The Caller

by Chris Carter

  ‘Such as?’ the captain asked, turning to face the board.

  ‘Well,’ Hunter began. ‘The first thing he does, after taking a victim hostage, is call the person who will become the player in his game. Someone who is very close to that victim. Someone with a strong emotional connection to them – best friend – husband.’ On the board, Hunter indicated Tanya Kaitlin and Mr. J’s photographs, respectively. ‘His first trick is that he uses the victim’s phone to make that call, and that brings in the first psychological element – surprise.’

  Captain Blake’s eyes narrowed a fraction as she began considering Hunter’s words.

  ‘The person answers the phone,’ Hunter continued, ‘thinking that they’ll be speaking to a best friend or a wife, and that is indeed the impression they get, because according to both witnesses, the first image they see is a zoomed-in shot of the eventual victim. Mainly their eyes, but as the shot pans out . . .’

  ‘Surprise,’ the captain agreed, seeing what Hunter was driving at.

  ‘And as the shot continues to pan out,’ Hunter added, ‘that surprise is immediately followed by the next two psychological elements – confusion and shock.’

  He gave his captain an extra moment. In her eyes, he saw that she had made the connection. He proceeded.

  ‘Then comes the explanation about what is happening and the rules to his sick question game. And with that we’ve got two new elements. First, doubt – because that’s when the mind starts going, “Is this for real? Am I dreaming this crap or what?” Second, an introduction to fear – because if this turns out to be real, then your best friend’s life . . . your wife’s life . . . is in your hands.’

  Captain Blake crossed one leg over the other, the look in her eyes clearly indicating that things were just starting to make sense in her head.

  ‘So even before the question game starts, Captain,’ Hunter carried on, ‘in the space of two minutes or less, the witnesses’ brains have been bombarded by a shower of unbalancing elements – surprise, confusion, shock, doubt, and just enough fear to make them question everything. In the midst of all that, while the witnesses are still trying to figure out if they’re dreaming or not, if they’ve been caught in the middle of an elaborate prank or not, the killer hits them with his first question. An extremely easy question. Something he knows they’ll get right.’

  Hunter indicated both questions on the board: ‘How many Facebook friends do you have?’; ‘Where was Cassandra born?’

  ‘That first question is a very clever question because it essentially does two things, Captain. One: It brings back a combination of “confusion” and “doubt”, because right then the witnesses can’t believe that this game can be real. Not with such easy questions. So they start believing that whatever this is, it must be a prank. And, two: It gives them a false sense of security, because if these are the types of question they’re going to be asked,’ Hunter made a ‘c’mon’ gesture with both of his hands, ‘then bring on this stupid game.’ This time, Hunter paused for effect. ‘And that false sense of security expands inside the witnesses because after all, they’re now fifty percent there. Remember the rules of the game? Two correct answers and the game is over. Your friend is free. Your wife is free. And here’s where this killer shows how clever he really is.’

  Captain Blake pushed a lock of hair away from her face.

  ‘By now, he’s already unbalanced their thought processes without them realizing it and he’s given them a false sense of security, but his trump card is still to come.’

  ‘Trump card?’ the captain asked.

  ‘He’s never told them what the consequence to a wrong answer is,’ Garcia jumped in.

  Hunter pointed at his partner as if he’d given the answer to the ultimate question.

  ‘They have no real idea of what will happen if they get a question wrong, Captain,’ Hunter said. ‘And after that first easy question, the game is now sounding silly. So the killer hits them with his second question. The question.’ Once again, Hunter indicated the questions on the board. ‘Something he researched. Something he’d found out that they should get wrong, but it’s still only a “should”.’

  ‘What do you mean – only a “should”?’

  ‘Think about it, Captain. This killer didn’t just decide to go on a killing spree from night to day. He’s been planning his murders for some time. And he’s very, very patient, because his is a lengthy process. He starts by choosing the victim, someone he taunts with messages, and, from what we gathered, he does it for months. Then he chooses the person to play his question game. Someone close to the victim. Finally, he researches what question to ask them, because the trick is – the question needs to sound easy, but be difficult.’

