by Chris Carter
‘You should keep her on a leash, buddy,’ he said in a weak, half-drunk voice.
‘Excuse me?’ There was no one else next to Hunter, so the man must’ve been talking to him.
‘She’s fucking lethal, that’s what she is.’
Shrouded in confusion, Hunter watched as the man stumbled away, grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair, and exited the lounge.
‘What was that all about?’ Alex asked Hunter.
‘I have no idea, but I’d better go check on Tracy.’
Hunter didn’t have to. As he turned on his stool, Tracy finally reappeared and returned to her seat.
‘What happened?’ Hunter asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, this WWF reject just came out of the bathroom, walked past me and said something about keeping you on a leash and how lethal you were.’
Tracy laughed. ‘Is that what he said?’
‘Who is he? And what did you do?’
‘No one, really,’ Tracy replied. ‘Just someone I met back there. He asked me for my advice, so I gave it to him.’
‘Advice?’
‘Yes. I told him that he should go home. He’d had enough to drink for tonight. Where is he?’ She turned and looked around the lounge but failed to spot the man.
‘He left,’ Hunter told her.
‘Oh, so he did take my advice.’
Hunter found all this too bizarre, but decided not to ask any more questions.
Tracy finished her drink. ‘Another one?’
Hunter considered it for a short moment. ‘How about if we go get something to eat? Have you eaten already?’
Tracy smiled as she glanced at her watch. ‘Given that it’s past eleven in the evening . . . yes, I’ve had dinner already, but I can keep you company.’ She paused and looked back at Hunter invitingly. ‘Or how about we go back to my place and I’ll cook you something?’
Tracy was a fantastic cook. Hunter knew that very well.
‘Are you sure?’ he asked. ‘It’s quite late and I wouldn’t want to impose.’
‘Yes. Positive. And you’re not imposing.’
As they smiled at each other, Hunter’s cellphone rang in his jacket pocket.
Tracy looked back at him, incredulous that this was about to happen again.
‘Detective Hunter, UVC Unit.’ Hunter took the call.
It was Special Agent Williams.
As Hunter listened in silence, his expression changed to something considerably more somber.
‘Where?’ he said into the mouthpiece, checking his watch. ‘I’m not home right now, but I can be there in fifteen minutes.’ He listened for another few seconds. ‘OK, I’ll be ready.’ He disconnected from the call and his stare moved to Tracy.
She didn’t need to ask. She knew that a call coming into Hunter’s phone at that time of night could only mean one thing.
‘I’m so terribly sorry,’ he said, reaching for her hand.
She smiled through her disappointment.
‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘It’s your job.’ She sipped her drink. ‘Same perp again?’
Hunter nodded.
‘Wow, he’s not losing any time, is he?’
Hunter placed a couple of bills on the bar counter and reached for his jacket. ‘Once again,’ he said to Tracy. ‘I’m so very sorry.’
‘As long as you make it up to me, I don’t mind,’ she replied in a half-joking, half-serious tone.
‘You can count on that.’ He kissed her on the lips before rushing out of the bar.
Forty-One
A black SUV picked Hunter up from his home address exactly forty-five minutes after he’d left The Thirsty Crow Lounge, enough time for him to have a shower and grab a change of clothes. Sixty-five minutes after that, he met Garcia and both FBI agents at Van Nuys airport, in San Fernando Valley. The look on everyone’s faces was a testimony to how little sleep they’d all had.
‘Coffee?’ Garcia asked as Hunter walked through the doors, offering him one of the cups he had in his hands.
Hunter gladly accepted it. ‘You read my mind.’
‘Perfect timing,’ Agent Williams said, joining the two of them. ‘The plane will be ready in under five minutes.’
‘Do we have any more information other than what you told me over the phone?’ Hunter asked.
All he was told was that The Surgeon had claimed a new victim and that he had about an hour to get ready before a car picked him up to take him to the airport.
‘I also know very little,’ Agent Williams replied.
‘But surely more than we do,’ Garcia said. ‘Do we at least know where we’re flying to?’
