Gallery of the Dead

by Chris Carter

  The smile he gave Hunter was full of confidence.

  ‘I know that I can pretty much cold-read anyone I want. Before becoming a reporter, I made a living by reading Tarot cards, palms, auras, rocks . . . whatever clients wanted read. I figured that cold-reading an FBI agent wouldn’t be any different than your regular John Doe.’ He shrugged casually. ‘I was right.’

  Hunter first wondered how angry Agent Fisher would be right about then inside that observation room. Then he wondered what sort of sarcastic comment Garcia would be making. He waited a few seconds. No gunshots. Maybe Garcia kept his comment to himself.

  ‘Right at the end of the call,’ Owen said. ‘That was when it got even weirder.’

  ‘In which way?’

  Owen thought back to the exact wording the man had used over the phone. It took him a few seconds to be absolutely sure.

  ‘He said that we lived in a false world – a plastic world where real, natural beauty was the purest and rarest of art forms. The rarer it was, the more valuable it became. He said that true beauty could not be fabricated or copied, and for that reason, it was becoming extinct. He also said that true beauty should live forever and that he was making sure of that. He finished by saying that he hoped that I would be able to understand and appreciate true art.’

  Fifty-Eight

  The Pima County’s Office of Medical Examiner, which was inside the east quadrant of the University of Arizona in Tucson, was an impressive building, both in size and architecture. Its design was punctuated by modern, sharp lines, and the building was fronted by terracotta tiles and large, squared, mirrored windows; a whole generation away from the historic-looking Coroner’s Office in Los Angeles.

  A Hawaiian-looking attendant greeted everyone from behind the reception desk in the entrance lobby, a dimly lit room that even at that time of night was air-conditioned to a few degrees below pleasant.

  ‘Y’all must be with the FBI, right?’ the attendant said, as he came off the phone.

  ‘We are indeed,’ Agent Brandon replied, displaying his credentials. ‘Dr. Morgan is expecting us.’

  ‘Yes,’ the attendant acknowledged with a nod. ‘He’s on his way.’

  Less than ten seconds later, the metal swing doors to the right and just past the reception counter were pushed open by Dr. Morgan.

  ‘Agent Brandon,’ he said, coming up to the group. His voice sounded fatigued. He was wearing a blue lab coat, with a matching surgical cap.

  ‘Doctor,’ Agent Brandon returned the greeting with a handshake. ‘Thank you so much for your time and cooperation. We understand that after-hours examinations are a very unorthodox practice and we really appreciate your help.’

  ‘It’s not a problem at all,’ the doctor replied. ‘Just doing my job.’ He turned to face the others.

  Dr. Morgan was a slight man, bent a little at his shoulders, with gray, thinning hair. He wore dark-rimmed glasses perched far up the bridge of his nose, and he moved slowly, as if his weight was just slightly more than his legs could handle.

  After all the respective introductions and handshakes, the group, minus Special Agent Brandon, followed Dr. Morgan past the reception counter and through a set of metal swing doors that led them into a wide corridor with strip lights on the ceiling and linoleum floors so clean and shiny, it made everyone’s shoes either click or squeak loudly with every step.

  As they entered the corridor, they were all greeted by a cold, antiseptic odor that lingered in the air and scratched the inside of the nostrils like sharp, angry claws. Hunter and Garcia both hated that smell. No matter how many times they had set foot inside a morgue, neither seemed to ever get used to it, and by the look on both FBI agents’ faces, they weren’t very fond of it either.

  Hunter scratched his nose and did his best to breathe mainly through his mouth. Garcia did the same.

  They turned right at the end of the corridor and came to another set of double doors with two small frosted-glass windows at eye height.

  ‘Here we are,’ Dr. Morgan said, pushing the doors open and guiding everyone into a spacious, but bitterly cold examination room. Inside it, the antiseptic smell from the corridor outside lost most of its strength as it was replaced by a faint scent of industrial soap.

  The theater itself wasn’t much different from the ones Hunter and Garcia were accustomed to back in Los Angeles. Large double sinks against a corner of the room, metal counters with a multitude of tools, white floors, white-tiled walls and so on. The layout might’ve differed, but the contents were pretty much the same.

