by Chris Carter
Hunter looked up at the sky. The clouds were indeed menacing. He took off his jacket and placed it on Tracy’s shoulders.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t really match your outfit, but it will keep you warm.’
Tracy smiled back at him. ‘Will you walk me home?’
‘Of course.’
As they walked, the wind picked up considerably, with the army of black clouds above them gaining strength.
Tracy was glad she had Hunter’s jacket.
They reached her apartment block in less than fifteen minutes and as they climbed the short flight of stairs to the entrance lobby, Hunter paused, his body language a little cryptic.
‘You’re not going to come up?’ Tracy asked, taking a step closer to him. Her green eyes sparkled behind her black-framed cat-eye glasses. Even in her high heels she had to tilt her head up to look into his eyes.
Hunter didn’t reply.
She stepped closer still, so close that he could smell her hair.
‘I think you should come up,’ she whispered, standing up on her toes to put her lips close to Hunter’s.
Their lips didn’t touch, but he could feel her warm breath against his skin as she breathed. Her eyes blinked and the sparkle in them became desire.
Even from up close her skin was smooth and clear.
‘I really think you should come up,’ Tracy whispered again, this time slowly moving her head forward until their lips finally touched. As they did, she parted hers ever so slightly, but that was where she stopped, waiting, applying no extra pressure, controlling her urge. She wanted Hunter to take the initiative, to show her that he wanted her as much as she wanted him.
As Tracy breathed out again, Hunter knew he was lost.
He closed his eyes and kissed her.
Seventy-Five As Hunter rolled onto his back, Tracy lay motionless, her breathing labored, her whole body glistening with sweat, her chest rising and falling in a crazy rhythm, as if she was hyperventilating.
‘Oh my God,’ she said, once she had finally caught her breath. ‘I think I need a cigarette.’
Hunter turned his head to look at her.
‘You don’t smoke.’
‘After this, I might have to take it up.’
They both laughed.
‘I wouldn’t mind a drink of water either,’ Tracy said. ‘Followed by a real drink.’
‘That would actually be quite nice,’ Hunter agreed.
‘I’ll get us one,’ Tracy added. ‘As soon as my legs stop shaking.’
More laughter.
Tracy did get them a drink, eventually, before they made love again . . . then again . . . then again.
As they lay side by side, literally too exhausted to move, Tracy smiled to herself.
‘Do you know what the most incredible thing about tonight has been?’ She quickly paused and corrected herself. ‘I mean, second most incredible thing.’
‘What was that?’ Hunter asked.
‘Your phone hasn’t rung. Not once.’
‘Unless we get a new victim,’ Hunter said, clasping his hands behind his neck, ‘there’s no reason for a phone call.’
Regardless of how intrigued she was, Tracy stayed quiet. All she did was look back at him with interest. She knew that if Hunter wanted to talk, he would talk.
‘We’re all stuck,’ Hunter continued. ‘The entire investigation is stuck. The FBI, us, forensics . . . we really have nowhere to go at the moment.’
Tracy rolled her body on her side, placed her elbow on the bed and rested her head on her knuckles. Her eyes were still firmly on Hunter.
His stayed on the ceiling.
‘Which is a horrible feeling,’ he said, and though it looked like he was about to tell her a lot more, he didn’t.
Tracy maintained her silence. Hunter’s profession wasn’t one that would benefit from positive-thinking comments like, ‘I’m sure you’ll get him in the end,’ or ‘You can do this. Believe in yourself.’
The reason Hunter had opened up to her, even if it had been just a couple of sentences, was because he felt the need to let off some steam, not because he was looking for comfort or reassurance. Tracy knew that very well. She was also very sure that Hunter knew if he ever wanted to talk, she would be right there.
When Hunter had gone quiet for long enough, she knew that that conversation was over.
‘I don’t suppose you’re free sometime tomorrow, are you?’ she asked.
‘Possibly. Why?’