‘Tucson, Arizona,’ came the reply from Agent Fisher, who had just come off her cellphone. ‘Yesterday morning, after we learned about The Surgeon’s third victim here in Los Angeles, it became crystal clear that he isn’t sticking to a specific city, or even a specific state.’
Took you guys long enough, Garcia thought, but the thought didn’t make it to his lips.
‘So,’ Agent Fisher continued, ‘before flying over here, we made sure that every police department and every coroner and sheriff’s office in the country received a top-priority bulletin, informing everyone that if a body is found with missing parts, and/or bearing certain marks to its flesh, the FBI is to be notified immediately and no investigation is to be initiated by local detectives. About two hours ago, our headquarters in Quantico received a call from the Tucson Police Department in Arizona. A male body was found early yesterday evening, bearing some strange carvings to its back.’ She paused just to heighten the suspense. ‘The information we were given was that the markings to the victim’s back look like an odd combination of letters and symbols. Sounds familiar?’
‘Is that all we have on the victim?’ Garcia asked.
Agent Fisher shrugged. ‘At this point, yes . . . Oh, one more thing,’ she added before making her way toward the boarding gate. ‘Tucson Police also have a man in custody.’
‘A man in custody?’ Hunter asked, surprised.
Agent Fisher nodded. ‘I was just told. He was arrested at the crime scene. Police officers found him standing over the body.’
Forty-Two
Homicide Detective James Miller of the Tucson Police Department pushed his silver-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose before tucking his hands deep into his trouser pockets. For the next five minutes he attentively observed the handcuffed man sitting alone at the metal table on the other side of the two-way mirror.
‘James, what are you doing?’ Detective Edward Hill asked, as he joined his partner inside observation room one. After six years in the force, Hill had finally made detective for the Tucson PD just under a year ago. He was nine years Miller’s junior.
‘What does it look like I’m doing, Rookie?’ Miller replied, without looking back at Hill. Since their captain had paired them together eleven months ago, Miller had never called Detective Hill by any name other than ‘Rookie’.
‘What you always do before interrogating a suspect,’ Hill said, pausing by Miller’s side. He too rested his eyes on the enigmatic tall man with a shaved head, sitting at the metal table.
‘That’s why I like you, Rookie. You’re sharp. No wonder you made detective.’
Hill didn’t laugh at the joke. ‘Didn’t you hear what the captain said? The suspect is not to be interrogated by us. This isn’t our case, James. All we’ve got to do is keep him here until the FBI arrives.’
‘Yes, I heard the captain,’ Miller replied. ‘And if you want to play puppet to those jerks in black suits and stupid-looking aviator glasses, be my guest, Rookie, but I didn’t work my ass off to make homicide detective just so I could chaperone a murder suspect for the goddamn FBI. This guy was arrested in Catalina Foothills. If you’ve forgotten, that’s our jurisdiction. As far as I know, until we see any official paperwork, this is our case, not the Fed’s.’ Miller finally turned and faced Hill. ‘Have you seen any paperwork yet?’
/> Hill made a face at Miller. ‘No, but we both know it’s coming, so why do you want to waste time interrogating him, when we know that there will be nothing else we’ll be able to do after this? The case will be taken from us before the sun comes up. From what I’ve heard, the Feds are already on their way here.’
‘So we’d better get in there fast,’ Miller said, consulting his watch.
‘Are you dying for a kick in the balls?’ Hill asked, scratching his designer goatee. ‘Captain Suarez will have our asses for this. You know that, right?’
‘No he won’t. Actually, if we manage to piss off the FBI enough, he will probably take us out for a drink.’
Hill looked back at Miller dubiously.
‘The captain hates the Feds, Rookie. It’s something that goes back a long way. Someday you can ask him to tell you the story.’
Hill could believe that. He knew too many cops who didn’t see eye to eye with the FBI. For the next full minute, he observed the man on the other side of the two-way mirror.
‘Is he asleep?’ Hill asked with a frown.
