Gallery of the Dead

by Chris Carter

  ‘Months?’ Agent Fisher queried, her voice moving up the irritation scale at least a couple of notches. ‘And they never cared to fix it?’

  ‘We’re talking about the Red Cross here, Erica.’ Hunter tried to calm her down. ‘A volunteer-based movement where the budget is tight at the best of times. Fixing a CCTV system in a blood bank in Tucson probably isn’t very high on their priority list.’

  ‘Fine,’ she said, throwing her hands up in the air. ‘CCTV or no CCTV, we still need the names of everyone on duty at the blood bank yesterday morning, together with whoever else was inside that snacks room at that particular time. We need to talk to all of them, and we need to do that now.’

  From his pocket, Agent Brandon produced a notepad.

  ‘There were three volunteer nurses on duty at the center yesterday. A fourth volunteer took care of the snacks room. According to their records, there could’ve been as many as three other people in the snacks room at that time, but that hasn’t been confirmed yet. The only other person we’re sure was in the snacks room with Mr. Davis is the tall stranger, whom the blood center seems to have no record of.’

  ‘No record?’ Agent Fisher again.

  Agent Brandon shook his head. ‘Despite him being in the snacks room, which in theory you can only gain access to once you donate blood, no one can find him in yesterday’s donor’s list. This tall stranger doesn’t seem to be in their system.’

  ‘OK, so how the hell did he get into the snacks room?’

  ‘Maybe the retina scan and the voice-signature security systems were also down,’ Garcia joked, though his voice sounded serious. ‘It’s a Red Cross blood bank, Agent Fisher, not Fort Knox. The room was full of cookies and juice, not gold bars. He probably strolled in through the front door. Nobody would really scrutinize his presence there, would they?’

  Before the agent could reply, Garcia turned and addressed Agent Brandon. ‘What else have you got?’

  ‘Well, all four volunteers who were on duty yesterday are back on duty today. All we need to do to talk to them is drop by the blood bank. And,’ Agent Brandon informed everyone, but his nod once again went Hunter’s way, ‘forensics has already started going through the live fence outside. If you’re right, with a bit of luck, we might get something.’

  ‘Is the blood bank open?’ Agent Williams asked.

  Agent Brandon checked his watch. ‘Yes, they opened a little while ago.’

  ‘OK, so let’s go,’ Agent Fisher said, motioning toward the door.

  Hunter would have liked to spend a lot more time inside that basement room, but preferably undisturbed and alone. Under the circumstances, there was nothing else he could do there.

  Garcia didn’t have to be asked twice. He, for one, was glad to get out.

  Once the group was outside, Agent Fisher’s cellphone rang inside her pocket. As she reached for it, Garcia, who was directly behind her, caught a glimpse of the caller’s photo on the display screen. The image showed the smiling face of a teenage girl with Down syndrome.

  ‘Oh!’ Agent Fisher said, doing her best to hide the concern in her eyes as she addressed the group. ‘You all go right ahead. I’ll catch up with everyone in just a minute. OK?’

  She brought the phone to her ear and though she kept her voice as quiet as she could, as she moved away from everyone, Garcia overheard her first few words to the caller.

  ‘Hi, darling, is everything all right?’

  Those words were flooding with worry.

  As the remaining four rounded the house, moving back toward the driveway, Garcia looked at Agent Williams.

  ‘Cruella DeVille has a daughter?’ he asked, sincerely surprised.

  The agent nodded. ‘She does, yes. Heather. She’s fourteen years old and as sweet as sweet can be. Funny, too. You’d fall in love with her if you met her.’

  ‘Wow. I had no idea. She doesn’t look like a mother, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Agent Fisher isn’t a bad person, Detective Garcia. She’s just—’

  ‘Rude and a massive pain in the butt?’ Garcia beat Agent Williams to the punch. ‘And c’mon, call me Carlos. We’re like old friends now. We’ve known each other for . . .’ He looked at his watch. ‘Almost twenty-four hours.’