Tracy scooted over and rested her head on Hunter’s chest. ‘I think I’ve mentioned this to you before, but for one week only, the owners of the two biggest comic-book stores in the US are opening the doors to their private collections. Between them, they’ve got some of the rarest comic books ever written. I know that comics probably aren’t your thing, but I was wondering if you’d like to come with me? Tomorrow is the last day.’
‘I didn’t know that you were into comic books,’ Hunter said.
‘I’m not a collector or anything, but I really do appreciate the art, the creativity and the imagination that is put into them. Plus, this really is a rare opportunity.’ She pulled back from Hunter, rolled over on her stomach and held herself up on her elbows. ‘C’mon, it could be fun. We don’t have to stay long.’ The mischievous smile was back. ‘We could come back here.’
‘I used to read a lot of comic books when I was younger,’ Hunter revealed. ‘A lot younger.’
‘Really?’
Hunter nodded. ‘I even had a favorite comic.’
‘And which one was that?’
‘Not a very well-known one, I’m afraid – Morbius.’
‘What?’ Tracy’s head kicked back. ‘The Living Vampire?’
Hunter’s surprise was genuine. ‘OK, I’m officially impressed now.’
‘If you’re into a comic like Morbius,’ Tracy said, excitement lifting her voice, ‘then you have to come.’
Hunter knew Tracy was right. It probably would be fun.
‘Sure. Why not?’ he agreed. ‘What time do you have in mind?’
‘Well, I have a lecture tomorrow at ten in the morning. After that I’m free, but I’d like to re-dye my hair if possible. My roots are starting to show.’ She tilted her head down a touch to prove her point.
Hunter froze.
Sometimes . . . no, make that ‘most times’, not even Hunter was able to explain how his thought process worked. Things just suddenly came to him. His brain would establish the most obscure connections, triggered by words, or images, or sounds, or whatever he had come across. Right then, in bed with Tracy, Hunter had just had one of those moments.
‘Holy shit.’
Tracy looked back at him in horror.
‘Are my roots that bad?’
Hunter jumped out of bed and began getting dressed as quickly as he could.
‘Holy shit,’ he said again, before rushing out of Tracy’s apartment.
Seventy-Six
Agent Fisher stood almost motionless before the south wall inside their office at the FBI Headquarters on Wilshire Boulevard. Her arms were folded in front of her chest, her eyes glued to the large monitor on the left. In her right hand, she had a Bluetooth clicker and with every button press the picture on the screen would fade out, quickly giving way to a new one. Judging solely by how much attention she was paying to every image, one would be forgiven for thinking that she was seeing those photos for the first time, but that simply wasn’t the case.
Agent Fisher had been looping through the same crime-scene photographs that she had scrutinized one zillion times before, but that image-looping process had become a morning ritual for her. She did it every day, as she walked into their office. Maybe she was hoping that a fresh, morning brain, aided by fresh eyes, would perhaps pick up a detail somewhere that, until now, they had all somehow missed.
That hadn’t happened yet.
From his desk, leaning back on his chair and always nursing a cup of steaming coffee, Agent Williams wen
t through the ritual with his partner.
Agent Fisher had just clicked onto the last of Linda Parker’s crime-scene photographs when Hunter walked through the office door. Under his right arm he was carrying a significantly fat document folder. No one needed to ask to know that he hadn’t slept. Agent Williams put it politely.
‘It looks like you’ve been working for most of the night.’
‘Some of it,’ Hunter admitted.
Just as he got to his desk, Garcia walked into the office. He, on the other hand, looked completely rested.
There was something in the tone Hunter had used when answering Agent Williams that made both FBI agents turn and face him.
‘Have you found something new?’ Agent Fisher asked.
‘I think so.’
Agent Fisher used the clicker to turn off the monitor before walking over to Hunter’s desk.
Agent Williams was right behind her.
‘I think we made a mistake,’ Hunter said as the group gathered around his desk.
‘A mistake?’ Agent Fisher asked. Her uncertainty was mirrored on Garcia’s and Agent Williams’ faces. ‘A mistake about what?’
‘About this killer’s crime scenes. About them being a canvas. About him seeing himself primarily as an artist.’
