Gallery of the Dead

by Chris Carter

  As Agent Fisher placed the printouts on the table, the thoughtful look on Hunter’s and Garcia’s faces deepened.

  ‘These are only three quick examples, but art galleries just about everywhere seem to be littered with similar pieces. Art used to be something people would cherish, but in our modern world, just about anything can be considered art. This pile of junk,’ she once again indicated the last of the three printouts she had shown them, ‘sold for half a million dollars.’

  ‘No way.’ Garcia looked surprised and upset at the same time. ‘I’m definitely in the wrong line of work, because that I can do.’

  Agent Fisher left the printouts on the table while she selected a photo from the ‘victim’ pile.

  ‘So, with that in mind, like I said, perhaps we made a grave mistake by looking at the victims in isolation. Take our first victim, for example.’ She presented the photo she had selected. It was a full-body shot of Kristine Rivers lying on the shed’s dirty floor. The rest of the shed could not be seen. ‘If you isolate the victim, this is pretty much what you see.’

  Agent Fisher returned the photo to the table and selected a new one, this time from the ‘crime scene’ pile. It was a wide-angle shot where Kristine Rivers’ body could be seen against a backdrop of vibrant graffitied walls and a floor packed full of colorful debris. The agent took several steps back, placing herself in the Middle cabin before showing everyone the photo.

  ‘But if you take in the entire crime scene as a whole, or better yet, a single image . . .’

  The distance added a whole new perspective to the photograph.

  ‘. . . then you just might be able to see the big picture.’

  Forty-Four

  Detective James Miller stepped into interrogation room one inside the Alvernon Way Police Station in downtown Tucson and closed the door behind him. Instead of approaching the small metal table at the center of the claustrophobic, underground chamber, he stood by the door in complete silence, hands tucked into his trouser pockets, eyes firmly locked on the man sitting at the table.

  Despite the door closing with a loud enough bang, the man didn’t look up. He kept his stare on his cuffed hands, which were chained to the tabletop.

  The whole ‘standing by the door in silence’ act was all part of Miller’s interrogation technique, a technique he had developed over twelve years as a homicide detective in Arizona, but in spite of all his experience, Miller did feel a tad nervous.

  Yes, in those twelve years he had interrogated hundreds of suspects, many of them violent murderers, but as far as he knew he had never been face to face with a serial killer, let alone one wanted by the FBI. He’d read many books and watched a ton of documentaries on them and, truth be told, Miller had always hoped that he would one day be the lead detective in a serial-murder investigation – the kind of investigation that would generate nationwide interest and press coverage. In his head, he had pictured time and time again being the person in charge of the interrogation – the one whose task was to extract the truth from the killer. But as soon as that door closed behind him, Miller felt an uneasiness he hadn’t felt in many years. There was definitely something very different about the man sitting at that table, something that Miller couldn’t yet tell, but whatever it was it seemed to chill the air inside the room.

  Miller’s eyes moved to the two-way mirror on the east wall. He knew his partner would be on the other side of it, watching.

  Miller kept his composure.

  The man kept his head down.

  Miller waited.

  Inside that same room, Miller had played several variations of that game before – the silent, ‘I will not move, I will not lock eyes with you’ game. From experience, the detective knew that that was nothing more than a mental tug-of-war. A strength-of-mind game. Would the man acknowledge the detective first, either verbally, by movement, or by eye contact, or would Miller give in to the man’s resolve and speak first?

  To an outsider, something that trivial could easily sound childish, but Miller knew better than to disregard the importance of such psychological games inside an interrogation room, and that was why he had spent time studying the man from the other side of the two-way mirror. Just like a professional poker player tries to read his opponents and adapts his game tactics accordingly, Miller had tried to do the same, but the man gave nothing away, except the fact that his resolve seemed to be flawless.