  Agent Williams smiled. ‘Sure, Carlos, she can be rude at times, but I was about to use the word “dedicated”. She’s a very strong woman, who’s been through one hell of a lot in the last few years.’ He shook his head to indicate that that was all he was prepared to reveal. ‘This job and her daughter are pretty much all she’s got left, so every day, when she wakes up and grabs those credentials, she gives it one hundred and ten percent. Never less. Yes, to a lot of people she might come across as arrogant, intense, pushy, rude, and no doubt a pain in the butt sometimes, but the one thing you can always bet on is that she will get the job done. And she’ll always have your back. No matter what situation you might find yourself in, if you ever need her, she’ll always be there for you.’

  They’d been sitting inside the SUV for less than ten seconds when Agent Fisher rejoined them. The only seat left was the one next to Garcia.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ he asked.

  Agent Fisher had to do a double take. She had detected absolutely no sarcasm in the detective’s voice. In fact, she could swear that there was concern in his words.

  ‘Yes, everything is fine, thank you,’ she replied, her tone a little skeptical.

  Garcia smiled and once again Agent Fisher picked up no cynicism in his action. For some reason that prompted her to reveal a little bit more.

  ‘I haven’t been home for almost two weeks now. My daughter just wanted to hear my voice.’

  ‘That’s really nice,’ Garcia said, his words sincere. ‘So where is home, DC?’

  Agent Fisher chuckled. ‘Not for any amount of money. No, I’m also in California. Not that far from LA, actually.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  Agent Fisher nodded. ‘Fresno. When I heard that I was flying to LA yesterday, I had high hopes of maybe making it back home, even if only for a night. Unfortunately, The Surgeon had other plans.’ The agent’s harsh look softened a touch. ‘Have you got any kids?’

  ‘No,’ Garcia replied. ‘My wife and I haven’t decided if we really want kids or not.’

  Hunter and Agent Williams were both sitting back on their seats, quite enjoying the scene playing out before them. Agent Brandon was also relishing the unusually cordial exchange between the two, but it didn’t last very long. Just a couple of seconds later Agent Fisher was back to her normal self.

  ‘Why aren’t we moving yet?’ she asked Agent Brandon as their eyes met in the rearview mirror. ‘Go, go, go. We’ve got no time to lose here.’

  Agent Brandon put the car into drive and hit the gas.

  Sixty-Nine Their trip to the Red Cross blood-donation center in downtown Tucson proved to be immensely disappointing. All three nurses on duty could clearly remember Timothy Davis – the very sweet African American gentleman who insisted on calling everyone ma’am – but none of them had any recollection of a tall stranger being at the blood center at around the same time Mr. Davis was there.

  Inside the snacks room they found the same twenty-one-year-old volunteer who’d been tasked with monitoring that room the day before. He was the only one who could vaguely remember this mysterious tall man, but he was unable to give anyone any real details on the man’s appearance. All the six-foot kid with acne-ridden cheeks could remember was that the man was quite tall, about three to four inches taller than him. He remembered that the man was wearing a baseball cap, but he couldn’t be sure of its color. He also couldn’t remember the man’s attire. The kid never noticed the man’s eyes; the man was wearing aviator sunglasses.

  ‘Aviator sunglasses?’ Agent Fisher asked.

  ‘That’s right,’ the kid replied. ‘A little bit like yours, though not as expensive-looking.’

  ‘Did he talk to you at all?’ Hunter asked. ‘Say hello, go
odbye, anything?’

  ‘No, the man never spoke to me.’

  ‘Do people usually?’ Agent Fisher again. ‘Speak to you, I mean.’

  ‘Most of them say at least “hello” or “goodbye”. Some ask if they can take a few cookies with them or what have you.’

  ‘And you didn’t find that strange?’ the agent insisted. ‘A man in a baseball cap and sunglasses . . . indoors, who didn’t say a word to you?’

  Garcia’s eyebrows arched at the agent’s comment about sunglasses indoors.

  ‘I volunteer here whenever I can,’ the kid explained. His voice was beginning to sound a little fearful. ‘I was in an accident three years ago, and if it hadn’t been for someone else’s blood, I wouldn’t be here now. So I donate blood every twelve weeks or so, and volunteer whenever possible. I know this might sound funny, but you do get to see a lot of people coming in here in dark shades, baseball caps and long coats. It’s not really an odd practice. Some people are also very shy. If they talk to me, I always talk back. Try to make them feel as comfortable as I can. If they don’t, I just leave them be.’

