I would expect nothing else,’ the captain said.
‘We just got back from Holden’s house about an hour ago,’ Garcia informed her. ‘Our team is still there, searching it for more evidence, but one thing that we already know for sure is that the twelve people on his “death board” were really just the beginning. The few he had found since he started trolling social-media sites, the ones he already had everything planned for, including which questions to ask. IT forensics have just started working on the two laptops we’ve found down in his basement, so God knows what else we might find, but on paper notes alone we’ve found evidence that he was already collecting data on at least five new people. Five new victims.’
‘Ten,’ Hunter corrected him.
‘What?’ Captain Blake seemed unsure.
‘Every one of Holden’s victims counts for two,’ Hunter clarified. ‘The person he kills and the person he psychologically destroys, remember? The one who he considers his real target. The one he calls.’
‘OK,’ Captain Blake said, shattering the silence that had ruled the room for almost half a minute. ‘I can just about understand how his sick mind managed to blame all these innocent people for his family’s death. I can just about understand the reason for the video-calls, the question game, the guilt, the helplessness, all of that, but why the notes? Why the stalker MO?’
Hunter called her attention to the picture board. ‘Have a look at our investigation, Captain. Where do you think we were going with it?’
The penny finally dropped for Captain Blake. ‘Down the wrong path.’
‘His mind may be broken, but he’s not stupid,’ Garcia commented. ‘He’s a forensic agent. He has internal and detailed knowledge of how we work. He understands investigative procedures better than any criminal out there. He gives us something as real as a physical note found inside the victims’ houses and he’s got us chasing ghosts for years.’
‘Maybe forever,’ Hunter said. ‘Without Erica Barnes’ screenshot, I’m not sure how long it would’ve taken us to get to him. If we ever did. Holden didn’t make a mistake, Captain. We just got lucky.’
‘The worst of it all is,’ Garcia said, ‘I’m sure that they’re going to use the “broken mind” defense when the time comes. They’re going to say that his pain, his heartache, all of it, warped his perception of the world and of everyone around him. That he was acting with diminished mental capacity. That he was – and here’s that word we all love so much – “insane”, and with all that, he’ll probably be sent to a psychiatric institution.’
Captain Blake made her way to the door. ‘That’s up to a judge and a jury, Carlos, you know that. It’s not our concern. Our job was to catch him and stop him from killing again and we did exactly that, so congratulations on a job well done.’ She paused as she pulled the door open. ‘Once all that paperwork is done I wan
t the both of you to take a break, do you understand? Take the next couple of days off. That’s an order. I see any of your faces in this building in the next two days and you’ll be issuing parking tickets in Compton.’
‘That’s an order that I won’t contest,’ Garcia said as the captain exited their office.
‘Neither will I,’ Hunter agreed.
‘Since we have a couple of days off, why don’t you come over for dinner tonight, Robert? Anna would love to see you.’ Garcia followed those words with a cheeky smile. ‘You can even bring your date, if you like.’
Hunter locked eyes with his partner.
‘You know, the one whose lipstick you were wearing last night.’
Hunter smiled back.
‘Who knows, maybe I will.’
Ninety-Three
One month later
A psychiatric facility in California
The corridor was long and wide, brightly lit by a single row of fluorescent lights that ran down the center of the ceiling. The scent that lingered in the air was . . . complicated. It started with a heavy antiseptic smell, as if the entire place had just been deep-cleaned by someone with a severe phobia of germs, but with every couple of steps, he would get hints of different odors – sometimes vomit, sometimes blood, sometimes something he just couldn’t identify. The smell seemed to emanate from the squeaky-clean floor and bounce against the insanely white walls before hitting his nose. Despite how repugnant it was, the smell didn’t really bother him.
He walked calmly, with neutral steps. He hadn’t been there long, but he already hated the place. The good news for him was – he would be leaving soon.
He turned the corner and pushed through a heavy set of double doors. There it was again, the smell of vomit, as if it’d been hiding behind the door, waiting for him to come through before slapping him in the face. He ignored it, turned another corner and finally stopped before a thick metal door with a small window at eye level. He didn’t look through the window. He didn’t need to. He simply unlocked the door and stepped inside.
Nicholas Holden, who was lying on his bed, flipping through a magazine, looked up.
The man placed the square box he had with him on the floor and the two of them regarded each other in silence for a moment.
‘Who the hell are you?’ Holden asked.
‘I’m the one you called,’ the man replied, closing the door behind him.
‘Wrong cell, buddy. I didn’t call anyone.’
From his pocket, Mr. J retrieved a picture of Cassandra and showed it to Holden.
‘Are you sure about that?’
Ninety-Four
The next day, 8:24 a.m.
The small, nondescript café was located in Chatsworth Street, sandwiched between an auto brokers and a Chinese restaurant. It wasn’t a large place, but the coffee was decent, the service was good and their blueberry pancakes were literally something to write home about. Mr. J had just finished the last of his three pancakes, which had been covered in maple syrup, when he sensed someone approaching from behind and pausing about two paces from his table. He twisted his neck and looked up to find Hunter standing there.