‘That’s only one of this guy’s intriguing factors,’ Miller replied. ‘I’ve been standing here for almost ten minutes now and, apart from blinking, that guy hasn’t moved a muscle.’
‘What, really?’
‘Not a fucking inch, Rookie. No hand movement . . . No twitchy leg . . . No bouncing of the knee . . . No nervous scratch of the chin . . . No rotation of the neck . . . No tongue across the lips . . . Nothing. Not even the eyes moving from side to side. All he’s done since I got here is sit in that exact same position and stare at his hands. It’s like he’s in a trance or something. I have never seen anyone with that much focus, that much control, let alone a dude facing murder in the first.’
Hill bit his bottom lip and crossed his arms in front of his body.
‘Do we have a name yet?’ Miller asked.
Hill shook his head. ‘No. Nothing. He had no identification on him. No driver’s license. No credit cards. No wallet. Nothing.’
‘Fingerprints? Face recognition?’
‘Gave us zilch. He’s not in the system.’
‘And he isn’t talking.’
‘No,’ Hill confirmed. ‘Hasn’t said a word yet. We can’t even book him because we don’t have a name to book him under.’
‘That’s why this is a one-chance-in-a-lifetime kind o’ thing, Rookie,’ Miller said. ‘This is the kind of serial killer you only find in Hollywood movies; do you understand what I’m saying?’
‘Serial killer?’ Hill’s mesmerized eyes shot toward Miller. ‘That escalated fast. Why do you think he’s a serial killer?’
‘Rookie, don’t be so naive. Why do you think the Feds are on their way over here at this time of night, just hours after Mr. Solid Statue here has been arrested?’ Miller paused for a second. ‘Let me give you a tip – it’s not because he’s a wanted shoplifter.’
Hill’s attention returned to the man sitting in the interrogation room.
‘Let’s not lie to ourselves here, Rookie,’ Miller added, as he took off his blazer jacket and began rolling up his sleeves. ‘People like him are one of the main reasons why we joined the police force . . . why we fought so hard to become homicide detectives. I don’t know about you, but when I was a kid, I couldn’t get enough of movies about serial killers. I watched everything there was to watch because it fascinated me. It still does.’
Hill got a little closer to the glass.
‘This is Tucson, Rookie,’ Miller continued. ‘Sure, we’ve got crime here. We even have homicides, but we just don’t get this kind of stuff.’ He pointed at the man. ‘This is the kind of stuff books are written about and movies are made from.’ He unholstered his weapon and placed it on the table inside the observation room. ‘And here he is, sitting inside our interrogation room. Call me curious, but I for one would love to get inside his mind, even if for just a few minutes. Plus, I’m a great interrogator, you know that.’ He reached for the door.
‘Are you really going to go in there?’ Hill asked.
‘You bet.’
‘And you don’t think that the first thing he’s going to do is lawyer up? Actually, I’m surprised he hasn’t done that yet, but then again, he hasn’t said a word to anyone since he was arrested, James.’
‘I guess we’ll see, won’t we? By the way, there’s no need to hit the record button.’
Forty-Three
The twenty-four-feet-long passenger cabin inside the Dassault Falcon 2000EX jet was divided into three very luxurious areas – Forward, with four seats, Middle, with three seats, and Aft, also with three seats. All ten 360-degree swivel seats were finished in soft beige leather, each with its own media center, individual climate controls, and power outlets. There was a fully stocked bar up front, near the cockpit, together with a locked weapons cabinet. At the back, past the Aft cabin was a spacious bathroom, with impressive shower facilities. Low-heat, fully controllable LED overhead lights allowed the passengers to set the mood either individually, per cabin, or for the entire airplane.
‘Wow,’ Garcia commented as he and Hunter finally boarded the aircraft. ‘The Feds do have it much better than we do.’
‘Oh, you can certainly bet on that,’ Agent Fisher said, as she squeezed past them to take one of the seats at the front of the plane.
Agent Williams took the one facing her.
‘You can stop drooling now, Detective.’ Agent Fisher couldn’t help the dig. ‘It’s only a plane.’