  Captain Blake nodded. ‘OK.’

  ‘If we are right about this killer finding out which question to ask by scrutinizing social media websites –’ Hunter continued, ‘and I think we are – those posts have been up for months. But even if we’re wrong about the social-media websites, how long do you think it’s been between him finding out which question to ask and the murder itself, which is when he actually asks the question?’

  The captain scratched the top of her forehead, considering it.

  ‘Days, weeks, months . . .?’ Hunter suggested. ‘In that time, both witnesses could’ve very well learned the answer to that easy question.’

  Again, Hunter gave the captain a few seconds to think about it.

  ‘On the morning of the murder,’ he proceeded, ‘Tanya Kaitlin could’ve decided to memorize her best friend’s number for whatever reason. John Jenkinson could’ve decided that this year he would go back to being a romantic husband and surprise his wife by remembering their wedding anniversary, bring her flowers, take her on a holiday . . . whatever. The killer had no real guarantees that they would actually get it wrong, Captain. The best he could do is go for a question that they should get wrong.’

  Captain Blake stayed silent.

  ‘So he strengthens his chances with yet another clever trick,’ Garcia said, taking over. ‘Both of his second questions carried either a number sequence, or a date. It’s a proven fact that number sequences, formulas and dates are the hardest things for the average human brain to memorize.’

  The captain couldn’t argue with that. She always had trouble remembering dates and phone numbers. Formulas? That was a definitely no-no.

  ‘So,’ Garcia continued, ‘going back to where we were: The killer hits them with his second question immediately after he gave them a false sense of security. Both witnesses have told us that with that second question, the first thing they did wasn’t to search their memory for the answer.’ Garcia shook his head. ‘No. They question the question: “What? What do you mean? Wait a second . . .” and so on.’

  ‘Big mistake.’ Hunter again. ‘By the time they actually start searching their memory for an answer, three maybe even four out of the five seconds the killer gives them are gone. And they know this, because he counts them down, which adds to the pressure. Now we have one more element. One that even if the numbers and dates are there . . .’ Hunter pointed to his own head, ‘. . . it could cause them to mix them up.’

  ‘Panic,’ Captain Blake said.

  ‘Almost, but not yet,’ Hunter disagreed. ‘What we’ve got is anxiety, nerves kicking in, maybe even a little fear. So just before the killer counts them down to zero, they blurt out the wrong answer, either because they don’t really know it – Tanya Kaitlin’s case – or their time is up and anxiety causes them to mix up the dates – John Jenkinson’s case.’ Hunter stepped away from the picture board. ‘With that, the killer finally shows them his trump card – the punishment for their wrong answer.’ He nodded at the captain. ‘Now we’ve got panic. And that’s why he used a pointy chisel instead of the hammer on its own.’

  ‘Too soft an impact,’ Captain Blake said, the puzzle finally solved in her head. ‘And all he would’ve had would’ve been a victim with a bump on the head. No pyramid
splinter fracture. Too hard an impact and the victim would’ve either been dead too soon or have been knocked out with a concussion.’

  ‘Correct,’ Hunter agreed. ‘Neither case would’ve worked for our killer because with the first strike he needed two things to happen. One: He needed Cassandra Jenkinson to be in pain but stay conscious. Two: He needed to drive panic deep into her husband’s heart and consequently his brain. And what better way to do that than to make him watch his wife bleed?’

  Captain Blake closed her eyes for an instant while shaking her head.

  ‘A light hit with a blunt instrument wouldn’t have caused her scalp to rupture,’ Hunter added. ‘For that, he would’ve needed a much more powerful strike, and controlling that would’ve been a problem.’

  ‘As soon as he’s got blood pouring down his victim’s face,’ Garcia took over again, ‘it’s game over, Captain. Even if the answer was right at the tip of his tongue, he wouldn’t be able to get it out because the final psychological element is the most destructive of all.’

  Captain Blake had thought that ‘panic’ would’ve been the last of those elements. She frowned at both detectives.