‘Detective?’ he said with a quizzical look.
‘Mr. Jenkinson,’ Hunter said in reply. ‘I’m sorry for interrupting your breakfast.’
‘Oh no, not at all. I’m all done here.’ Mr. J pushed his plate away from him. ‘Please have a seat.’ He indicated the empty chair across the table from him.
‘Thank you.’ Hunter accepted it, taking the seat.
They locked eyes for several silent seconds.
‘Could I get you a cup of coffee, Detective? The coffee here is excellent.’
‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’
Mr. J searched Hunter’s expression but the detective was giving nothing away.
‘Is something the matter?’ he asked.
Hunter paused before nodding. ‘I’m actually here on official business.’
‘OK.’ Once again, Mr. J’s acting was impeccable. The concern he inflected into his voice was perfectly balanced. ‘What . . . sort of official business?’
‘I’m here to inform you of a new development in your wife’s murder investigation.’
Mr. J frowned. ‘A new development? How so?’ His concern intensified.
‘As you know,’ Hunter began, ‘Nicholas Holden has been confined to a psychiatric hospital while awaiting trial.’
‘Yeah.’ Mr. J placed his elbows on the table and interlaced his fingers. ‘Please tell me you’re not here to say that that sack o’ shit has escaped.’
‘No, he hasn’t.’
Mr. J breathed out.
‘But he also won’t be facing trial anymore.’
‘What? What the fuck do you mean, Detective – he won’t be facing trial anymore?’ The anger, the voice intonation, the wide eyes, all of it was delivered flawlessly.
Hunter was still studying Mr. J’s face. ‘He won’t be facing trial anymore because he was murdered in his cell late last night.’
‘Murdered?’
‘That’s correct.’
Mr. J pretended to take a moment to think about it. ‘How can you be sure, Detective? How can you be sure that that scumbag didn’t take the easy way out himself? That fucking coward.’
‘It wasn’t suicide,’ Hunter assured him.
‘And how could you know that?’
‘Because the skin was ripped from his face and his heart was cut out from his chest and left on the floor,’ Hunter explained. ‘Rats were feasting on it when they found him in the early hours of this morning.’
‘Rats?’
Hunter nodded. ‘No one has any idea where they came from or how they got into his cell. The hospital never had a problem with rats. The speculation is that whoever killed him, brought them with him.’
‘Brought the rats with him?’
Hunter nodded.
Mr. J sat back on his chair with a shocked look on his face, his eyes wandering aimlessly.
Hunter regarded Mr. J for several long silent seconds before standing up. ‘I thought you’d like to know,’ he said. ‘I figured that it would be better if you heard it from me than if you found out through the papers or the morning news.’
Hunter turned to leave.
‘Detective,’ Mr. J called.
Hunter faced him again.
‘What’s going to happen now? Are you going to chase his killer?’
‘No.’ Hunter shook his head. ‘He was already a guest of an official institution of the California Penal System. The crime occurred inside their own estate facility. They have their own internal investigators for that sort of crime.’
‘One last thing before you go.’ Mr. J stopped Hunter again. ‘How did you find him in the first place? You never told me that. How did you figure out who the killer was?’
Hunter locked eyes with Mr. J for the last time. For several seconds, neither of them blinked.
‘His eyes,’ he finally replied. ‘There’s always something in a killer’s eyes that gives it away.’ Hunter gave Mr. J a subtle wink. ‘You take care . . . Mr. J.’ He turned and exited the café.
Acknowledgements
I am tremendously grateful to several people without whom this novel would’ve never been possible.
My agent, Darley Anderson, who’s not only the best agent an author could ever hope for, but also a true friend. Everyone at the Darley Anderson Literary Agency for their never-ending strive to promote my work anywhere and everywhere possible.
Jo Dickinson, my amazing editor at Simon & Schuster and my literary Guardian Angel, whose comments, suggestions, knowledge and friendship I could never do without.
Everyone at Simon & Schuster for their tremendous support and belief and for working their socks off on every aspect of the publishing process.
My incredible partner, Kara Louise – my rock and at the same time my cushion – who was always there for me, listening to so many of my terrible ideas, chapters, paragraph
s and tantrums. Thank you for putting up with me.
My most sincere thanks goes to all of my readers around the world for the most incredible support over so many years. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you all.
About the author
Born in Brazil of Italian origin, Chris Carter studied psychology and criminal behaviour at the University of Michigan. As a member of the Michigan State District Attorney’s Criminal Psychology team, he interviewed and studied many criminals, including serial and multiple homicide offenders with life-imprisonment convictions.
Having departed for Los Angeles in the early 1990s, Chris spent ten years as a guitarist for numerous rock bands before leaving the music business to write full-time. He now lives in London and is a Top Ten Sunday Times bestselling author.
Visit www.chriscarterbooks.com or find him on Facebook.
Also by Chris Carter
The Crucifix Killer
The Executioner
The Night Stalker
The Death Sculptor
One by One
An Evil Mind
I am Death
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2017
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © Chris Carter, 2017
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
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® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.
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Hardback ISBN: 978-1-4711-5630-4
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-4711-5631-1