  The center of the room was taken by a stainless-steel examination table. The body on it was completely covered by a white sheet. Above the table, powerful halogen lights in a circular formation bathed the entire room in great brightness.

  Dr. Morgan approached the body, taking slow, hesitant steps, as if each step got him a little closer to sadness.

  Hunter, Garcia and both FBI agents followed him, positioning themselves to the right of the examination table. Dr. Morgan walked over to the other side and pulled back the sheet, revealing Timothy Davis’s naked body. His eyes had sunk deeper into their sockets. His lips had lost all their fullness and his skin looked rubbery, almost non-human, but despite all that the peaceful and serene look that Hunter had identified on the victim’s face when he first saw the crime-scene photos back in the SUV was still there. Just like the previous three victims, Hunter was certain that Timothy Davis hadn’t died in pain. He hadn’t suffered.

  On his torso, the famous Y incision that started at the top of each shoulder, ran down the front of his chest and concluded at the lower point of the sternum had been stitched up with thick, black surgical thread. The board on the east wall showed the final weight of Timothy Davis’s internal organs.

  As the sheet was pulled back, Hunter immediately noticed the incredible discoloration of the skin.

  ‘I’ve been a pathologist for thirty-one years,’ the doctor began. ‘And in those years I’ve seen things that truly beggar belief, but what we have here . . .’ he shook his head, ‘should belong in a Hollywood movie, not in real life.’ He repositioned himself by the head of the table. ‘If any of you could give me a hand in turning the body over, I’d like to start with what’s visible.’

  Hunter and Garcia stepped forward to help the doctor. Once the body had been flipped over, Dr. Morgan took a second observing his guests before speaking again.

  ‘From the lack of surprise on everyone’s faces, I’m guessing you were all expecting to see these carvings on the victim’s back.’

  Silence ruled the room for just a couple of seconds.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ Agent Fisher replied, her eyes still on the corpse on the table, ‘this isn’t this killer’s first victim, Doctor. The carvings are just one of his signatures. So yes, we were expecting to see them.’

  Once again, and now knowing what to look for, Agent Fisher tried to silently decipher the markings right there and then, but this time the lines across the victim’s back seemed longer. The carvings seemed more compact and closer to each other, with fewer immediately identifiable letters. She tried to blink the tiredness and the headache away, but it didn’t work. She would need a lot more time to figure out this one.

  Instinctively, just like a competitive schoolkid, she peeked at Hunter. His eyes were slowly moving from one cut to another, the look on his face sturdy, full of focus.

  ‘What are they, if I may ask?’ Dr. Morgan tried his luck. ‘Some sort of message?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Agent Fisher agreed.

  ‘Do you know what it means?’

  ‘Not yet, Doc.’ She shook her head. ‘The killer changes the message from one victim to another. They are never the same.’

  Another quick peek at Hunter. His eyes had left Timothy Davis’s body and had refocused on nothing at all. His expression had moved from deep concentration to deeply thoughtful. Agent Fisher knew he had figured out the message again.

  How the hell can he do
that so fast?

  All of a sudden, the pensive look disappeared and Hunter blinked a couple of times before looking at Garcia.

  Garcia had been Hunter’s partner for long enough to be able to decode most of his partner’s facial expressions. Without uttering a single word, Hunter had just told him that this made no sense.

  Both FBI agents also noticed the peculiar look on Hunter’s face and, though they were unsure of what it meant, they could tell that something wasn’t quite right. But maintaining the secrecy of the investigation was still paramount, so neither of them asked the question. They knew that they would find out soon enough.

  ‘If you’ve seen similar cuts before,’ Dr. Morgan continued, ‘then you probably already know that the killer uses a very sharp instrument to create them. Something just as sharp and precise as the medical scalpels we use in this facility. Every one of those markings was made by a single slashing movement.’

  Both FBI agents gave the doctor a subdued head nod.

  ‘So I’m sure you also know the killer’s MO,’ the doctor said. ‘You know how he takes the life of his victims.’

