by Chris Carter
Hunter said nothing. He simply watched the lampposts fly by as the SUV drove off.
Twelve
Special Agent Courtney Taylor knocked on Hunter’s dorm room door at exactly 10:00 a.m. She had managed five hours’ sleep, had showered, and was now wearing a businesslike but elegant black pinstripe suit. Her blonde hair had been pulled back into a very slick ponytail.
Hunter opened the door, checked his watch, and smiled.
‘Wow, I guess you timed your arrival to absolute perfection.’
Hunter’s hair was still wet from his shower. He was wearing black jeans, a dark blue T-shirt under his usual thin black leather jacket, and black boots.
Dozing on and off, he had only managed to sleep a total of two and a half hours.
‘Are you ready, Detective Hunter?’ Taylor asked.
‘Indeed,’ Hunter replied, closing the door behind him.
‘I trust that you got breakfast OK?’ she said, as they started walking down the corridor toward the staircase.
At precisely 9:00 a.m., an FBI cadet carrying a healthy breakfast tray of fruit, cereal, yogurt, scrambled eggs, coffee, milk and toast had knocked on Hunter’s door.
‘I did,’ Hunter said with a questioning smile. ‘But I didn’t know the FBI did room service.’
‘We don’t, this was a one-off. You can thank Director Kennedy for that.’
Hunter nodded once. ‘I’ll make sure I do.’
Downstairs, another black SUV was waiting to drive them across the compound to the other side. Hunter sat in silence in the back seat, while Taylor sat in front with the driver.
The FBI Academy was located on 547 acres of a Marine Corps base forty miles south of Washington, DC. Its nerve center was an interconnected conglomerate of buildings that looked a lot more like an overgrown corporation than a government training facility. Recruits in dark blue sweat suits, with the bureau’s insignia emblazoned on their chests and FBI in large golden letters across their backs, were just about everywhere. Marines with high-powered rifles stood at every intersection and at the entrance to every building. The sound of helicopter blades cutting the air seemed to be constant. There was no way of escaping the palpable sense of mission and secrecy that soaked the entire place.
After a drive that seemed to have lasted forever, the SUV finally reached the other side of the complex, and stopped at the heavily guarded gates of what could only be described as a compound within a compound, completely detached from the main network of buildings. After clearing security, the SUV moved inside and parked in front of a three-story brick building fronted by dark-tinted, bulletproof-glass windows.
Hunter and Taylor exited the car, and she escorted him past the armed Marines at the entrance and into the building. Inside they went through two sets of security doors, down a long hallway, through two more sets of security doors and into an elevator, which descended three floors down to the Behavioral Science Unit, or BSU. The elevator opened onto a long, shiny and well-lit hardwood corridor, with several portraits in gilded frames lining the walls.
A big man with a round face and a crooked nose stepped in front of the open elevator doors.
‘Detective Robert Hunter,’ he said in a harsh voice that came across as a little unfriendly. ‘I’m Agent Edwin Newman. Welcome to the FBI BSU.’
Hunter stepped out of the lift and shook Newman’s hand.
Newman was in his early fifties, with combed-back peppery hair and bright green eyes. He was wearing a black suit with a pristine white shirt and a silky red tie. He smiled, flashing gleaming white teeth.
‘I thought that we could have a quick chat in the conference room before we take you to see . . .’ Newman paused and looked at Taylor. ‘. . . your old friend, as I understand.’
Hunter simply nodded and followed Newman and Taylor to the opposite end of the hallway.
The conference room was large and air-conditioned to a very pleasant temperature. The center of the room was taken by a long, polished mahogany table. A very large monitor showing a detailed map of the United States glowed at the far wall.
Newman took a seat at the head of the table and nodded for Hunter to take the seat next to him.
‘I know you’ve been made completely aware of the delicate situation we have here,’ Newman began, once Hunter took his seat.
Hunter agreed with a head gesture.
Newman flipped open the folder on the table in front of him. ‘According to what you told Director Kennedy and Agent Taylor, the real name of the man we have in our custody is Lucien Folter, and not Liam Shaw, as it was stated in his driver’s license.’