The confusion on everyone’s faces didn’t go away. In fact, Hunter’s words had the opposite effect.
‘Let me show you,’ he said, as he cleared his desk, placing everything except the computer monitor and the keyboard on the floor to his right. He then retrieved four pieces of paper from one of the printer trays and placed them on his desk. Next, he wrote down the four different Latin phrases the killer had carved onto his victims’ backs. For clarity, he wrote their English meaning just under the Latin words. That done, he reached inside the fat file he had brought with him and retrieved a portrait photo of each victim, placing them next to the corresponding phrase.
‘This investigation has been a cryptic maze from the get-go,’ he began. ‘This killer likes to play mind games and I think Adrian was right.’
‘About what?’ Agent Williams this time.
‘About the killer testing us.’ Hunter pointed to the four pieces of paper on his desk. ‘There’s no doubt that the carvings are clues meant for us. And we know that because at first view those clues are hidden. The victims are always left lying on their backs. The carvings are not a visual element in his canvases, if that really is what he’s aiming for, or even an element in the shocking effect of his murders, because no one will see those carvings until the victims are moved, and that will only happen once the investigative team gets there. Still, after the carvings have been revealed, we have to put everything together – the symbol-like lines, the oddly split words, all of it – to finally form a sentence . . . in Latin, which automatically adds an extra layer to his cryptic game.’
‘Ambiguity,’ Agent Williams said.
‘Precisely,’ Hunter agreed, once again indicating the four sheets of paper on his desk. ‘Every single one of these phrases could have more than one meaning, a meaning that doesn’t necessarily have to refer to the crime scenes themselves, but whichever way we choose to look at these clues, it does seem like the killer has gone to great lengths to shroud everything in as much confusion as he could.’
‘Well,’ Garcia cut in, ‘it looks like he’s done a fantastic job so far, because right now he’s got all of us chasing smoke.’ He looked at both FBI agents. ‘And he’s had you guys chasing after your own tails for over two months now.’
Agent Fisher looked at him sideways.
‘And that was what Adrian Kennedy meant when he suggested that the killer was testing us,’ Hunter clarified. ‘The killer made his clues cryptic and ambiguous for a reason – in his mind, delusional or not, only those “worthy” would be able to decipher them, but deciphering the clues was only half of the test. They also needed to be understood, and to the killer, only those with the right vision, higher intelligence, or whatever, would be able to truly understand them . . . to truly understand him.’
‘And what you’re saying is that we misunderstood those clues?’ Agent Fisher asked.
‘Yes,’ Hunter confirmed. ‘I think we did. We thought that they were the killer’s way of telling us that he saw himself as an artist, right?’
‘Yes,’ Agent Fisher agreed firmly.
‘Well,’ Hunter said, ‘the clues are certainly telling us something about him, but they’re not telling us that he’s an artist.’
Everyone paused in anticipation.
‘They are telling us that he’s a collector.’
Seventy-Seven
It was as if Hunter had cast a flash paralyzing spell on everyone inside the office, because for the next five seconds no one spoke, no one moved, no one even blinked.
‘What?’ Agent Fisher broke the spell, quickly followed by Garcia, then Agent Williams.
‘What?’
‘What?’
Awkward looks all around.
‘So what is he collecting?’ Agent Fisher asked.
Hunter took a deep breath before speaking because he knew how crazy he was about to sound.
‘Human rarities.’
Surprise and bewilderment came together to form a very peculiar look, which masked everyone’s faces.
‘Human rarities? What does that even mean?’
‘OK,’ Hunter said, calling everyone’s attention to the first photograph on the left. Next to it was the Latin phrase the killer had carved into the victim’s back.
‘Kristine Rivers,’ he began. ‘Our very first victim. The killer scalped her and took out her eyes. Now have a look at this.’ From his folder, Hunter retrieved the personal file the FBI had compiled on Kristine Rivers and placed it on the table. He then indicated two fields displayed right on the first page.
Hair color: Red.
Eye color: Blue.
