Gallery of the Dead

by Chris Carter

  ‘Sure. Minika and Ralph are on night duty tonight. I’ll get one of them to prep it for you, Doc. Theater one, you said?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Consider it done.’ Nathan gave Dr. Morgan a firm head nod. ‘Would you like me to find you an assistant for the autopsy? I could give Patrick a call.’

  Patrick Wilson was the intern who usually assisted Dr. Morgan with his autopsies.

  ‘No. No need to bother anyone, really. I’ll be fine on my own.’

  Forty-Seven

  As the private jet finally crossed the invisible line that separated South California from West Arizona, the stars that so brightly encrusted the night sky seemed to acquire a different kind of shine, hazier perhaps, less full of life, as if their brightness lost a fraction of its strength the further east they flew.

  Hunter and Garcia both waited for Agent Fisher to continue, but she offered little else.

  ‘The best part is still to come?’ Garcia pushed. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The carvings the killer makes to his victims’ backs,’ Agent Fisher finally clarified. To emphasize her point, she called their attention back to the photo she had just showed them moments earlier, the one where Linda Parker’s skinned body could be seen against a background of blood-smeared walls.

  ‘Regardless of how much experience anyone has,’ she began, ‘this is without a doubt one of the most vicious-looking crime scenes any investigator could’ve walked into. Everything about it screams “brutality and sadism”.’

  Garcia chuckled. ‘You don’t have to tell us, we were there.’

  ‘But despite what this looks like,’ she advanced, ‘pathological evidence tells a very different story – no pain . . . no suffering . . . no torture. Death came fast and through suffocation, which doesn’t make a lot of sense, not here . . . and not with any of this killer’s previous victims either.’

  ‘Until you look at it from a different perspective,’ Hunter added.

  ‘Absolutely.’ Agent Fisher smiled at Hunter as if they shared some sort of telepathic bond. ‘It explains why, despite how brutal this killer’s crime scenes may look, he’s actually merciful toward his victims. He has no reason to hurt them or make them suffer because he’s not after them as people. He’s after them as objects.’

  Garcia made a face at Hunter. Despite him not uttering a single word, Hunter could read his expression like a book – Is she late to the party or what? We’ve been through all this yesterday. It’s like she’s repeating everything I said.

  ‘One thing is for sure,’ Agent Fisher carried on. ‘This killer isn’t dumb. Far from it. Delusional, maybe, but certainly not dumb. He knew that no matter who you were, no matter how much experience you had or even which law-enforcement agency you worked for . . . no one in their sane mind would’ve looked at any of these crime scenes in any way other than a sadistic shitshow.’

  ‘Unless he told us to,’ Garcia said, repeating what he had told Captain Blake the day before.

  ‘Exactly.’ Agent Fisher was clearly getting excited now. ‘There really is hope for you yet, Detective.’

  She indicated one of the ‘carvings’ photographs. It showed Linda Parker’s back – Pulchritudo Circumdat Eius – ‘Beauty is all around her’.

  ‘With this,’ she said, ‘the killer covers the walls around her with blood.’ Agent Fisher rotated her wrists so the palms of her hands faced the ceiling. ‘If we believe that the killer used the Latin phrase he carved into his third victim to guide us to his view of the crime scene, it’s only logical that he would’ve at least tried to do something similar with his first two as well, isn’t it?’

  She indicated a second photo in the ‘carvings’ group. It showed Kristine Rivers’ back – Pulchritudo in coniunctio.

  Garcia blinked first.

  ‘Hold on a second,’ he said. ‘What does that mean again?’

  ‘ “Beauty is in the relationship”,’ Agent Williams replied.

  ‘Or better yet,’ Hunter broke in, ‘ “Beauty is in the combination.” ’

  Garcia looked at him.

  ‘Remember that most Latin words will translate to more than a single word in English? “Coniunctio” can mean relationship, connection, combination, conjunction . . . it depends on the context.’