  ‘And this tall man in a baseball cap and shades,’ Agent Fisher said, showing the kid a portrait photograph of Timothy Davis. ‘You remember seeing him talking to this man?’

  The kid looked at it for a long instant. ‘Yeah, for sure.’ He nodded. ‘They were talking by the cookie table over there.’ He indicated the last of the three tables in the room.

  ‘Do you remember seeing him coming into the room?’ Hunter asked, pointing at the same door they had all come in from.

  The kid took a moment.

  ‘Actually no, I don’t,’ he finally replied. ‘I don’t remember seeing him coming in through that door at all, but he could’ve come in while I went for a bathroom break, or to pick up some more cookies and juice.’

  Hunter turned and faced the other door, the one across the room from them.

  ‘How about that door?’ he asked. ‘Is that door always open?’

  ‘The exit door?’ The kid nodded. ‘Most of the time, yeah. It helps cool the room, you know? Many donors also like to take their drinks outside to escape how stuffy it can get in here sometimes. Some just step outside for a cigarette. Some people will spend a lot longer in here than they will donating blood.’ He shrugged. ‘As far as I know that door is only pulled to when it rains.’

  ‘Where does it lead to?’ Garcia asked.

  ‘Just a back alley, really.’

  Hunter faced Agent Fisher.

  ‘There’s your answer,’ he said.

  ‘To what?’ she countered.

  ‘To how our subject got in here. I had a quick chat with the girl at the reception desk,’ Hunter explained. ‘Contrary to everyone else at this center, she’s not a volunteer. She’s actually employed by the Red Cross. She deals with all the bookings and schedules and so on . . . computer stuff. She’s also the receptionist, which means that she’s the one who greets everyone who walks through that front door, sits them down and makes sure that they have stuck to the blood-donation guidelines. She has to speak with everyone who enters this center.’

  ‘And she doesn’t remember our tall mysterious man.’ Garcia could see where Hunter was going with his explanation.

  ‘No, she doesn’t,’ Hunter said. ‘She clearly remembers Mr. Davis. She said that it would be hard not to, but she does not remember any tall man coming in yesterday morning, whatsoever. My guess is that our subject simply sneaked in here through the back door. He knew nobody would really question him. He probably even had some sort of false bandaging around his arm just so he could blend in.’

  ‘His arm was bandaged,’ the kid confirmed. ‘I do remember that.’

  Hunter just made a face.

  ‘Good call, Detective,’ Agent Brandon said to Hunter, as the group finally left the Red Cross blood-donation center. ‘Forensics seems to have found the spot where the killer hid in the live fence at Mr. Davis’s house, just like you suggested. So far they’ve managed to retrieve a partial shoeprint, which is already on its way to our lab in Quantico. They are still checking for any fibers that might’ve lodged themselves in the bushes. With some luck, this might be our first real break.’

  Seventy

  To keep the number of reporters down to a minimum, one of the Bureau’s favorite tricks when it came to press conferences was quite a simple one: issue the official press release, which would reveal the time and location of the press conference, as late as possible. The less time the press had to organize themselves the better. In the case of The Surgeon’s investigation, the FBI’s NCAVC decided to give the media only two hours’ notice, which wasn’t much, considering that the press conference was to take place in a boutique hotel in Tucson, Arizona.

  The trick didn’t work.

  News of a serial killer roaming the streets of any US city was enough to get crime reporters jumping for joy. The news of a serial killer practically putting the entire country under siege was almost a once-in-a-lifetime event.

  By 6:55 p.m., the conference room inside the Lodge on the Desert Hotel was packed to capacity. Broadcasting cameras and microphones seemed to be absolutely everywhere. Photographers and reporters were literally falling over each other for a better position even before anyone took the stage. Speculation ran around the room like kids out of control, with an army of voices interweaving to form a totally incomprehensible web of sound.

  ‘Wow,’ Garcia said, cringing at the noise as he and Hunter blended into the crowd by perching themselves between two cameramen right at the back of the room. ‘This place is louder than a Sunday fish-market. Smells almost as bad, too.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Hunter replied. ‘This won’t take long.’

  At exactly 7:00 p.m., Agents Fisher and Williams entered the conference room. As Agent Fisher stepped up to the microphone podium on the small stage, Sunday fish-market turned into Sunday church.