‘Now remember,’ Hunter stressed, pointing to Kristine Rivers’ portrait on the desk. ‘This is her official profile, so we’re not talking about her dyed bright red hair here.’
On the photo, Kristine Rivers’ hair, which had been styled into large curls, was fire-engine red.
‘Beneath all that bright red color,’ Hunter carried on, ‘Kristine Rivers was actually a natural redhead.’
Hunter went back to his file and selected a new photo of Kristine Rivers. This one showed her sitting with two other girls on a bench somewhere. Her hair was loose, falling several inches past her shoulders, a gorgeous shade of natural red.
‘According to what we have,’ Hunter added, ‘this picture was taken just a few days before Kristine Rivers was murdered.’
Garcia and Agent Williams still looked puzzled, but from the expression on Agent Fisher’s face, Hunter knew she had caught on.
‘Redhead women make up less than two percent of the world’s population,’ Hunter explained.
‘And the combination of natural red hair and blue eyes,’ Agent Fisher took over, ‘is the rarest eye/hair color combo on earth.’ She looked back at Hunter. ‘I too read a lot.’
‘That’s right,’ Hunter confirmed. ‘The combination of red hair and blue eyes makes less than 0.5 percent of the world’s population. The rarest combination on earth.’ He indicated the Latin phrase the killer had carved into Kristine Rivers’ back.
Pulchritudo in coniunctio – beauty is in the combination.
The puzzled look on everyone’s faces seemed to intensify.
Hunter kept the momentum going by indicating the second photograph from the left.
‘Let’s move to our second victim,’ he said. ‘Albert Greene.’
The photo Hunter had placed on his desk was the same one Agent Williams had showed Hunter and Garcia back in their office when they met for the first time. The picture showed the old man looking up from a newspaper.
‘As we all know,’ Hunter continued, ‘the killer took Mr. Greene’s eyes, nothing else.’
Hunter’s words prompted everyone to move
in a little closer and concentrate their attention on the old man’s eyes.
‘Is there something special about them?’ Garcia asked.
‘There is,’ Hunter confirmed. ‘Something that wouldn’t show in his personal dossier.’
‘And what is that?’ Agent Williams this time.
‘Isn’t there anything on this picture that seems a little odd to any of you?’ Hunter asked.
Three pairs of eyes jumped back to the photo on his desk.
Hunter waited.
‘I don’t see anything,’ Agent Williams replied first.
Agent Fisher was still trying.
‘The newspaper,’ Hunter said, giving everyone a clue.
Both FBI agents’ attention shot to the newspaper Albert Greene had in his hands. They both squinted, trying to make out some of the headlines.
For some reason, Agent Fisher tried to identify the date on the paper’s front page.
Garcia’s gaze, on the other hand, kept moving from Albert Greene to the newspaper then back to Albert Greene.
‘No glasses,’ he finally said.
Hunter nodded at his partner.
‘What?’ Agent Fisher looked unsure.
‘He’s not wearing any glasses,’ Garcia said again.
‘Albert Greene was eighty-four years old,’ Hunter said. ‘Most of us, even if we already wear glasses, will begin to experience a significant decline in our reading sight from around the age of forty-five. That decline will naturally progress as we get older and our eyes get weaker. But that wasn’t the case with Albert Greene.’
‘You got that from a picture?’ Agent Fisher countered. ‘He could’ve been wearing contact lenses here.’
‘He wasn’t,’ Hunter affirmed. ‘I spoke to his daughter on the phone earlier today. He had a few health issues, but for some reason, his vision never deteriorated, at least not at the rate that was expected. Albert Greene never wore glasses. He never needed them.’
‘Never?’ Agent Williams looked unconvinced.
‘When he got to the age of sixty-five,’ Hunter said, recounting what he’d been told by Greene’s daughter over the phone, ‘his daughter made him go to an optician with her because she just couldn’t believe that he didn’t need glasses by then. She thought he was just being his stubborn self, but no. According to her, the optician was surprised at how good Mr. Greene’s vision was.’