  ‘And that was the bit we missed,’ Agent Williams admitted, his index finger pointing at Hunter. ‘The context. That was our big mistake. We believed that the killer meant to say “beauty is in the relationship” because it fitted with our original theory – Kristine Rivers’ and Director Kennedy’s family relationship. We believed that the carvings were just the killer’s cryptic way of letting us know that her murder was payback for something that the killer considered Director Kennedy responsible for.’

  ‘But you were wrong,’ Garcia said.

  ‘Yes, we were,’ Agent Fisher said. ‘We now know that her murder had nothing to do with revenge. The killer probably doesn’t have a clue who Director Kennedy is. If we reanalyze the context of the crime, and by context I mean the crime scene as a whole, it becomes clear that what the killer meant was “beauty is in the combination”.’

  ‘As in the combination of the body and the rest of the shed,’ Hunter said, immediately seeing the finishing line Agent Fisher was paving the way for.

  She smiled and picked up the crime-scene photo that showed only Kristine Rivers’ mutilated body on the floor. ‘No other combination would work. Look at this – the body by itself . . . nothing but a grotesque, sadistic image, right?’ She picked up the same wide-angle photo that she had showed them moments before. ‘But in combination with the graffitied walls, the dirty floor and everything else . . . you tell me.’

  For an instant, Garcia held his breath.

  ‘The killer’s message was cryptic, all right,’ Agent Fisher continued. ‘But once deciphered and viewed in the correct context, the message was nothing more than instructions on how he wanted us to look at his crime scene . . . his “art”.’ Agent Fisher once again pointed at Hunter. ‘As we all know, certain serial murderers firmly believe that what they’re really doing is “making the world a better place” or “giving the world a gift” or any old crazy nonsense. And those types of murderers, despite believing that they are more intelligent than everyone else, despite doubting that others could see things the way they see them, despite all their delusions, deep inside they don’t want to be misunderstood. They want us . . .’ The agent reconsidered her last statement. ‘No, they want the world to know how great they are.’

  Not wanting to lose her momentum, Agent Fisher selected one of the two wide-angle shots from the second crime scene – Albert Greene’s bedroom.

  ‘Mr. Greene’s body was left on his own bed,’ she said. ‘Inside his own, spotless bedroom. There was no mess, no blood.’

  The next photo Agent Fisher presented everyone showed Albert Greene’s back – Pulchritudo in oculis aspicientis. Next to it, she placed the printout she had showed them earlier – a messy, unmade bed at the center of a sterile, empty room.

  ‘ “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder”,’ she said. ‘His second message was as much a set of instructions as it was a challenge.’

  ‘Challenge to do what?’ Garcia asked.

  ‘To see the beauty in his work.’ The reply came from Hunter. His tone of voice was steady and pensive.

  ‘Precisely,’ Agent Williams agreed. ‘We think that this time he was challenging us to see the beauty in his work. Why? Because he’s accepting the fact that we might never see beauty in what he does, in what he considers to be art. He’s accepting that what looks like art through someone’s eyes – his eyes – might look like nothing but heartless murder through someone else’s. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” We are the beholders.’

  Agent Fisher addressed Garcia. ‘You told us you believed that what the killer was doing through his carvings, his messages, was reaching out, remember?’

  Garcia nodded.

  ‘And I
think you’re right. The killer is reaching out. He’s trying to show us his vision. Now please bear in mind that all we have are crime-scene photos, which were snapped by a forensics photographer, whose sole concern was to document the scene, nothing else. An art photographer, on the other hand, would look for the perfect angle to bring the composition – the “piece” – to life. Now I have no doubt that that’s exactly what The Surgeon does. He photographs his scenes for his own pleasure. He maybe even films them. What this guy is doing is creating his own gallery of the dead.’

  Forty-Eight

  The Dassault Falcon jet touched down on runway three at Tucson International airport exactly one hour and twenty-one minutes after leaving Los Angeles.

  ‘I’ve already instructed one of our teams back in Quantico to prepare an art-history search,’ Agent Fisher told Hunter and Garcia, as the private jet taxied up the runway. ‘If this killer really sees murder as an art form, if he really is using the crime scenes as his canvases, then there’s also a chance that his inspiration comes from someone else’s work. I instructed the team to search for artists who portrayed violence . . . decapitation themes, skinning of the body, gouging of the eyes, scalping, torture methods . . . anything on those lines.’