  ‘Asphyxiation by suffocation,’ Agent Fisher replied. ‘Yes, Doctor, we do know his MO.’

  Dr. Morgan met the agent’s stare with confusion.

  ‘Asphyxiation?’

  Even the air inside the room stood still.

  ‘He wasn’t asphyxiated?’ Hunter asked.

  ‘No, he wasn’t,’ the doctor replied.

  ‘Are you sure?’ The question came from Agent Fisher.

  Dr. Morgan looked almost offended. ‘Did you hear when I said that I’ve been a pathologist for thirty-one years? Yes, I’m very sure, Special Agent Fisher.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Doc,’ she said, feeling embarrassed. ‘I didn’t mean it as disrespect. I’m just truly surprised, plus I’m very tired.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ Dr. Morgan said. ‘Have all the previous victims died by suffocation?’

  ‘They have,’ Agent Fisher replied. ‘Every single one of them.’

  ‘Well.’ The doctor indicated the carvings to Timothy Davis’s back one more time. ‘Since you’ve all seen something similar to this before, I can understand how this odd, “Zodiac killer” type of code failed to shock you, but if you were expecting this victim to have been asphyxiated, then you’re all in for a huge surprise.’

  Fifty-Nine

  ‘I guess it’s time for a break,’ the man the FBI called The Surgeon said out loud, as he exited the highway, taking the slip road that led to a small truck stop with a faulty neon sign up front. He’d been driving solidly for the past three hours and he still had at least another three to go. He felt hungry, but not desperately so; what he really needed was a bathroom break and a coffee refill.

  The truck-stop diner was reasonably sized – twelve seating booths, nine of them empty. Against the counter, the man counted ten rotating red bar stools. Their bases were fixed to the floor. A young couple, having their last bites of a hamburger meal, occupied stools number eight and nine, counting from the diner’s entrance inwards. The old-fashioned, black-and-white checkered floor was spotlessly clean, which pleased the man. Outside, a Kenworth, a Peterbilt and a Volvo truck were parked side by side. The load of the Kenworth seemed to be about twice the size of the other two trucks.

  As the man entered the diner, all three truck drivers, who were individually occupying booths one, two and three, curiously looked up from their food to check on the newest arrival. None of them paid the tall man more than a couple of seconds’ attention.

  As the man approached the counter, the short-haired, middle-aged waitress standing behind it smiled at him. It was a courteous and professional smile, the same greeting smile she gave every customer who walked through the diner’s front doors. The red apron around her waist had a couple of finger marks on it – mustard, judging from their color. A pair of dark-framed glasses hung from her neck on a thin cord. Her nametag read Nancy.

  ‘Hi there,’ Nancy said. ‘Please take any seat you like. I’ll be right with you.’

  Her voice, despite being warm and welcoming, sounded tired. Her face looked worn and defeated, which gave away the fact that she’d been working at the same place for way too long and by then had given up on any dreams that she once might’ve had when young.

  ‘Thank you,’ the man replied with a nod, and made his way to the last seating booth at the other end of the diner. He sat with his back against the wall, facing the entry door.

  The menu was pretty much a box-standard, middle-of-the-road diner menu – burgers, sandwiches, hot dogs, mac-and-cheese, ribs and so on. The diner specialty was a meatball sandwich with the chef’s own secret recipe sauce.

  ‘So what can I get you?’ Nancy asked. Her glasses were now perched high up on her nose and she held a notepad and pen in her hands.

  ‘Do you have any meatball sandwiches left?’

  Nancy looked back at the man and the courteous and professional smile returned to her lips.

  ‘Darling, meatball sandwiches are our trademark. We have them twenty-four seven, and they are always fresh, plus they really do taste amazing.’

  ‘Sold,’ the man replied. ‘Can I also have a coffee refill in here, please?’ He handed her a large travel coffee container.

  ‘Of course.’ Nancy took the container. ‘Anything else? Our pecan pie is also quite fabulous.’

  ‘Fabulous?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘With that sales pitch, how can I refuse? I’ll have a slice. And some still water, please.’

  ‘Coming right up.’

