Gallery of the Dead

by Chris Carter

  ‘At the age of sixty-five?’ Agent Fisher questioned. ‘But Albert Greene was eighty-four when he was murdered. His vision could’ve easily changed in those nineteen years.’

  ‘You would’ve expected it to,’ Hunter agreed. ‘But apparently that wasn’t the case. Mr. Greene’s daughter told me that since that first visit to the optician, she made him go back every year for a checkup.’ Hunter shook his head. ‘Nothing. Year after year, the results were always the same. Mr. Greene’s vision held steady like a fort. Two years ago, just after his eighty-second birthday, she took him to a clinic to see an ophthalmologist, not an optician, because she just couldn’t believe the results anymore. She was starting to think that the opticians were getting things wrong. After a battery of tests, the ophthalmologist confirmed that Mr. Greene’s vision had indeed deteriorated, but at a much, much slower rate than what would be considered normal. At eighty-four years old his vision was as good as might be expected of a person less than half his age.’

  ‘How’s that even possible?’ Agent Williams asked.

  ‘That’s the problem,’ Hunter replied. ‘It’s not supposed to be, but there have been a few isolated cases registered around the world where a person’s organ has failed to age at the normal rate – eyes, liver, auditory system, heart – the cases are few and far between, but they do exist. It’s a type of nerve and muscle hypertrophy. Mr. Greene was one of these rare cases; his eyes were unique.’

  Hunter indicated the Latin phrase that corresponded to Albert Greene – Pulchritudo in oculis aspicientis – ‘Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.’

  Agent Fisher was starting to get fidgety.

  ‘There’s one more detail,’ Hunter added. ‘Can you remember the job Albert Greene did before he retired?’

  ‘Janitor,’ Garcia replied. ‘He was a school janitor his whole life, isn’t that right?’

  ‘Not his whole life,’ Agent Williams corrected him. ‘For his last nine working years he was the main CCTV control-room operator for Maple Hills high school.’

  ‘That’s correct,’ Hunter said. ‘In other words, he was an observer. He spent his days watching students through video cameras.’

  ‘So?’ Agent Fisher failed to see the relevance.

  ‘Fuck!’ Agent Williams didn’t manage to keep his remark quite under his breath.

  Agent Fisher’s surprised eyes shot in his direction. Despite having worked with him for over seven years now, she couldn’t remember ever hearing Agent Williams curse.

  ‘By definition that’s what a “beholder” is, Erica,’ Agent Williams clarified. ‘An observer.’

  ‘Given how much thought this killer puts into everything he does,’ Hunter said, ‘I don’t think that that was a coincidence. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. The killer isn’t talking about us being able to see the beauty in what he did. He’s literally talking about the eyes of the beholder.’

  ‘This is absolutely mad,’ Garcia said.

  ‘What about Linda Parker – the LA victim, and Timothy Davis from Tucson?’ Agent Williams asked. ‘How do they fit into this new . . . “collector” theory of yours?’

  Hunter held everyone’s stare for an extra second.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘This is where it gets even more interesting.’

  Seventy-Eight

  Hunter placed a new photo on the table for everyone to see. It showed Linda Parker’s skinned body lying on blood-soaked sheets inside her bedroom.

  ‘As Dr. Hove suggested,’ he began, indicating the amputations the killer had performed, ‘despite the professional standard of the amputations, we assumed that the killer had taken Linda Parker’s hands and feet to aid the job of skinning her body, but it appears that we have assumed wrong.’

  ‘The killer wanted to keep her hands and feet?’ Agent Williams asked. ‘Why?’

  ‘Late yesterday,’ Hunter explained, ‘our Operations team finished compiling a very extensive dossier on Linda Parker, including a thorough section on her modeling career. We already knew that the bulk of her work came from catalog shoots, right?’

  Everyone nodded.

  ‘OK, what we didn’t know was that Linda Parker was one of the most requested hands, feet and cosmetic models in Los Angeles, shooting for catalogs and adverts that ran all over the world, not only in the USA.’