  ‘I hope your team won’t mind the heavy workload,’ Hunter commented. ‘Violence and torture have featured in most art periods in history. From ancient and medieval art to Renaissance, to neoclassical . . . all the way until now.’

  ‘Not to mention religious art,’ Garcia added. ‘Which depicts plenty of violence and torture.’

  ‘Our team is the best at what they do,’ Agent Fisher reassured everyone. ‘If this killer has based his crimes on any existing work of art, they will find it.’

  As the plane engines came to a full stop, a black GMC Yukon pulled up by the aircraft. The driver, a tall African American man who looked more like an NFL superstar than an FBI agent, greeted everyone by the air-stairs.

  ‘Special Agent Williams?’ he asked, as the four passengers alighted.

  ‘Yes, that’s me.’ Williams stepped forward.

  ‘I’m Mike Brandon, Special Agent in Charge of the Phoenix FBI field office. We spoke on the phone.’ They shook hands. ‘Welcome to Arizona and to Tucson.’

  The official FBI Headquarters was located at number 935 Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington DC, just a few blocks away from the White House and directly across the road from the US Attorney General. The FBI Academy and research center, considered by many its true headquarters, was near the town of Quantico in Stafford County, Virginia. Aside from those, the FBI had fifty-six field offices scattered around the fifty American states. Many of those offices also controlled a number of satellite cells in a few selected cities known as ‘resident agencies’. There was no FBI resident agency in Tucson and the closest field office was in Phoenix, 107 miles away.

  ‘I’m hoping you have some more information for us,’ Agent Williams said, as they all made their way toward the car.

  ‘I have some,’ Agent Brandon replied. ‘Information is still trickling in. The body was only found a few hours ago and it’s a big house. Forensics is still at the scene and they will probably be there until tomorrow, maybe longer. Too soon to tell right now. They have recovered a desktop computer and a laptop. Both password protected. Both already on their way to our IT experts in Quantico.’

  ‘Cellphone?’ Garcia asked.

  ‘No, nothing yet.’

  As everyone took their seats inside the vehicle, Brandon handed each of them an FBI file.

  ‘The victim’s name was Timothy Davis,’ Agent Brandon began. ‘A thirty-year-old mechanical engineer for Raytheon.’

  Hunter’s eyes narrowed at the name. ‘Raytheon? The weapons company?’

  ‘Technically they are a defense and national security company, sir,’ Agent Brandon replied. ‘But yes, they do produce weapons, among other things.’

  ‘The victim was a mechanical engineer working for a defense and national security company?’ Garcia asked.

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Well, good luck trying to breach his computer and laptop password then.’

  The files Agent Brandon had handed everyone opened with a portrait photograph of the victim.

  The image made them all pause at a brand-new fact.

  Until then, none of them had any idea that The Surgeon’s new victim had been an African American citizen.

  Having interracial victims was a rare trend among serial killers. The ones who would go from one type of victim to the other tended to have their motives firmly grounded in sexual gratification. Their victims, regardless of race, more often than not, were either female sex workers – whom the killers could collect anonymously from the streets – or part of the LGBTQ community, whom they would usually pick up from clubs or bars. But even serial killers who selected interracial victims would usually stick to the same gender, targeting either only female subjects, or only male ones. The double crossover – from female to male and from one race to another – was extremely rare. Another fact that made The Surgeon unique.

  ‘Around 5:40 yesterday afternoon,’ Agent Brandon continued, ‘Lady luck came knocking.’

  ‘Lady luck?’ Agent Fisher questioned.

  ‘Tucson PD received a phone call from one of Mr. Davis’s neighbors,’ the agent clarified. ‘A Mr. Christopher Pendleton, who from his window had seen a stranger breaking into Mr. Davis’s property. Mr. Pendleton was supposed to be on vacation until the day after tomorrow, but had to return home this morning due to a work emergency.’

  Quizzical stares were exchanged by everyone inside the SUV.

  ‘You said 5:40?’ Agent Williams asked.