  It took Nancy less than five minutes to bring the man his order. She hadn’t lied. The meatball sandwich was nothing less than spectacular. The pecan pie, truly fabulous. The coffee wasn’t bad either.

  The man ate like he had zero worries in life. When he was done, he paid his bill in cash and left Nancy a twenty-dollar tip. This time the smile she gave him wasn’t her regular, rehearsed one.

  As the man walked past the cash register, a clipping on the local bulletin board by the entrance door caught his eye. He paused and studied it for a long moment.

  ‘No way,’ he finally whispered to himself, adrenaline already refilling his veins. He almost threw his head back and let go of a loud, animated laugh, but he wasn’t about to call any attention to himself.

  The man took a quick peek over his right shoulder to see if anyone was looking. No one was. Nancy had gone back into the kitchen, the young couple at the counter had left minutes ago and the only truck driver left, the one in booth three, was too busy devouring his order of ribs.

  ‘Hello, beautiful,’ the man said, his eyes back on the clipping. In one quick movement, he ripped it from the board. As he placed the piece of paper in his pocket, he felt a strange kind of warmth envelop his entire body.

  He now knew exactly who his next victim would be.

  Sixty

  Dr. Morgan’s comment made everyone inside Autopsy Theater One look back at him with concern in their eyes.

  ‘And what does that mean exactly, Doc?’ Agent Fisher asked.

  ‘Let me show you.’

  The doctor nodded at Hunter and Garcia, requesting their help to once again flip the body over.

  ‘When I first saw the body, just a few hours ago,’ Dr. Morgan began, ‘something struck me as odd straight away – the severe discoloration of the skin.’ He indicated as he spoke. ‘I know you have all seen more than your share of dead bodies and probably witnessed just as many autopsy examinations, so I’m sure I don’t need to explain to anyone what post-mortem lividity is.’

  The short silence that followed confirmed Dr. Morgan’s assumption.

  ‘Well,’ he continued, ‘Mr. Davis here showed none. No lividity whatsoever.’

  ‘How is that possible?’ Agent Williams asked.

  Hunter’s heart skipped a beat.

  ‘Because there was no blood,’ he said.

  Garcia and both FBI agents looked at him.

 
‘No blood where?’ Agent Williams asked.

  ‘In his body,’ Hunter replied.

  Dr. Morgan nodded. ‘That’s correct. The victim’s body was practically drained of all its blood. His veins were dry. His brain resembled a lump of stale bread. I managed to obtain a small amount of blood from his heart, liver and kidneys, but I had to practically squeeze it out of them.’

  The doctor used both hands to mimic a squeezing motion.

  It made Agent Fisher cringe.

  ‘The victim had no blood in his veins when he got here?’ Agent Williams asked. He was starting to wonder if he was dreaming or not.

  ‘That’s correct,’ Dr. Morgan reconfirmed.

  ‘Wait a second,’ Agent Fisher said, taking a step back from the examination table. ‘Have I just been thrown into the Twilight Zone here? This isn’t a vampire story, right?’ She addressed the doctor. ‘You’re not going to tell me that he’s got fang marks on his neck now, are you?’ Reflexively her gaze traveled to Timothy Davis’s neck.

  ‘No,’ Dr. Morgan replied. ‘There are no fang marks on his neck. All we have is this small puncture and bruise to his left thigh and an even smaller one on the inside of his left arm.’ He called everyone’s attention to it.

  Directly over the median-cubital vein on Timothy Davis’s left arm, a small bruise could be seen.

  ‘Was he a junkie?’ Agent Fisher asked.

  ‘I found no indications of it,’ the doctor replied with a shake of the head. ‘This bruise,’ he said, referring to the one on the victim’s left arm, ‘is consistent with blood donation.’

  ‘Wow, hold up,’ Agent Fisher said, both hands up in the air. ‘Are you trying to tell me that the killer managed to extract all of the victim’s blood through a minuscule pinprick on his arm?’

  ‘No, that’s not what I’m telling you,’ Dr. Morgan came back. ‘What I said is that this tiny injury and bruising directly over the victim’s median-cubital vein here is consistent with the kind of bruising one gets after donating blood, but I don’t think this was the killer’s extraction point.’