  Hunter retrieved a pile of photographs from his folder and placed them on his desk.

  ‘These are just a few of the photos Operations have sent over.’

  He began flipping through the first batch of photographs – a series of close-up images showing only Linda Parker’s hands and feet. The images advertised a variety of products, ranging from false nails to jewelry, to sandals, to nail varnish, to moisturizing creams and beyond.

  ‘There’s a reason why Linda Parker was one of the most requested models when it came to these sorts of adverts,’ Hunter explained. ‘Her hands and feet were considered perfectly balanced and symmetrical.’

  ‘Perfectly balanced and symmetrical?’ Agent Fisher intervened. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It’s got to do with the shape, curvature and the size ratios: how long the fingers and toes are in comparison not only to each other, but also to the palms and feet.’

  ‘You’re kidding, right?’

  ‘Not even a little bit. In the same way that clothes companies look for specific-sized models for specific items, shoe, jewelry, and cosmetic companies look for models with the most perfect hands, feet and skin they can find. That alone can boost sales by about five to ten percent.’

  ‘I’ll admit,’ Agent Williams said, his attention still on the photos Hunter was showing them, ‘her hands were very attractive. Very delicate.’

  The next series of advert photographs Hunter showed them were facial and body close-ups of Linda Parker, all of them advertising a variety of cosmetic products.

  ‘Her skin was also considered ideal for cosmetic advertisements – no blemishes, no marks, no freckles . . . nothing. So much so that in the past two years, she graced the cover of no fewer than fifteen dermatological magazines, not only in this country, but also abroad.’

  Hunter showed them all fifteen magazine covers.

  Silence once again ruled the room.

  Hunter indicated the phrase the killer had carved into Linda Parker’s back.

  Pulchritudo Circumdat Eius – ‘Beauty surrounds her.’

  Garcia’s brain was the first to engage.

  ‘As in the skin that surrounds her body,’ he said in a thoughtful tone. ‘Not the room that surrounded her dead body.’

  ‘Precisely,’ Hunter agreed. ‘The killer wanted her skin. He wanted her hands and feet because they were “perfect”.’

  Hunter spread the photographs over his desk.

  Eyes moved in all directions, jumping from picture to picture, trying to take in everything.

  ‘So if we follow your line of thought,’ Agent Williams said, ‘there has to be something special about Timothy Davis’s blood.’

  Hunter placed Timothy Davis’s autopsy report on the desk and flipped it to the second page, where he indicated the third entry from the top.

  Blood type: AB-

  From his folder, Hunter retrieved the FBI file on Timothy Davis that Agent Brandon had given them back at the airport in Tucson. The information he was looking for was right on the first page. He placed the file on the desk, next to the autopsy report.

  ‘Timothy Davis’s mother’s name was Anjana.’ He indicated on the file as he explained. ‘And though she was born in the USA, she was of Asian-Indian descent. His father’s name was Terrence and he was a Deep-South African American, born and raised in Madison, Alabama.’ He brought the autopsy report back to the top of the pile before clarifying. ‘AB Negative is the rarest type of blood in the world. In the USA, it comprises less than two percent of the population. That number drops significantly when we divide the population into ethnic groups. In African Americans the frequency is less than 0.3 percent. In Asian Amer
icans less than 0.1. If you combine the two ethnic groups together . . .’

  Hunter once again indicated the information concerning Timothy Davis’s mother – Asian-Indian descent – then the information concerning his father – African American.

  ‘We’re talking a negligible number of the population here. When it comes to blood type, due to his heritage, Timothy Davis was one in five million. He had the rarest of all blood types running through his veins.’

  Hunter indicated the Latin phrase the killer had carved into Timothy Davis’s back.

  Pulchritudo habitantem in interius – ‘beauty lives on the inside.’

  ‘The killer’s phrases aren’t allusions to his crime scenes. They aren’t a set of instructions on how to look at his work. They are direct references to what he takes – eyes, hair, skin, feet, hands, blood . . .’

