by Chris Carter
Standing with his back toward them, facing the window, Thomas Paulsen nodded at the view but didn’t bother turning around. ‘Thank you, Joanne.’
The PA swiftly stepped out of the room, soundlessly closing the doors behind her.
Hunter and Garcia stood by the entrance, quickly assessing the office: more black leather and sumptuous rugs. Two recessed bookcases containing books on computer programming languages, Internet security and finance shared the north wall with even more expensive-looking works of art. Hunter knew that the south wall was what was known as the Ego Wall – a potpourri of framed photos showing Thomas Paulsen grinning and shaking hands with well-known and not-so-well-known celebrities, certificates attesting that he was highly skilled and qualified, and a few shiny plaques producing clear proof that he had been justly recognized over the years.
‘This is indeed a beautiful city, isn’t it, gentlemen?’ Paulsen said, still facing the window. He was tall and broad-shouldered with a physique that even under his elegant pin-striped suit was easy to tell was lean and strong. His voice was dry and authoritative, clearly belonging to someone who was used to giving orders and getting things done his way.
Neither Hunter nor Garcia replied.
Paulsen finally spun around and faced them. He had a thin and remarkably youthful face for a man who was in his early fifties. His short peppered hair was combed slickly back from his forehead, giving him a boyish charm. His light blue eyes seemed full of knowledge, like a university professor’s, glowing with an intensity that was unsettling. There was no denying he was an attractive man, despite the crooked nose that had certainly been broken once or twice. He had a squared jaw, strong cheekbones and full lips. A small scar graced the tip of his chin. Everything about him suggested tremendous self-confidence, but his presence was almost menacing. He didn’t so much as smile, but smirked at them.
‘Would you please have a seat?’ he asked, indicating the two armchairs in front of his desk.
Hunter took the one on the left, Garcia the one on the right. There were no handshakes. Paulsen remained as he was, standing by the window.
‘We’re very sorry for barging in unannounced like this, Mr. Paulsen. We do understand that you are a busy man . . .’ Garcia said in his best, polite voice, but Paulsen interrupted him with a brisk hand gesture.
‘You didn’t barge in, Detective Garcia. If you had, especially without some sort of warrant, I’d have my lawyer here, you removed from the premises and a complaint made to your captain and the Chief of Police so fast you’d probably experience time travel.’ None of it was delivered with anger, or even sarcasm. ‘You’re here because I’ve allowed you to be here. But as you’ve said, I am a very busy man, and I have an important meeting in a few minutes, so I suggest you use this time wisely.’
Garcia paused, surprised by the retort.
Paulsen sensed his hesitation and took the opportunity.
‘Actually, there’s no need for pleasantries, or even beating around the bush, so we can speed things up. I know why you’re here, so let’s just get on with it, shall we?’
Hunter could clearly see that Paulsen’s tactics were to take control of their meeting. He had kept them waiting – not because he was busy, but because waiting time irritates and frustrates even the most calm of individuals. He had assumed the textbook interviewer’s position of power – standing, while everyone else sat. There had been no physical contact, and Paulsen was keeping a reasonable distance between him and both detectives, making the meeting impersonal, as if he was interviewing someone for an entry-level job. Paulsen was also careful to keep his voice as calm as Garcia’s, but just a notch louder and firmer, stamping authority. Thomas Paulsen was a very experienced man, and the kind who wouldn’t be easily intimidated. Hunter was keen to allow Paulsen to play his game . . . for the time being.
‘You already know why we’re here?’ Hunter asked, his voice calm, its decibel level deliberately not matching his host’s.
‘Detective Hunter, please. Look around you.’ Paulsen lifted both of his hands, palms facing up. ‘I didn’t achieve all this by sheer luck, as I’m sure your file on me would’ve told you already. Sure, I could play dumb with you gentlemen and pretend that I don’t know what this is all about.’ Paulsen looked bored as he adjusted the cuffs of his shirt under his suit jacket. ‘Then act offended and insulted when the real reason finally transpires, but hey . . .’ The smirk came back to his lips. ‘I don’t have that much time to throw away. And I’m sure you could use yours to run around in circles some more.’
