Robert Hunter 06 - An Evil Mind

by Chris Carter

  Lucien breathed out.

  ‘By the look on your face, Robert, I’m sure you’ve recognized the tattoo on one of the frames on my wall.’

  Hunter realized now that that had been the real reason why Lucien had mentioned Susan and her tattoo earlier. Not because he was trying to steer the conversation away from a fragile topic until his nerves settled, but because he wanted to make absolutely sure Hunter would remember it before sending him to the house.

  Hunter wasn’t exactly sure of what to say, so he remained silent.

  ‘That piece is by far my favorite,’ Lucien continued. ‘Do you know why, Robert?’

  No reply from Hunter.

  Lucien gave him a pleased smile, as if the memories filled his heart with joy.

  ‘Susan was my first.’

  ‘You sick sonofabitch,’ Taylor said again, stepping forward as if she was about to launch onto Lucien, but sense seemed to take over right at the last second and she paused by the metal table.

  Lucien’s icy gaze slowly moved to her. ‘Please stop repeating yourself, Agent Taylor. You’ve already called me a sick sonofabitch.’ His voice was flat. No emotion. No warmth.

  ‘Maybe I am one, but swearing doesn’t really suit you.’ He ran his tongue over his lips to wet them. ‘Name-calling is for the weak. For people who lack the intellect to argue intelligently. Do you think you lack the intellect, Agent Taylor? Because if you do, you have no business being an FBI agent.’

  Taylor took a deep breath to steady herself. Though her eyes still burned with anger, she knew Lucien was just trying to push her.

  ‘I understand that right now you’re still a little in shock from your discovery back in the house,’ Lucien continued, ‘so your emotions are running a little high.’ He shrugged, unconcerned. ‘Understandable. But I bet that little outburst of yours isn’t really what’s expected from a senior FBI agent, is it? I bet it surprised even you, because I bet you promised yourself that you wouldn’t lose it. You promised yourself that you would remain calm and professional, didn’t you, Agent Taylor?’ Lucien gave her no time to reply. ‘But being able to control one’s emotions is a very tricky thing. Even with the best of intentions, your emotions can still easily boil up inside you. It takes a lot of training to be able to properly control them.’ Another shrug. ‘But I’m sure you’ll get there someday.’

  Taylor strained to hold her tongue. It was obvious to her that Lucien was counting on another emotional reaction, but she didn’t comply.

  ‘How many were there, Lucien?’ Hunter asked in a steady voice, finally breaking his silence. ‘You said Susan was your first. How many victims were there?’

  Lucien sat back and smiled a smile that looked rehearsed.

  ‘That’s a very good question, Robert.’ He looked deep in thought for a long instant. ‘I’m not really sure. I lost count after a while.’

  Taylor felt her skin starting to goose-bump again.

  ‘But I have it all written down,’ Lucien said, as he began nodding. ‘Yes. There really is a diary, Robert. Actually, there is more than one, where I documented everything – places I’ve been, people I’ve taken, methods I’ve used . . .’

  ‘And where are they?’ Taylor asked.

  Lucien chuckled and moved his hands, making the chain rattle against the metal table. ‘Patience, Agent Taylor, patience. Haven’t you ever heard the saying: “Good things will come to those who wait”?’

  Though Lucien’s words were intended for Taylor, all of his attention was on Hunter.

  ‘I know that right now you have a thousand questions tumbling over each other inside that brain of yours, Robert. I know that all you want is to understand the why’s and how’s . . . and obviously, since you’re a cop, to identify all the victims.’ Lucien rotated his neck from side to side, as if trying to release some tension. ‘That could take a while. But believe me, Robert, I really do want you to understand the why’s and how’s. That’s the real reason why I called you here.’

  Lucien looked past Hunter at the two-way mirror behind him. He wasn’t speaking to Hunter or Taylor anymore. He knew that after what they had uncovered in North Carolina, a more senior FBI figure would be on the other side of that glass. Someone with the authority to call all the shots.