‘That’s the name I knew him by,’ Hunter confirmed.
Newman nodded his understanding. ‘So you think that Lucien Folter could also be a made-up name?’
‘That’s not what I said,’ Hunter replied calmly.
Newman waited.
‘I see no reason why he would use a false name back in college,’ Hunter said, trying to clear things up. ‘You also have to remember that we’re talking about Stanford University here, and someone who was just nineteen at the time.’
Newman gave Hunter a very subtle frown, not quite following the detective’s line of thought.
Hunter read it and explained. ‘That means that this nineteen-year-old kid would’ve had to have expertly falsified several records to be accepted into a very prestigious university, in an era when personal computers did not exist.’ He shook his head. ‘Not an easy task.’
‘Not easy,’ Newman agreed. ‘But it was doable.’
Hunter said nothing.
‘The only reason I ask is because of the hidden meaning in his name,’ Newman said.
‘Hidden meaning?’ Hunter looked at the agent curiously.
Newman nodded. ‘Did you know that the word Folter means torture in German?’
Hunter agreed with a head gesture. ‘Yes, Lucien told me.’
Newman carried on staring at him.
Hunter didn’t look too impressed. ‘Is that what you mean by hidden meaning?’ He glanced at Taylor, then back at Newman. ‘Did you also know that the name Lucien comes from the French language and it means “light, illumination”? It’s also a village in Poland, and the name of a Christian saint. Most names have a history behind them, Special Agent Newman. My family name means “he who hunts”; nevertheless, my father was never a hunter in any shape or form. A great number of American family names will, by coincidence, mean something in a different language. That doesn’t actually constitute a hidden meaning.’
Newman said nothing back.
Hunter took a moment, and then allowed his gaze to move to the folder on the table.
Newman got the hint and began reading. ‘OK. Lucien Folter, born October 25, 1966, in Monte Vista, Colorado. His parents – Charles Folter and Mary-Ann Folter, are both deceased. He graduated from Monte Vista High School in 1985, with very good grades. No youth record whatsoever. Never got into any trouble with the police. After graduating from high school, he was quickly accepted into Stanford University.’ Newman paused and looked up at Hunter. ‘I guess you know everything that happened during the next few years.’
Hunter remained silent.
‘After obtaining his psychology degree from Stanford,’ Newman continued, ‘Lucien Folter applied to Yale University in Connecticut for a PhD in Criminal Psychology. He was accepted, did three years of his degree, and then simply disappeared. He never completed his PhD.’
Hunter kept his eyes on Newman. He didn’t know that his old friend hadn’t completed his doctorate.
‘And when I say disappeared,’ Newman said. ‘I mean disappeared. There’s nothing else out there on a Lucien Folter after his third year at Yale. No job records, no passport, no credit cards, no listed address, no bills . . . no anything. It’s like Lucien Folter ceased to exist.’ Newman closed the folder. ‘That’s all we have on him.’
‘Maybe that was when he decided to take up a new identity,’ Taylor offered. She was sitting across th
e table from Hunter. ‘Maybe that was when he got tired of being Lucien Folter and became someone else. Maybe Liam Shaw, or maybe even someone completely different that we don’t know about.’
Silence took over the room for the next few seconds, before Newman broke it again.
‘The truth is that whoever this guy really is, he’s a living, breathing, walking mystery. Somebody who might’ve lied to everyone throughout his whole life.’
Hunter chewed on that thought for a moment.
‘I wanted you to understand this before you go talk to him,’ Newman added, ‘because I know that things can get a little emotional when we’re dealing with people from our past. I’m not trying to tell you what to do. I’ve read your file, and I’ve read your thesis on “An Advanced Psychological Study in Criminal Conduct”. Everybody in BSU has, it’s mandatory reading, and so I know that you know what you’re doing better than most. But you’re still human, and as such you have emotions. No matter how clued-up a person is, emotions can and will cloud best judgments and opinions. Keep that in mind when you walk in there.’
Hunter stayed quiet.