Garcia’s eyebrows arched, and his eyes stole a peek at Hunter, who had sat back and comfortably crossed his legs.
‘Why do you think we’re running around in circles?’ Hunter asked.
Paulsen threw his head back and laughed a full-bodied laugh. ‘Detective, please . . . This isn’t a psychoanalysis session. Your “double-meaning” questions will get you nowhere, and—’ he checked his watch ‘—tick-tock, tick-tock, time’s a wasting . . . for you at least.’
Paulsen spoke and carried himself like a man with zero worries in life. He placed both hands inside his trouser pockets and walked around to the front of his desk. Before Hunter or Garcia could formulate the next question, he spoke again.
‘But OK, let me indulge you, just this once. The reason why you’re here is because of your investigation into this . . . shall I say . . . “Internet show murderer”? And because Christina Stevenson was one of the victims.’ He allowed his eyes to move from Hunter’s face, to Garcia’s, and then back to Hunter’s before nodding confidently. ‘Yes, I watched the broadcast too. Superb, wasn’t it?’ He tagged the question with a chuckle.
No reply.
Paulsen moved on.
‘And you’re running around in circles because you’re here, in my office. And the only reason why you’re here is because you’ve got nothing . . . not a thing. I’m the only “person of interest” you’ve got on your list, isn’t that what you cops call someone like me?’ He smiled sarcastically. ‘And the only reason I am a “person-of-interest” is because an article written by Miss Stevenson months ago has set off the most negligible of bleeps on your radar. If you had anyone else of more substance on your list, any other “person of interest”, you would be talking to him, her or them, not me. This is a panic visit. You know it, and I know it.’
‘And what makes you think that we haven’t talked to others already?’ Garcia asked.
Another laugh from Paulsen. ‘The desperate look on your faces is a pretty good giveaway.’ He paused. Checked his watch again. ‘The evasive words in your press conference last night.’ An unconcerned shrug. ‘You look and sound defeated . . . out of options. Everyone can see it. And you’re here now to try to assess me.’ He adjusted his tie. ‘So let me help you with that. Am I glad that Christina Stevenson is dead? Delighted. Do I feel bad because she was tortured before being murdered? Not even a little bit. Do I have the knowledge, the IQ, the means and the nerve to do something like that, and then vanish into cyberspace before you even knew what hit you? You bet your bottom dollar I do. Did I know yesterday’s victim? Maybe, maybe not. What difference would it make? Could I be behind these murders? Possibly. Did I ever threaten Christina Stevenson after her article came out? Perhaps. Did I want to make her life hell, like she did mine? Absolutely. Did I succeed? Who cares? She’s dead. Thank you very much.’ He winked at them. ‘Would that be all?’
‘Not quite,’ Garcia said.
Paulsen’s egotism was setting Garcia’s teeth on edge, and he had to take a moment to contain his anger.
‘Could you tell us where you were yesterday in between five and six in the afternoon?’
‘Ah!’ Paulsen lifted a finger in the air. ‘The all-important placement question at the time of the murder. And this is where it gets good, Detective.’ He returned his hands to his pockets. ‘I wasn’t feeling too well, so I left the office early. At that specific time I was at home, alone, in front of my computer, logge
d into pickadeath.com, and watching the show, like so many others.’ A new grin. ‘And before you ask, no, I don’t have an alibi. Would you like to arrest me?’
‘What time did you leave the office?’ Garcia asked.
‘Early enough.’ Another quick glance at his watch. ‘Let me ask you this, if I may, Detective Hunter. If I am behind these Internet murders, and as I’ve said that’s a possibility, what makes you think that you’d be able to catch me?’
Before Hunter could reply, the phone on Paulsen’s desk rang.
‘Oh,’ he said in an apologetic tone. ‘That will probably be my PA reminding me of my meeting. Excuse me for a second.’ He answered the call, listening for a few moments. ‘Thank you, Joanne. I’ll be right out. We are pretty much done here.’