  ‘I know that you also want to know the why’s and how’s,’ he said in a chilling tone, staring at his own reflection. ‘After all, this is the famous FBI Behavioral Science Unit. You live to study the minds of people like me. And believe me, you have never encountered anyone quite like me.’

  Lucien could practically feel the tension growing behind the glass.

  ‘More than that,’ he continued. ‘You need to identify the victims. It’s your duty. But I’m telling you now, you’ll never be able to do that without my cooperation.’

  Hunter saw Taylor uneasily shift her weight from foot to foot.

  ‘The good news is that I’m willing to do that,’ Lucien said. ‘But I’ll do it on my terms, so listen up.’ His voice seemed to have gone even more serious. ‘I will only speak to Robert, no one else. I know he isn’t with the FBI, but I also know that that can easily be remedied.’ He paused and looked around the room. ‘The interviews will not be conducted in this room anymore. I don’t feel comfortable here, and . . .’ He lifted his hands and moved them about, allowing the chain between his wrists to rattle against the metal table once again. ‘I really don’t like being shackled. It puts me in a very bad state of mind, and that’s not good, for me, or for you. I also like to move around when I talk. It helps me think. So from now on, Robert can come down to my cell. We can talk there.’ He stole a quick peek at Taylor. ‘Agent Taylor can sit in on the interviews if she wants. I like her. But she’ll have to learn how to control that temper of hers.’

  ‘You don’t get to negotiate,’ Taylor said, keeping her voice as calm as she could muster.

  ‘Oh, I think I do, Agent Taylor. Because I take it that by now you’ll have a team of agents going over every inch of my house in Murphy. And if they’re competent in the least, they should find out that what you and Robert saw in that house earlier . . .’ Lucien paused and he and Hunter locked eyes once again. ‘Well . . . that’s only the beginning.’

  Twenty-Six

  Lucien was right in his assumption – a specialized FBI team had already been deployed to scrutinize every inch of his house back in Murphy.

  Special Agent Stefano Lopez was the agent in charge of the very experienced, eight-strong search team. That particular crew had been put together eight years ago by Director Adrian Kennedy himself, who had little trust in forensic specialists. A few years back, most forensic work around the country had started to be outsourced to private companies. Their overpaid forensic agents, if one could call them that, no doubt fueled by the increasing number of forensic-investigation TV shows that had hit the airwaves in the past decade, truly believed they were stars, and acted accordingly.

  Kennedy’s team had been highly trained in the collection and analysis of forensic evidence, and all eight of them had a degree either in chemistry, or biology, or both. Three of the agents, including Lopez, the team leader, had also been premed students before joining the FBI. They were all qualified, and had brought with them enough lab equipment and gadgets to perform a variety of ‘on the spot’ basic tests.

  To expedite the search, Agent Lopez had compartmentalized the house and split the crew into four teams of two: Team A – Agents Suarez and Farley – was in charge of going through everything in the living room and kitchen; Team B – Agents Reyna and Goldstein – was searching both bedrooms down the corridor, and the small bathroom; Team C – Agents Lopez and Fuller – was downstairs in the basement; Team D – Agents Villegas and Carver – was outside searching the property grounds.

  Team C had already photographed the entire basement in its original state, and was now in the process of sieving through everything as it was collected, tagged, and placed inside plastic evidence bags for further analysis. The first items to b
e taken down were the framed human skin pieces.

  As Agents Lopez and Fuller carefully unhooked the first frame from the east wall, they both realized that the frames had been simply, but cleverly homemade. First, the human skin piece had been either soaked or sprayed with a preserving substance like formaldehyde or formalin, which is a solution of gas formaldehyde in water. Then, the piece had been stretched out and placed flat against a sheet of Plexiglas that was about 2 millimeters thick – equivalent to two regular microscope slides stacked together. A second sheet of Plexiglas, of identical thickness, was then placed over the human skin piece, sandwiching it between both Plexiglas sheets. To keep skin deterioration down to a minimum, the Plexiglas/human skin sandwich was finally airtight locked using a special sealant, before being framed just like any regular painting or picture.