Staying in the forward cabin, Hunter and Garcia took the two seats across the aisle from the agents.
‘Did you make it in time for dinner with the in-laws?’ Hunter asked, after fastening his seatbelt.
‘Nah,’ Garcia replied. ‘I missed dinner completely, but I made it in time for dessert and drinks, which, thanks to my charming personality, made everything OK again.’
Hunter smiled. ‘I’m sure.’
Within minutes of everybody boarding the private jet, the Dassault Falcon taxied its way up the runway. Two minutes later the control tower gave the go-ahead for takeoff, which it did very smoothly before climbing up to a cruising altitude of 28,000 feet. Through the speakers, the pilot quickly announced that flying conditions were good, the sky was cloudless and that their flight time would be around one hour and twenty-five minutes.
‘How about you?’ Garcia asked. ‘What time did you leave the office?’
Hunter’s head tilted to one side. ‘A lot later than I wanted to.’
‘Yeah, somehow I sort of knew that that would happen.’
Agent Fisher waited until the pilot had finally turned off the “fasten seatbelt” sign before swerving her seat around to face everyone.
‘There’s something that I would like to show everybody,’ she said, retrieving several photographs from her briefcase and placing them on the large retractable table that sat between her and Agent Williams.
Hunter’s and Garcia’s attention gravitated toward the images.
Just like she had done back in their temporary office, Agent Fisher separated the photos into three groups – victims, carvings, and crime scene.
‘Yesterday in your office,’ she began, ‘you guys mentioned the possibility of this killer being crazy enough to see murder as an art form, remember?’ She nodded at Garcia. ‘The possibility that maybe he treats his crime scenes as some sort of canvas, some sort of window for his work.’
Garcia looked almost shocked. He found it hard to believe that Agent Fisher had actually taken notice of something he had said, never mind considered it.
‘Well,’ she continued, ‘once we got settled into our office, we began revising a few files, including all the photographs belonging to The Surgeon’s first two crime scenes.’ Her gaze moved to the photos on the table, dragging everyone else’s with it. ‘And I think that we might have something.’
‘Something?’ Garcia leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘Like something that might link the first
two crime scenes to this art theory?’
‘Possibly.’
Even the air inside the private jet seemed to stand still in anticipation.
‘There’s something you said yesterday,’ Agent Fisher said, once again addressing Garcia, ‘that kept on repeating itself inside my head over and over.’
‘And what was that?’ Garcia asked.
‘That though we had deciphered the Latin phrases, we hadn’t yet figured out the real meaning behind them. So, as I reassessed the photos of the first two crime scenes, I realized you were right. Blinded by our initial theory, we perhaps made a grave mistake.’ Her voice took on an almost apologetic tone. ‘That mistake was that we looked exclusively at the victims and disregarded everything else.’
‘Everything else?’ Garcia asked. ‘As in the scene itself?’
‘Exactly. Our sole concern was always the victim.’ Agent Fisher lifted her right hand in a ‘wait’ gesture. ‘Let me ask you all a question here – are any of you big into art? I mean, do you read about it, go to galleries, museums, expositions, that sort of thing?’
‘No, not really,’ Garcia replied.
‘Rarely,’ Hunter admitted it.
‘Why?’ Garcia again.
From her briefcase, Agent Fisher grabbed three printouts she had obtained from the internet. None of them were related to any of the crime scenes or the victims.
‘Well, I have never really been an art buff,’ she said. ‘But yesterday, in your office, you mentioned that art is subjective. It depends on your point of view.’
She placed the first photo on the table. It displayed a perfectly made bed, with crisp white sheets, at the center of a very dirty and messy room.
‘What may look like art through someone’s eyes . . .’
She displayed the second printout. It was almost the reverse of the first – a messy and dirty bed at the center of a totally white, sterile room.
‘. . . can look like nothing but junk through someone else’s.’
The last of the three printouts showed exactly that – a pile of junk that had been dumped at the center of an art gallery.