  Who, Miller thought, after being arrested at the scene of a homicide, spends all that time sitting alone inside an interrogation room without moving a muscle or saying a word? Miller had never encountered anybody with that much self-control before. The man’s discipline, he had to agree, was watertight.

  Miller kept his eyes on the man.

  The man kept his eyes on his hands.

  To his surprise, the first part of Miller’s tactic – the door closing behind him with a loud enough bang – had failed gloriously. The bang was supposed to break the man’s concentration, forcing him to look up and acknowledge the detective’s presence. It was a shock tactic that, until then, had never failed Miller.

  Maybe I should’ve slammed the door harder, Miller thought.

  He pulled his hands from his pockets and took four steps forward, placing himself directly in front of the metal table.

  The man didn’t look up.

  Miller took a seat.

  The man didn’t look up.

  Miller sat back, crossed one leg over the other and casually rested his hands on his lap. That movement was also planned. It placed Miller in a relaxed, carefree position, while the man sat at the edge of his chair with his shoulders slightly hunched. Clearly a much tenser position.

  Miller waited.

  Ten seconds.

  The man didn’t look up.

  Fifteen seconds.

  The man didn’t look up.

  Twenty seconds.

  The man’s eyes, and only his eyes, crawled across the table and finally paused on the detective sitting before him.

  Gotcha.

  Miller felt like jumping up and punching the air, but he kept his cool. All he did was lock eyes with the man. Only then did he notice that the man’s eyes were deep set and as dark as coal.

  ‘Good evening,’ Miller finally said in a calm and collected tone. The greeting was complemented by a delicate head bow.

  The man said nothing.

  ‘My name is Detective James Miller of the Tucson Police Department, Homicide Division.’

  The man said nothing.

  ‘We could start with you giving us your name. It would make things a lot easier, you know.’

  The man said nothing.

  ‘Well, I know that you can speak because according to the arrest report, when the two officers found you standing over the body of Timothy Davis and told you that they needed to see your hands, you replied, and I quote: “Wait a second, I can explain.” So we know you’re not a mute.’

  That had been another trick from Miller. He knew very well that according to the arresting officers’ report, the man had replied, ‘Easy there, partner’ – but Miller had deliberately told him something different to try to trigger a reaction, maybe even a response. ‘That’s not what I said’ would do fine. It would be the beginning of a conversation, something Miller could work with. But once again, the man said nothing in return.

  Miller maintained his relaxed position.

  ‘You can play the silent game all you want, buddy, but we both know that in the end you will sing like a bird. You’re not the first to play that game and you won’t be the last, and the common denominator between all of you is that in the end you all talk. You might not talk to me, but you will talk. I promise you that. I’m just the first in line here and I can guarantee you that I am the easiest one to talk to, but you’ve got some heavy hitters coming for you. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?’

  The man finally moved his head, lifting his chin just enough so he could properly look Miller in the eye. They held each o
ther’s stare for several long seconds and Miller saw no indication that the man was about to forfeit his silence. He tried one more time.

  ‘How many have you killed so far?’

  No reply.

  ‘Three? Four? Five?’

  No reply.

  ‘How many?’

  Silence.

  This clearly wasn’t working, not for Miller. He was about to change tactics once again when the interrogation-room door behind him swung open.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  While Detective Miller turned on his chair, the cuffed man barely moved. All he did was tilt his head slightly to one side so he could see past the detective.

  ‘Have you lost your goddamn mind?’

  The booming, authoritative voice belonged to Captain Suarez, a short and full-figured man whose temper seemed to always be at the end of a very short fuse. As he spoke, his thick Mexican-style mustache bounced up and down over his lips in a somewhat comic fashion.

  ‘Who authorized you to transfer the prisoner from his cell to the interrogation room? Did I fucking stutter when I told you that the suspect was not to be interrogated? This is not our case, Detective Miller. It belongs to the fucking Feds. I thought I had made myself very clear.’

  Miller uncrossed his legs and looked at the man. ‘Did you hear that?’ His voice was a gentle murmur. ‘The FBI is coming for you.’