  Agent Brandon consulted his notes.

  ‘Yes, 5:42 to be exact.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘With the call,’ Agent Brandon continued, ‘Dispatch sent a black-and-white unit to Mr. Davis’s address. After entering the property through its front door, which had been left unlocked, the two Tucson police officers at the scene heard a noise coming from the basement. They went down to investigate it and walked in on a man standing over Mr. Davis’s lifeless body. The man was arrested on the spot.’

  ‘Does this man have a name?’ Agent Fisher asked.

  ‘I’m sure he does,’ Agent Brandon replied. ‘But he hasn’t said a word since he’s been arrested, and since Tucson PD had specific orders not to question him, we don’t have anything. They’re waiting for you.’

  ‘He hasn’t said anything?’

  ‘Not a word, apparently. He hasn’t even lawyered up, yet.’

  ‘And he didn’t have any ID on him?’ Agent Fisher insisted. ‘Driver’s license, a credit card, social security . . . anything?’

  ‘Nope. No wallet, either. Just some cash on a money clip.’

  ‘Fingerprints?’

  A headshake. ‘He’s not in the system. We really have nothing on this guy.’

  ‘And where’s he now?’

  ‘Tucson PD is keeping him at the Alvernon Way Police Station.’

  ‘So let’s go talk to this mysterious individual,’ Agent Fisher said.

  Agent Brandon turned on the engine and geared the SUV into drive. ‘By the way, crime-scene photos are in the separate brown envelope at the back of the folder.’

  As Hunter, Garcia, and both FBI agents retrieved the contents of the envelope, surprise covered their faces.

  The first of the crime-scene photos showed Timothy Davis’s body lying flat on a hospital-style bed. Just like all three previous victims, he had been stripped naked and left lying on his back, with his arms naturally by his torso. His legs were fully extended, with his ankles side by side almost touching each other. The hospital bed seemed a little odd, but what had really surprised everyone was that the body seemed untouched. Timothy Davis hadn’t been skinned or scalped. His eyes hadn’t been ripped from his skull. His hands and feet hadn’t been severed either. At first look, there were no visible wounds, cuts, or even scratches to
the body, until they flipped to the second of the crime-scene photographs – a close-up image of the inside of Timothy Davis’s left leg. There, a small puncture and bruise could be seen around the groin region. The third photo was a facial close-up. Timothy Davis’s eyes were shut, his mouth closed, but the look on his face was a peaceful one, as if death was something he’d been expecting for a while and was glad that it had finally arrived.

  ‘The killer didn’t take anything?’ Agent Fisher asked. ‘No body parts?’

  Agent Brandon looked back at her inquisitively.

  ‘Never mind,’ she said with a shake of the head.

  ‘If you’re wondering about the hospital stretcher on the photo,’ Agent Brandon said, as he drove toward the runway exit, ‘it belonged to the victim.’

  All eyes moved to the agent.

  ‘His wife passed away three and a half weeks ago,’ Agent Brandon explained. ‘She’d been battling pancreatic cancer for some time. As I understand it, once it was confirmed that there was nothing anyone could do anymore, she chose to end her days at home with her husband, not in a hospital. Mr. Davis had a fully functioning setup in the house, hence the hospital bed. He quit his job so he could stay by her side.’

  ‘Did they have any children?’ Hunter asked.

  ‘No, they didn’t.’

  Everyone’s attention returned to the photographs in their files. The fourth and last photo was another full-body shot of Timothy Davis on the bed.

  ‘What’s happening with the post-mortem examination?’ Agent Williams asked.

  ‘Dr. Morgan,’ Agent Brandon replied, ‘the Chief Medical Examiner for Pima County, is probably working on it as we speak. I talked to him on the phone myself. He’ll give me a call as soon as he’s done.’

  Forty-Nine

  The seven-mile drive between Tucson International airport and the Police Department on South Alvernon Way was made in almost absolute silence. Everyone, except Agent Brandon, kept their attention solely on the files they were given.

  ‘Here we are,’ Agent Brandon said as he swung a right into the small visitors’ parking lot to the right of the police station.