  ‘This is one hundred percent fucked up,’ Lopez said, after dusting the last of the frames for fingerprints. There were none.

  Lopez was tall and slim, with short curly hair, piercing dark brown eyes, and a hooked nose that had earned him the nickname Hawk.

  ‘No shit, Hawk,’ Agent Fuller said as he started tagging and bagging the frames. ‘You know we’ve seen enough killers’ trophies over the years, among them quite a few body parts, but this is pushing the boundaries.’ He made a head gesture toward the frames. ‘This guy didn’t just cut a finger or an ear off his victims. He skinned them, at least partially, maybe even while they were still alive, and to me that puts him in a new category I haven’t seen before.’

  ‘And what category is that?’

  ‘Psychopath freak show – level: grandmaster. One with a lot of skill and patience too.’

  Hawk agreed with a nod. ‘Yeah, that is messed up, but what really gets me is this room.’ He looked around him.

  Fuller’s gaze circled the room, following Hawk’s. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘How many serial killers’ trophy rooms would you say that we’ve seen over the years?’

  Fuller pulled a face and shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Hawk. More than enough, for sure.’

  ‘Since this unit was put together, thirty-nine,’ Hawk confirmed. ‘But we’ve all seen hundreds of photographs of other trophy rooms, and you know they all look similar – small, smelly, grimy, dark, you know what I’m talking about. It’s usually just a cupboard-sized space or a shed somewhere where the perpetrators keep whatever parts they chopped off their victims. Somewhere they can go to jerk off, or fantasize, or whatever it is they do when they’re reliving the time they spent with their victims. You’ve seen them. They all look like some sort of sick shrine out of a Hollywood horror movie.’ Hawk paused, turned both of his gloved hands upward, and looked around the room again. ‘But look at this place. It looks like an average family’s sitting room. It’s just a little dusty.’ He ran two fingers over the top of the chest of drawers, showing the result to Fuller just to emphasize his argument.

  ‘OK, and your point is?’

  ‘My point is that I don’t think this guy came down here to be reminded of his murders, or of the time he spent with his victims. I think this guy came down here to watch TV, drink beer and read, just like regular folk. The difference is that he did all that surrounded by the framed skin of his victims.’

  Hawk had walked the entire house before assigning the agents to their teams. He knew that the only TV set in the house was the old tube one down in the basement. He also knew that the small fridge in the corner had nothing but a few bottles of beer inside.

  Something in Hawk’s voice concerned Fuller.

  ‘So what are you really saying, Hawk?’

  Hawk paused by the bookcase and scanned through some of the titles.

  ‘What I’m saying is that I don’t think those were trophies.’ He pointed to the evidence bags on the floor now holding the five frames. ‘Those were just simple decorating items. If this guy really has a trophy room somewhere, this isn’t it.’ He paused and breathed in a worried breath. ‘I’m saying brace yourself, Fuller, because if this guy has a trophy room, we haven’t found it yet.’

  Twenty-Seven

  Upstairs in the house, Team B – Agents Miguel Reyna and Eric Goldstein, had just finished their swipe of the small bathroom and the first bedroom. They’d managed to collect several fingerprints from both rooms, but even without a more in-depth analysis, Goldstein, who was the team’s expert when it came to fingerprints, could tell that their patterns seemed identical, which hinted that they’d all come from the same person. The size of all the thumbprints found also indicated that the prints had probably come from a male subject.

  The shower’s plughole had given them several hair strands, all of them short and dark brown in color. The high-intensity UV-light test they’d conducted in the first bedroom and in the bathroom had revealed no traces of semen or blood anywhere, not even in the bathroom’s washbasin from what could’ve been an old shaving cut. Several spots, some small, some large, did light up on the floor all around the toilet seat, and on the seat itself, but that was to be expected. Urine is extremely fluorescent when illuminated with ultraviolet light.

  Just to be sure, they also ran a UV-light test on the walls. It’s not uncommon for perpetrators to try to cover bloodstained walls by giving them a new coat of paint. Though that would make them completely invisible to the naked eye, paint-covered bloodstains will still quite clearly reveal themselves under high-intensity UV-light scrutiny.