  ‘Detective Miller.’ Captain Suarez’ voice got even louder.

  ‘I was just being friendly, Captain. You know, having a little chat with our guest here.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I know,’ the captain replied. ‘I know that you’d better get your ass off that goddamn chair and out of this room right now, unless you have a dying urge to shovel horse shit with your bare hands for the next month. Gloves not allowed. And I will make that happen, Detective.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Miller said, calmly getting to his feet and looking back at the man. ‘It was a boring conversation anyway.’ But as the detective got to the door, the man sitting at the metal table surprised him, because he spoke for the first time.

  He uttered four simple words.

  Forty-Five

  For five silent and unblinking seconds, Hunter and Garcia stared at the photo Agent Fisher had in her hand. From a distance, despite her facial mutilations, the colorful picture where Kristine Rivers’ body could be seen against a backdrop of graffitied walls and a floor full of debris looked more like an art-gallery painting than a crime-scene photograph. In fact, the missing eyes and the scalped head added a macabre layer to the image.

  ‘Holy shit!’ Garcia felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

  Hunter stayed quiet, but he did feel a rush of adrenaline run through him.

  ‘Now you might be thinking that there’s no way we’ll get a similar effect with the second crime scene – Albert Greene’s bedroom,’ Agent Williams said, taking over from Agent Fisher. ‘If you remember, there was nothing on the walls, nothing on the floor. No blood absolutely anywhere.’

  Agent Fisher returned to the three groups of photographs she had arranged over the retractable table and selected two new images from the ‘crime-scene’ pile – both wide-angle shots taken from two separate perspectives, showing Albert Greene’s body on the bed inside his bedroom. Once again she put some distance between the photos and the group, but the effect was nothing like the one they got with the previous image she’d showed them. Even from a distance, neither picture looked anything like a painting. They looked exactly like what they actually were – crime-scene photographs.

  ‘Definitely not the same effect, right?’ Agent Williams pushed.

  ‘Definitely not,’ Garcia agreed.

  ‘But what if the killer wasn’t looking for the same effect?’ Hunter suggested.

  ‘Our thoughts exactly,’ Agent Fisher said, her voice lifting with excitement.

  ‘I don’t follow,’ Garcia said. ‘Wouldn’t that contradict the idea that the killer wants his crime scenes to look like paintings, like works of art?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Agent Fisher replied, the smirk on her lips revealing how much she was about to enjoy schooling the detective. ‘If you think about it, it’s impossible to create the same piece twice, but what you really have to remember here is that art is subjective.’ She winked at Garcia, knowing full well that he had been the one who had brought that knowledge to the table in the first place. ‘Now keep that in mind and tell me what you think of this.’

  Agent Fisher once again took a few steps back, stopping halfway through the Middle cabin. This time she showed everyone two pictures side by side. On the left, the same photo she had showed them a minute earlier – Kristine Rivers’ crime scene – and on the right, one of the two wide-angle shots from Albert Greene’s bedroom.

  Garcia’s stare moved from one picture to the other a couple of times.

  ‘You’ve got to be joking,’ he said as he finally saw it. ‘They’re practically opposites of each other.’

  ‘Indeed they are,’ Agent Fisher confirmed. ‘There’s hope for you yet, Detective.’

  It was Garcia’s turn to scratch his nose using only his right middle finger.

  Agent Fisher ignored the gesture. ‘So what if for his first piece, the killer selected a place where he didn’t need to paint the walls, or the floor, or anything else because the location, a disused shed by the river, already provided all the crazy “modern art” he needed – food wrappers, dirty rags, discarded drug paraphernalia, graffitied walls and so on. All he needed to do to make it his own was place the main piece – the victim’s body with a disfigured face – at the center of it.’

  She once again indicated the printout with the perfectly made bed at the center of a messy room.