  Hunter returned to his folder.

  ‘We have one more detail,’ he said. ‘The phone conversation between our killer and Owen Henderson, the freelance reporter he called in Phoenix. You have all received the official transcript yesterday, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The killer’s last few words to Owen Henderson over the phone,’ Hunter carried on. ‘After he gave Owen the instructions on how to get to Timothy Davis’s house. At first, I couldn’t make any real sense of what he’d said, but now . . .’

  Hunter placed a copy of the transcript on his desk. To emphasize his argument he had underlined a few key words.

  We live in a false world – a plastic world where real, natural beauty is the purest and rarest of art forms. The most valuable of art forms. True beauty cannot be fabricated or copied, and for that reason, it’s becoming extinct, but true beauty should live forever. I am making sure of that. I hope that you will be able to understand and appreciate true art.

  ‘He’s talking about pure, true, natural beauty,’ Hunter said, once everyone had finished reading the transcript. ‘A rare kind of beauty that cannot be fabricated or copied.’

  ‘His victims’ body parts,’ Agent Williams concluded.

  Hunter nodded once. ‘And he finishes by saying, “True beauty should live forever. I am making sure of that.” So how do you think he’s making sure of it?’

  Garcia and both FBI agents exchanged worried looks.

  Hunter addressed Agent Fisher.

  ‘I think you’re right, Erica, the killer is probably creating some sort of “gallery of the dead”, but not from pictures he takes at the crime scenes. He’s creating his gallery from their body parts. To him, they’re much more than simple trophies. They are items of true, rare beauty that cannot be copied or duplicated, and the only way he can make sure that those items will live forever is by preserving them.’

  Hunter brought everyone’s attention back to the photographs on his desk.

  ‘He’s not creating art. He’s collecting it.’

  Seventy-Nine

  The door closed behind him with a muffled thud, but the man didn’t move. Not for a while. He simply stood there, admiring the room he had created with his own hands.

  It had taken him almost two years to transform the space down in his basement into exactly what he wanted, but the time and effort he had put into it had clearly paid off. The room – his gallery – was nothing less than magnificent.

  The man closed his eyes and breathed in the stale air inside the oddly shaped room. As the air traveled into his nostrils, bringing with it a very familiar chemical scent, his skin turned into gooseflesh.

  The man adored that smell.

  He kept his eyes closed for a full minute, savoring every second, allowing the anticipation to build up inside him. He could feel his lungs expanding and collapsing with every breath, his heart beginning to increase its rhythm, his muscles tensing ever so slightly.

  Satisfied and somewhat intoxicated by the ecstasy of it all, the man reopened his eyes, switched on the lights and refocused on the wall across the room from him. It was lined with long wooden shelves which had been divided into separate, different-sized compartments, each holding a clear glass jar illuminated by a special light, designed to best bring out the details of the jars’ contents.

  As the man approached his gallery he paused, smiling, admiring his own work . . . his unique collection.

  The man lifted his right hand and allowed the tips of his fingers to brush against one of the jars. As his skin came into contact with the smooth, clear glass, a new wave of exhilaration shot through his body, filling him with energy.

  He pulled back his hand and stared into the empty jar.

  His plan was almost complete. His most audacious plan yet. Soon, that jar would be filled, but first he had to teach the FBI a lesson – one that they would never, ever forget.

  Eighty

  ‘But how about the crime scenes staged as a canvas?’ Agent Fisher asked. ‘Was that just a coincidence?’