  A few scattered speckles did light up on the corridor walls. Reyna and Goldstein collected samples of them all, but none of them were hidden behind the topcoat of paint. Both agents had their doubts that the samples they collected in the hallway would turn out to be blood.

  They approached the last room at the end of the corridor, the master bedroom, and paused by the door, allowing their eyes to take everything in before proceeding.

  The décor inside was sparse, cheap and messy, like a college dorm room furnished on a very low budget. The double bed pushed up against one of the walls looked like it had come from a Salvation Army shop, and so did the mattress and the black and gray bed cover and pillow cases. A wooden, drawerless bedside table, with a reading lamp on it, was also pushed up against the same wall, on the right side of the bed. An old-looking double-door wardrobe was centered against the west wall. The only other piece of furniture in that room was a small bookcase, crammed with books.

  ‘At least this shouldn’t take very long,’ Reyna said, slipping on a brand-new pair of latex gloves.

  ‘Good,’ Goldstein agreed. Even with the nose mask the strong mothball smell was starting to burn the inside of his nostrils.

  They started like they had in the two previous rooms, with a high-intensity UV-light test, and as soon as they switched the UV light on, the bed covers lit up like a Christmas tree.

  ‘Well, no surprise there,’ Goldstein said. ‘Those sheets look like they’ve never been washed.’

  While a variety of body fluids are fluorescent under high-intensity UV light – semen, blood, vaginal secretion, urine, saliva and sweat – using the light alone will not confirm exactly what sort of stain one is looking at. More tests are certainly needed. Also, several other non-body-fluid substances, like citric fruit juices or toothpaste, will certainly light up bright under a UV-light test.

  ‘Let’s bag all the bed covers and sheets,’ Goldstein said. ‘The lab will have to deal with this.’

  Reyna quickly pulled everything off the bed and placed each item into individual evidence bags. The white mattress under the sheets showed no visible signs of any blood splatter, but they ran a UV test on it anyway. Once again, several speckles lit up here and there, but nothing that could get any alarm bells ringing. Nevertheless, Reyna and Goldstein marked and collected samples of them all.

  When they were all done, Goldstein crossed over to where the small bookcase was, and carefully began retrieving each and every book. Reyna stayed by the bed, dusting its frame for fingerprints. As he moved over to the other side, he noticed
something different on the side of the mattress – a long, horizontal makeshift flap, made from a thick white fabric that blended easily with the mattress, hiding it extremely well. He frowned at it and slowly ripped it from the mattress. Concealed underneath the flap, he found a long slit in the mattress.

  ‘Eric, come have a look at this,’ he called with a hand gesture.

  Goldstein put down the book he was looking through, and walked back over to where Reyna was.

  ‘What do you think this is?’ Reyna asked, pointing to the long opening in the mattress.

  Goldstein’s eyes widened a touch. ‘A hiding place.’

  ‘You bet,’ Reyna replied, slipping his fingers into the slot, and horizontally, pulling both sides apart, as wide as he could.

  Goldstein bent down and shone his flashlight into the aperture. Neither of them could see anything past Reyna’s hands.

  ‘I’ll check,’ Goldstein said, putting his flashlight down, and slowly slipping his right hand into the gap. Very carefully he started touch-feeling his way around the inside of the mattress. First left, then right – nothing. He slid his arm in a little deeper, all the way up to his elbow. Left, right. Still nothing.

  ‘Maybe whatever was hidden here is already gone,’ Reyna offered.

  Goldstein wasn’t about to give up just yet. He bent forward and shoved his whole arm into the mattress – all the way up to his shoulder. This time he didn’t have to feel around. His fingers immediately collided with something solid.

  Goldstein paused and looked at Reyna in a particular way.

  ‘You’ve got something?’ Reyna asked, instinctively bending his head to one side to look into the gap again. He saw nothing.

  ‘Give me a sec,’ Goldstein said, spreading his fingers to grab whatever object was hidden inside the mattress. Whatever it was, it was about five inches thick.