Newman then proceeded to explain to Hunter how unconventional and mysterious Lucien Folter had appeared to be since he had arrived in Quantico – the extreme silence, the up-to-the-second biological internal timekeeping, the long exercise sessions, the wall staring, the extraordinary mental strength, everything.
From what he knew of his old friend, Hunter wasn’t too surprised Lucien could be that mentally focused.
‘He’s waiting,’ Newman said at last. ‘I guess we better get going.’
Thirteen
Newman and Taylor guided Hunter out of the conference room, back down the hallway, and into the elevator, which descended another two floors to sublevel five. This level was nothing like the Behavioral Science Unit’s floor. There was no shiny hallway, no fancy fixtures on the walls, no pleasant feel to the place whatsoever.
The elevator opened onto a small concrete-floored anteroom. On the right, behind a large safety-glass window, Hunter could see what had to be a control room, with wall-mounted monitors and a guard sitting at a large console desk.
‘Welcome to the BSU holding cells floor,’ Taylor said.
‘Why is he being held here?’ Hunter asked.
‘A couple of reasons, really,’ Taylor replied. ‘First, as was mentioned before, the sheriff’s department in Wheatland had no idea how to deal with a case of this magnitude, and second, because everything indicates that this is probably a cross-state double-homicide case. So until we’re able to establish where your old friend should be rightly held, we’ll keep him here.’
‘Also because your friend’s potential psychopathy has triggered several bells within the behavioral unit,’ Newman added. ‘Especially his incredible mental strength, and the way he’s able to hold firm under pressure. No one in the unit has ever come across anyone quite like him. If he really is a killer, judging by the level of brutality that was used on the two victims’ heads found, then we might have stumbled upon a Pandora’s box.’
Taylor signaled the guard inside the control room and he buzzed open the door directly across the room from them. The US Marine standing by the door took a step to the side to allow them through.
The door led them into a long corridor where the walls were made of cinder block. There was a distinct sanitized smell in the air, something that tickled the inside of the nose, similar to what one would find in a hospital, but not as strong. The corridor led them to a second heavy metal door – breach and assault proof. As they got to it, Taylor and Newman looked up at the security camera high on the ceiling above the door. A second later, the door buzzed open. They zigzagged through another two smaller hallways and two more breach/assault proof doors, before arriving at the interrogation room, halfway down another nondescript hallway.
This new room was nothing more than a square box, 16 feet by 16 feet, light gray cinder-block walls, and white linoleum floor. The center of the room was taken by a square metal table with two metal chairs at opposite ends. The table was securely bolted to the floor. Also bolted to the floor, just by where the chairs were, were two sets of very thick metal loops. On the ceiling, directly above the table, two fluorescent tube lights encased in metal cages bathed the room in crisp brightness. Hunter also noticed the four CCTV cameras, one at each corner of the ceiling. A water cooler was pushed up against one of the walls, and the north wall was taken by a very large two-way mirror.
‘Have a seat,’ Taylor said to Hunter. ‘Get comfortable. Your friend is being brought here.’ She gestured with her head. ‘We’ll be next door, but we’ll have eyes and ears in this room.’
Without saying anything else, Taylor and Newman exited the interrogation room, allowing the heavy metal door to shut behind them, and leaving Hunter alone inside the claustrophobic square box. There was no handle on the inside of the door.
Hunter took a deep breath and leaned against the metal table, facing the wall. He’d been inside interrogation rooms countless times. Many of them face to face with people who turned out to be very violent, brutal and sadistic killers. Some of them serial. But not since his first few interrogations had he felt the choking tingle of anticipation that was now starting to strangle at his throat. And he didn’t like that feeling. Not even a little bit.
Then the door buzzed open again.
Fourteen
To Hunter’s own surprise, he found himself holding his breath while the door was being dragged open.
The first person to step through it was a tall and well-built US Marine, carrying a close-quarters combat shotgun. He took two steps into the room, paused, and then took one step to his left, clearing a pathway from the door into the room.
Hunter tensed and stood up straight.