  ‘Maybe they never really were staged as a canvas,’ Hunter said, and quickly decided to better explain his logic. ‘We see what we want to see. That’s the way the human brain works. At first, when you believed that Kristine Rivers’ murder had been vengeance against Adrian Kennedy, you managed to link the killer’s Latin phrase – beauty is in the relationship – to that theory, remember? You assumed that the killer was talking about a family relationship. The same happened with the second victim and the second crime scene. You linked that Latin phrase – beauty is in the eye of the beholder – to the theory you had at the time, believing that the killer was maybe referring to something Albert Greene had seen, which was improbable, but still plausible. It was the killer’s third outing, Linda Parker, that put an end to the “payback” theory. You just couldn’t link all three victims to a revenge act. Understandably, after spending two months going down wrong avenues and dead-end streets the FBI was frustrated. Then along came a new possible theory, which fitted the third crime scene well, but not the others. Still, frustration, pressure, desperation and the need for answers has a way of forcing the human brain to take different points of view, and that’s what we did. We were desperate. We needed something we could work with because we had nothing. The art-piece theory was a possibility, so just like with the payback one, we shaped our point of view, we found an angle and we made it fit.’

  ‘And aren’t we doing the same with this new “collector” theory?’ Agent Fisher asked. ‘I’ll admit that it does fit into place a little better than anything we had before, but it isn’t any less crazy. And figuring out what this killer is actually doing – whether it’s creating works of art with his crime scenes, or collecting rare human body parts, which he extracts from his victims so he can preserve them – doesn’t really get us any closer to catching him.’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that,’ Garcia said, beating Hunter to the punch.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘If Robert is right about this,’ Garcia explained, ‘if what this killer is really doing is collecting rare body parts to create his own gallery, or to make a casserole, or whatever, then Robert’s theory would also explain the one thing that we were having trouble linking to the “art” theory.’

  ‘And what would that be?’ Agent Fisher asked.

  ‘The victim-selection process.’ This time it was Agent Williams who beat Garcia to the punch, his tone thoughtful, his eyes back on the photos on Hunter’s desk.

  ‘The victim-selection process,’ Hunter agreed, rearranging some of the photographs. ‘How are these victims being chosen? Why are they being chosen? That was the one piece of the puzzle that we just couldn’t slot into place. The best we could come up with was a random selection process, but if this killer really is collecting rare body parts, then there’s nothing random about his victim selection. On the contrary, it’s very specific. That’s why he travels. He’ll go to wherever they are because these people are unique, and what they have to offer him – real, natural beauty – cannot be fabricated or copied.’

  Agent Fisher’s jaw tensed. If Hunter was correct, t
hen the victim-selection process was not random. The killer wasn’t driving around, picking his victims off the streets by flipping a coin. He knew who his victims would be beforehand and that gave them something they could work with.

  ‘So how is he finding them?’ she asked, her voice gaining a new, excited tone. ‘How would anyone find people with rare conditions or something unique or special about them like rare blood type, rare eye color, or whatever? Medical records?’

  ‘Very possibly,’ Agent Williams agreed, excitement also finding its way into his voice. ‘The information the killer would’ve needed to guide him to most of his victims could’ve easily been found through medical records, with the exception of Linda Parker.’

  ‘The killer wouldn’t need her health records to find out about how perfect her skin, her hands and feet were,’ Hunter cut in. ‘That information was available on her website and on every single one of her social-media pages. And since she’s registered as a public figure, all of her profiles are visible to absolutely everyone.’

  ‘Still,’ Agent Williams said, ‘our best bet right now is indeed health records, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sure,’ Garcia replied. ‘But I think maybe we’re forgetting something here. There’s no Universal Health Records Archive; no national unified database for medical records, which means that running a search across the whole of the United States for something like specific blood types, or specific eye/hair color combinations, or anything else using only health records is impossible, so how is the killer able to do it? Unless he has managed to tap into the database of every major hospital in the USA, which is a pretty impossible task, how is he—’

  ‘Health insurance,’ Hunter interjected.

  Everyone looked at him.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said to Garcia. ‘Health records can’t be shared, but health-insurance companies do have central databanks and the information in them can be shared between all the branches and subsidiaries of the same insurance group, no matter which city they’re in. If the killer has managed to hack into the database of any of the top health-insurance companies in this country, he would have access to millions of health records from people all over the land. Finding his victims would be just a question of time.’