Paulsen put the phone back down and walked over to his office door.
Hunter and Garcia stood up.
Paulsen reached for the door handle, halted and looked back at both detectives. ‘I must admit, these Internet killing shows are terribly entertaining, don’t you think?’ He opened the door. ‘I wonder if we’re going to get another one soon.’
Eighty-Seven
‘What the hell just happened in there?’ Garcia asked as soon as he and Hunter stepped outside PaulsenSystems. His anger now clearly getting the best of him.
‘I’m not quite sure,’ Hunter replied, looking back at the building. ‘But he’d been expecting us. For some time, I’d say. That little show he put on was very well rehearsed.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We barely asked a question, Carlos,’ Hunter answered. ‘Paulsen controlled the whole thing from the moment we entered the building, never mind his office. He kept us waiting for as long as he wanted to, and I’m sure it was just to check how desperate we really were, not because he was busy. In his office, he was very quick to stamp his authority, from body language to tone of voice. He asked and answered his own questions, and timed everything perfectly. I’m certain that he’d given his PA the exact time he wanted that “meeting reminder” call to be put through to his office. That’s why he kept checking his watch. He wanted to get through his script in time. He gave us only what he wanted to give us. And despite the somewhat shocking and suggestive nature of what he said, his words were measured.’
‘Measured?’
Hunter nodded. ‘He knew exactly what he could and could not say. And nothing he did say is actionable on our part. Every incriminating question he asked himself was answered with either maybe, perhaps or possibly. He suggested a lot, but gave us nothing.’
‘We should take him in on “probable cause” anyway, and let him sit in a cell for a while just to teach his arrogant ass a lesson,’ Garcia said, unlocking his car.
‘That was probably what he wanted us to do, Carlos.’ Hunter got in and closed the door. ‘In such a high-profile case, it would’ve been excellent publicity for him and his company. I’m sure he had his lawyers sitting around the phone, just waiting for the call. If we had taken him in, he would’ve been back in his office within the hour, but not before his PA had contacted every newspaper and TV station she could get hold of. His arrest would’ve been deemed as a desperate action from our part, embarrassing the department and earning us a severe ass chewing from high up, if not suspension.’
‘Well,’ Garcia said. ‘I have a very bad feeling about this guy. I think that we should put him under surveillance.’
‘He’s too well prepared, Carlos. He knows that we can’t do that. We don’t have anything to justify the request and the expenditure, other than his arrogance.’
‘And a hell of a gut feeling.’ Garcia started his car and ran an anxious hand over his mouth. ‘Isn’t that what this killer has been doing all along, Robert – playing us from the start? He’s always been a step ahead of us. Like a chess player. He hasn’t made a move yet without first pondering what our response would be. And it looks like he’s got it right every time.’
Hunter said nothing.
‘Well, that’s exactly what Paulsen did to us in there.’
‘I know.’
Hunter’s phone rang in his pocket.
‘Detective Hunter, Homicide Special.’
He listened for a moment before disconnecting and looking at Garcia. ‘They’ve found yesterday’s victim’s body.’
Garcia’s eyes widened. ‘Where?’
‘Maywood.’
Eighty-Eight
The body had been found by a construction worker refurbishing a small, single-story, two-bedroom house near the Atlantic Bridge in Maywood. The killer had placed the dismembered arms inside a heavy-duty black-plastic bag, wrapped the body up in more of the same bags, and dumped everything inside the medium-sized construction dumpster that had been placed in the house’s backyard.
The press was already out there in force, and as Hunter and Garcia stepped out of the car they were hit by a wall of shouted questions and a thunder of camera clicks. Neither detective so much as glanced in the direction of the ravenous pack of reporters.
‘There isn’t much to see here,’ Mike Brindle, the same lead forensics agent from the previous two scenes, said as Hunter and Garcia reached the house’s backyard. He looked ready to leave. ‘At least not forensically. The killer never even entered the premises.’
‘How come?’ Garcia asked.