  ‘Then,’ she continued, ‘for his second “piece”, the killer moved from a dirty shed to a squeaky-clean room and from a young female victim to an old male one; can you see?’ She did not give Garcia any time to reply. ‘If you disregard the fact that these are crime scenes, the two “pieces”, just like you’ve said, are practically opposites of each other. Maybe that was the effect that the killer was going for.’

  Garcia had to chew on all that for a second.

  This time it was Agent Williams who selected a picture from the crime-scene pile. Another wide-angle shot, but this one from the Los Angeles crime scene, where Linda Parker’s skinned body could be seen on blood-soaked sheets, against a background of blood-smeared walls.

  ‘His third “piece” needs no introduction,’ the agent said. ‘Here he ups the shock factor, skinning the body and smearing the walls with blood.’

  He handed the photo to Agent Fisher, who once again took a few steps back. Just like with the photo of the first crime scene she had shown everyone, from a distance, the picture she had in her hand looked almost like a gallery painting, where crimson red clashed headfirst with brilliant white walls and bright bed sheets.

  ‘But the best part,’ Agent Fisher said, reclaiming Hunter and Garcia’s attention, ‘is still to come.’

  Forty-Six

  Pima County’s Chief Medical Examiner, Dr. Keith Morgan, had received the surprise call from FBI Special Agent Mike Brandon just as he had finished eating dinner. Once he disconnected, he placed a couple of calls of his own to find out exactly when the body of Timothy Davis would be arriving to the coroner’s office downtown. With that taken care of, he prepared himself a strong cup of coffee, took another shower and got dressed.

  Dr. Morgan didn’t mind starting early or finishing late. As a matter of fact, he did both almost every day. Since his wife of twenty-five years had passed away four years ago, his job was all he had to keep him from constant loneliness. Dr. Morgan would gladly grab any opportunity he was offered to keep his mind busy, to keep him from losing another night to solitude.

  At that time in the evening and with very little traffic to speak of, it took the doctor just ten minutes to cover the almost five miles between his home in the neighbor
hood of Southern Heights and the Pima County’s Office of Chief Medical Examiner on East District Street.

  ‘Have you forgotten something, Doc?’ the tall, Hawaiian-looking attendant sitting behind the reception counter asked, looking up from the comic book he was reading. He didn’t look very surprised to see Dr. Morgan back so soon.

  ‘Not quite, Nathan,’ the doctor replied, approaching the counter. ‘How’s the comic?’

  ‘It’s not a comic, Doc,’ Nathan replied, his tone of voice almost defensive. ‘It’s a graphic novel, but this is a really good one. You would probably enjoy it.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe I should give it a go sometime.’

  ‘All you have to do is ask, Doc. I’ve got a room full of these.’

  Dr. Morgan smiled passively. ‘We should have just received a body in the last hour or so – African American male, thirty years of age, identified as Timothy Davis?’

  Nathan put down his graphic novel and turned his attention to the computer on the counter in front of him.

  ‘We have indeed,’ he replied after performing a quick search. ‘Apparent homicide. The body came in about fifty minutes ago.’

  Dr. Morgan nodded. ‘Yes, that’ll be the one. Can you please get somebody to take it to theater one for me?’

  The attendant checked the clock on the wall behind him. ‘You’re going to autopsy him now?’

  Usually, when Dr. Morgan stayed late or came in early, he dealt mainly with paperwork.

  ‘That’s the idea.’

  ‘But . . . the body hasn’t been prepped yet,’ the attendant announced, looking slightly surprised.

  Before any post-mortem examination, every body needed to be properly prepared. That meant undressed, if the case called for it, then sprayed with fungicide and thoroughly washed with disinfectant soap before being moved into an autopsy theater. That job usually fell to morgue orderlies, but since Timothy Davis’s body had arrived after closing time, it had simply been moved into a cold chamber.

  ‘Do we have anyone around who would be able to prep the body while I get ready?’ the doctor asked.