The second person to step into the room was about one inch taller than Hunter. His hair was brown and cropped short. His beard was just starting to become bushy. He was wearing a standard, orange prisoner jumpsuit. His hands were cuffed and linked together by a metal bar that was no longer than a foot. The chain that was attached to that metal bar looped around his waist and then moved down to his feet, hooking on to thick and heavy ankle cuffs, restricting his movements, and forcing him to shuffle his way along as he walked – like a Japanese Geisha girl.
His head was low, with his chin almost touching his chest. His eyes were focused on the floor. Hunter couldn’t clearly see his face, but he could still recognize his old friend.
Directly behind the prisoner followed a second Marine, armed identically to the first.
Hunter took a step to his right, but remained silent.
Both guards guided the prisoner to the metal table and to one of the chairs. As they sat him down, the second Marine quickly shackled the prisoner’s ankle chain to the metal loop on the floor. The prisoner never lifted his head up, keeping his eyes low throughout the entire procedure. Once all was done, both guards exited the room without uttering a word, or even looking at Hunter. The door closed behind them with a heavy clang.
The tense silent seconds that followed seemed to stretch for an eternity, until the prisoner finally lifted his head up.
Hunter was standing across the metal table from him, immobile . . . transfixed. Their eyes met, and for a moment they both simply stared at each other. Then, the prisoner’s lips stretched into a thin, nervous smile.
‘Hello, Robert,’ he finally said, in a voice that sounded full of emotion.
Lucien had gained a little more weight since Hunter had last seen him, but it looked to be all muscle. His face looked older, but leaner. He still had the same unmistakably healthy hue to his skin as he had all those years ago, but the look in his dark brown eyes had changed. They now seemed to possess a penetrating quality often associated with greatness, looking at everything with tremendous focus and purpose. With his high cheekbones, full, strong lips and a squared jaw, Hunter had no doubt that women would still refer to him as handsome. The one-inch-long diagonal scar
on his left cheek, just under his eye, gave him a rough, ‘bad boy’ look that Hunter was sure would come across as charming to many people.
‘Lucien,’ Hunter said, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.
The staring continued for several seconds.
‘It’s been a very long time,’ Lucien said, looking down at his shackled hands. ‘If I could, I’d hug you. I’ve missed you, Robert.’
Hunter stayed quiet simply because he didn’t really know what to say. He’d always hoped that one day he would see his old college friend again, but he’d never imagined that it would be in the situation they found themselves in at that moment.
‘You look well, my friend,’ Lucien said with a renewed smile, his eyes analyzing Hunter. ‘I can tell you’ve never stopped working out. You look like . . .’ He paused, searching for the right words. ‘. . . a lean boxer ready for his championship fight, and you barely look like you’ve aged. Looks like life has been good to you.’
Hunter finally shook his head, just a subtle movement, as if awaking from a trance.
‘Lucien, what the hell is going on?’ His voice was calm and composed, but his eyes were still showing surprise.
Lucien took a deep breath and Hunter saw his body tense uncomfortably.
‘I’m not sure, Robert,’ he said. His voice was a little weaker.
‘You’re not sure?’
Lucien’s eyes returned to his cuffed hands and he shuffled himself on his seat, looking for a more comfortable position, a clear sign that he was struggling with his own thoughts.
‘Tell me,’ he said, avoiding eye contact. ‘Have you ever heard from Susan?’ For an instant he seemed surprised by his own question.
Hunter frowned. ‘What?’
‘Susan. You remember her, don’t you? Susan Richards?’
Flashes of memory exploded inside Hunter’s head. He remembered Susan very well. How could he not? The three of them were almost inseparable during their years at university. Susan was also a psychology major, and a very bright student. She had moved from Nevada to California after being accepted into Stanford. Susan Richards was one of those happy-go-lucky kind of girls, always smiling, always positive about everything, and very little ever fazed her. She was also very attractive – tall and slim, with chestnut hair, beautiful almond-shaped hazel eyes, a petite nose, and plump lips. Susan had inherited most of her Native American mother’s delicate features. Everyone used to say that she looked more like a Hollywood star than a psychology student.