‘Well, the body was all wrapped up like a postal package,’ Brindle explained. ‘And then dumped inside that construction dumpster over there.’ He indicated the bright red dumpster at the end of the small yard. It looked to be about ten foot long, seven or eight wide and maybe five high. Two uniformed officers were standing to its right.
Hunter, Garcia and Brindle made their way toward it.
‘As you can see,’ Brindle continued, ‘the dumpster is pushed back against the yard’s back wall, which is only about a foot higher than the dumpster itself.’
‘The killer drove up the back alley,’ Hunter said, anticipating what Brindle was about to say.
‘That’s right,’ Brindle confirmed. ‘Nice and dark, easy to access, no one to bother him. He stops his vehicle directly behind the house, drags the body and the arms out of the car and quickly throws them over the wall and into the dumpster. Job done. Back into the car, and he’s gone. The whole thing would’ve taken less than a minute.’ Brindle pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, lit it up and took a long drag, letting the smoke escape as he spoke. ‘This killer is a planner. He’d probably been driving around for a few days, scouting for a place to dump his next victim. This house is at the beginning of the road, easy to spot from both sides, front and back. Anyone driving by can see that it’s empty and being refurbished. The bright red dumpster is also easily spotted from outside.’
‘And because it’s being refurbished,’ Hunter added, ‘the killer knew that if he dumped the body late at night, it would be found the next day by the working force.’
Brindle nodded and took another drag. ‘We’ve checked the back alley already. There’s nothing there. Solid asphalt, no tire marks or footprints. A few cigarette butts and gum wrappers, but none directly behind the house. I wouldn’t hope for much.’
They looked inside the dumpster – plasterboards, wood pieces, red bricks, broken tiles, rags and empty cans of paint.
‘The body?’ Garcia asked.
‘On its way to the coroner’s. You’ve missed it by—’ Brindle glanced at his watch ‘—twenty-five minutes. No point checking it here. The body was well wrapped up. If there are any forensics clues to be found, they’ll be on the body itself, or on the inside of the plastic bags. Better to properly unwrap it under a controlled environment.’
‘And you’re sure it’s our victim?’
‘It’s the victim, all right,’ Brindle said, retrieving a digital camera from his bag. He turned it on, switched it to view mode and handed it to Hunter. ‘I cut open enough of the plastic wrapper to expose the head.’
The first picture was a close-up of the man’s face. His eyes ha
d already started to sink into his skull, and the skin around his face and neck had taken a greenish-blue color, making him look like an alien, or a horror film prop, but there were still enough features there for Hunter and Garcia to recognize him. They slowly flipped through the rest of the photographs – a few more close-ups, followed by some wide-angle shots.
‘I’ll email these to you as soon as I get back to the lab,’ Brindle said, checking his watch again.
‘Who found the body?’ Hunter asked, handing the camera back to the forensics agent.
‘The builder who’s refurbishing the house.’ Brindle pointed with his right index finger. ‘He’s in the kitchen with an officer.’
Hunter nodded and turned to face Garcia. ‘Do we have any of those printouts of the victim we handed the press yesterday?’
‘We have a few in the car, yes.’
‘Great, let’s get some of the uniforms to go around this street and some of the neighboring ones too. Maybe the victim was a local. Maybe that’s why the killer chose this house to dump the body.’
‘I’ll go get them,’ Garcia said, already making his way outside again.
Eighty-Nine
The door-to-door gave them nothing. No neighbor or shopkeeper in the vicinity of the house could offer any information regarding the victim’s identity. Many of them had already seen his picture in the morning paper or, worse, had watched the killer’s broadcast the day before.
Garcia interviewed the construction worker who’d found the body. He was a strong man, in his early thirties with tattooed arms, a shaved head and a bushy blond mustache. He and his father owned the small refurbishing company he worked for, and he’d been doing the same job for over fifteen years. He’d been working on that house for only five days, and the job was expected to last no more than another four.
The house belonged to a small property developer, Akil Banerjee, who for the past four years had been investing in disused and repossessed properties, cheaply refurbishing them and selling them on for a small profit.