  ‘Guilt,’ Hunter explained. ‘John Jenkinson now knows that whatever is happening is not a prank, and the reason why his wife is bleeding, the reason why his wife is in pain, the reason why his wife is dying . . . is him. It’s because he can’t remember their anniversary date. As the five-second count starts again, his brain is mush. In less than five minutes it’s been through surprise, confusion, shock, doubt, panic, terrifying fear, and now soul-destroying guilt. Add to that the fact that he’s watching his wife being tortured inside his own home and there’s nothing he can physically do to stop it, and any dates or numbers won’t make any sense in his mind anymore. It’s not a fail-proof plan, by any means, but it’s very clever because it tips the odds heavily in the killer’s favor.’

  ‘And that guilt will sit with him for the rest of his life,’ Captain Blake said.

  Her confirmation came in the form of silence from both detectives.

  Sixty-Nine

  ‘Wow! You look stunning,’ Detective Julian Webb said as Dr. Gwen Barnes pulled open her front door. She wore a white knee-length cocktail dress with spaghetti straps, revealing well-toned arms and legs. Her clutch bag, decorated with rhinestones, matched her platform evening sandals. Her hair sparkled under the dying rays of the late afternoon sunlight.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ she replied, giving him a smile that was as inviting as it was mysterious. ‘You look very nice yourself.’

  Dr. Barnes didn’t know this, but Webb was pretty much wearing his everyday work attire – a dark suit with a white button-up shirt and a striped tie. The shoes were black, comfortable and shiny.

  Dr. Barnes checked her watch: 6:00 p.m. sharp. ‘You are . . . exactly on time. I’m impressed.’

  ‘If at all possible, I try to be,’ Webb replied. ‘But in my line of work, it gets hard sometimes. Things don’t really happen by appointment, if you know what I mean.’

  Her smile widened. ‘Yes, I can imagine.’

  ‘So, how have you been?’ he asked, looking past her shoulder and into the house. ‘Everything OK? Did you manage to get any sleep during the day?’

  As he had promised, Webb had called Dr. Barnes in the morning to check on her. She had told him that other than having almost no sleep overnight, everything else was fine.

  She shook her head. ‘No, no sleep at all, hence the heavy makeup under my eyes, but . . .’ she turned her head to look over her own shoulder, ‘everything seems to be all right. Thank you.’

  The look in her eyes as she delivered her last few words made Detective Webb wonder if she was now debating what she seemed so confident about before – that her bracelet had really been taken from inside her bedroom. He decided to leave the subject alone, at least for now.

  ‘Look,’ he said, renewing his smile, hoping to cheer her up a little. ‘I know that we sort of agreed on having coffee, but I was thinking, what do you say if we grab some dinner?’

  ‘I was about to suggest the same thing,’ Dr. Barnes said. ‘But with one condition.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘That you take me to a place where you and your detective friends usually go to.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You know, during your regular day, where do you usually stop to eat?’

  ‘During a regular day I barely have time to breathe, never mind eat.’

  ‘Yes, I understand that, but you do eat, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeeeeees?’

  ‘And I bet you have a couple of favorite places you like dropping by, don’t you?’

  Webb tilted his head from side to side two or three times, accepting it.

  ‘Great, because it’s to one of those that I would like you to take me.’

  ‘Oh no, you really don’t want to go to any of those places.’

  ‘But I do. I really do.’

  Webb looked at Dr. Barnes from head to toes. ‘But you’re dressed so nicely, and those places are proper dumps. Believe me.’

  ‘I can change. It’s not a problem.’ She began swerving her body around.

  ‘No. Please don’t.’ He stopped her. They locked eyes. ‘That really is where you’d like me to take you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Webb chuckled to himself. ‘OK, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  Just over thirty minutes later, Webb parked his car on Hollywood Boulevard, just in front of a tiny pizza place called Joe’s Pizza.

  ‘Here we are,’ he said.

  Dr. Barnes looked at it from the passenger seat and smiled.

  ‘I told you that the places we go on the job are dumps.’