  ‘Good evening, everyone,’ Agent Fisher began. She wore black straight-legged pants with a white satin blouse under a black blazer. Her hair was loose, falling down to her shoulders in ringlets. Her makeup was subtle and professional, but still elegant. Her posture was impeccable, oozing self-confidence. One didn’t need to be a detective to know that she’d done this before.

  ‘Hubba, hubba,’ Hunter heard the cameraman to his right whisper to his friend. ‘Is she an agent or a model? I wouldn’t mind getting me a piece of that.’

  ‘You know she carries handcuffs and a gun, right?’ his friend replied.

  ‘Hell yeah. Sign me up.’

  ‘I’m Special Agent Erica Fisher with the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit,’ the agent continued, before glancing at her partner. ‘And this is Special Agent Larry Williams.’

  Agent Williams greeted the room with a simple nod.

  ‘I’d like to begin by saying that we’re not here to make any sort of statement.’ Agent Fisher’s voice was placid but firm, full of authority. ‘That was made in the press release you received this afternoon. What we’re here to do is answer a few questions.’

  She immediately lifted her hand, halting the loud murmur that threatened to engulf the room.

  ‘But there are ground rules.’

  She paused and let her eyes travel the room. Five seconds later they were back to absolute silence.

  ‘This is a high-profile, ongoing investigation, which means that I will not discuss any avenues we are pursuing at the moment, so please don’t even bother asking. We have very limited time to spare, so right now I’m prepared to answer questions for ten minutes only. That’s all. Do not projectile vomit your questions at me. You want to ask me something, put your hand up like you were back in school. If I pick you, you are a lucky one. If I don’t, don’t start shouting your question over other people’s voices. If this even hints at turning into a circus, this conference is over. I hope I’ve made myself clear.’

  ‘OK, I take it back about wanting me some of that,’ Hunter once again heard the cameraman say
to his friend. ‘She sounds like a nasty piece of work.’

  Garcia didn’t even try to hide his smile.

  ‘All right,’ Agent Fisher said from the stage. ‘Your ten minutes start now.’

  Hands flew up in the air. Most of them were holding microphones emblazoned with insignias – CNN, Fox, NBC, CBS, CNBC, Court TV, and even some international channels like the BBC, 9Live, France4, and several others.

  Agent Fisher’s gaze crawled around the room. She didn’t recognize any of the faces.

  ‘Please,’ she pointed to an attractive dark-haired reporter who was sitting on the fourth row from the front.

  ‘Thank you.’ The reporter stood up and identified herself before asking her question. ‘Lindsay Cooper, CBS News. In the FBI press release you say that this killer has claimed four lives so far. How certain are you of that number? And why can’t the FBI disclose any of the victims’ names at this moment?’

  A Mexican ‘yeah’ wave circled the room.

  Agent Fisher once again waited for the place to quiet down.

  ‘Two questions in one,’ she replied. ‘You no doubt have experience in this.’

  The room laughed.

  ‘To answer your first question,’ Agent Fisher carried on. ‘We are one hundred percent sure of the number of victims so far. The reason we are not disclosing any of their names at the moment is because we have been asked by their families not to. We are respecting that wish.’

  The reporter tried to tag her own question, but Agent Fisher quickly moved on to someone else.

  ‘You,’ she said, pointing at a tall and slim man, wearing a baseball cap and thick, round glasses. ‘Red shirt, right at the back. What’s your question?’

  The man stood up. ‘Alan Curry, representing the LA Times.’ He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. In his right hand he had a printout of the FBI’s press release. ‘Two months, four victims, four different states – other than that, your press release hasn’t told us much else. My question is simple – how do you expect not to provoke countrywide panic with this kind of information? You haven’t really told us anything about this killer. We don’t know who to look out for, or what to look out for. Is this guy going after victims who are old, young, male, female, gay, straight, black, white, tall, short, blonde, brunette . . . what? The four victims, has the killer picked them out of the streets, bars, clubs, colleges, parks, their own houses . . . where? Should we all be concerned about going out at night, or walking our dogs early in the morning? Did the victims share any characteristics that we should know about? Did the killer torture his victims? Is he likely to be timid and socially awkward? Are there any indications that he is an intelligent person, or the opposite?’