  ‘Is the food good?’

  ‘The food is awesome. Best pizza pie in Hollywood Boulevard. It’s just not the place where anyone brings a date to.’

  ‘Did you say pizza pie?’

  A short pause.

  ‘I did. Do you like them?’

  ‘I love pizza pies.’

  Webb’s face lit up. ‘Oh, in that case, get ready for this then,’ he said, with a proud twist to his tone, ‘because this will change your life.’

  Dr. Barnes was unsure if she could call it a life-changing experience, but it certainly was a habit-changing one. The special Grandma Pie they shared was the best pizza pie she had ever tasted, and she hadn’t laughed so hard in years. As it turned out, Detective Webb was a very amusing person.

  As she finished her last slice, she looked at Webb and smiled again.

  ‘What?’ he asked, looking back at her sideways. ‘Do I have cheese on my chin?’ He grabbed a paper napkin and dabbed it against his chin.

  ‘No. It’s not that.’

  ‘Oh!’ He put the napkin down.

  ‘It’s just that . . . I was worried that we would struggle with conversation.’

  Webb found the statement strange. ‘I’m not sure I follow.’

  ‘Well, because of the line of work we’re in,’ Dr. Barnes explained, ‘neither of us can really talk about our jobs, am I right? I mean, you probably can’t tell me anything about any of the investigations you are involved in at the moment, and I can’t really talk about any of my patients.’

  Webb had a sip of his Dr Pepper before agreeing.

  ‘I for one spend most of my days involved in something to do with my work,’ she said, ‘including weekends, and I have a feeling that so do you.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s an understatement.’

  ‘So,’ she said, ‘I just thought that since neither of us could talk about what keeps us busy for most of our days, conversation would die a death, but I have been proven wrong.’ She toyed with her can of root beer. ‘So far, I’ve had the best time I’ve had in a very long time.’ The inviting smile was back. This time, the mysterious part of it wasn’t there anymore.

  Webb lifted his drink, proposing a toast. ‘Me too. And I’ll drink to that.’

  They touched can
s before a moment of awkward silence took over.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ Dr. Barnes said. ‘I know you’re not drinking because you’re driving, right? But how about we go back to my place, you park your car there, we call a cab, and go have some real fun – tequila style.’

  Webb regarded his date for a few seconds. He liked her more and more as the night went on.

  ‘That sounds great,’ he said. ‘But you’re forgetting that I still have to drive home when we get back from wherever we go.’

  The look Dr. Barnes gave Detective Webb put a definite end to that theory.

  He smiled at her. ‘OK. You’re on.’

  ‘Why don’t you come in?’ she said as Webb pulled up in front of her house, around forty minutes after they left Joe’s Pizza. ‘We could have a glass of wine while we wait for the cab.’

  ‘That sounds great to me.’

  As they approached the doctor’s front door, they both heard Webb’s phone go off in his pocket.

  ‘Just a second,’ he told her, bring the phone to his ear. ‘Detective Webb.’ As he listened to the person at the other end of the line, his facial expression shifted. ‘When?’ He listened for a little longer before drawing an extra deep breath. ‘Motherfu . . .’ His eyes found Dr. Barnes’ and he paused mid-word. ‘OK. OK,’ he said into his phone, breaking eye contact. ‘I’m on my way.’ He disconnected and returned the phone to his pocket.

  ‘Gwen, I’m so sorry about this, but . . .’

  For a second she looked upset, but Dr. Barnes knew better than most what a call like that meant.

  ‘It’s OK, Julian,’ she stopped him. ‘I understand.’ She stepped closer and gave him a peck on the lips. ‘How about you drop by whenever you’re done.’ She winked at him. ‘I’ll keep the wine and the tequila chilled.’

  ‘That’s a deal.’ He smiled before kissing her again, this time for a lot longer.

  ‘I’ll be waiting.’

  Once Webb was gone, Dr. Barnes unlocked her front door and stepped into her living room. Even if she tried to, she wouldn’t be able to get rid of the smile on her face.