Chris Carter - I Am Death

When Garcia had found out that Hunter enjoyed coffee just as much as he did, he had been more than happy to share a few secrets with his partner. One of those secrets was a special blend of Brazilian coffee produced only in the southeastern estate of Minas Gerais, by a small independent farm with a unique recipe. It was grounded finer than most blends and roasted at a lower initial temperature, preventing it from over-roasting and giving it a stronger but smoother taste. It had quickly become Hunter’s favorite blend, but the only shop that sold it in the whole of Los Angeles had closed down.

Garcia smiled and from his rucksack retrieved two one-kilo bags of the special blend, placing them on Hunter’s desk.

‘Someone I know just got back from Brazil last night.’

Hunter’s face told a happy story.

‘Yes,’ he said, looking like a kid who’d just received the Christmas present he was hoping for. ‘I’d love a fresh cup of coffee.’

As he walked over to the coffee machine, Garcia picked up one of the transcribed notes from the floor. The handwriting was an almost perfect match to the original. He craned his neck and looked over his partner’s shoulder at the pile of copies on his desk.

‘You transcribed the note?’

Hunter shrugged. ‘A few times, yeah. I was trying to look at it from different angles.’

‘You mean, think like the killer.’

This wasn’t the first time that Hunter and Garcia had had to deal with a killer who liked to taunt the police with written notes or images.

‘I didn’t go as far as transcribing it,’ Garcia said, placing the note back on Hunter’s desk before filling the machine with ground coffee and adding water. ‘But I also barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes,’ he nodded at the notes, ‘that’s what I saw.’

‘And?’ Hunter’s interest grew.

Garcia shook his head. ‘I’m not sure what to think, Robert. To me, most of it comes across as if this killer is your “straight out of a textbook sociopath”. You know — delusions of grandeur and all. He probably believes he’s above everyone else in every aspect, especially intellectually, being way too smart to ever make a mistake or get caught. That’s the reason for the note, isn’t it? Defiance. Come catch me if you think you can.’

Hunter agreed with a silent nod.

‘What he did to the first victim,’ Garcia continued, the expression on his face morphing into one of disgust, ‘the abduction, the torture, the violation, everything — shows that he has achieved such a high level of emotional detachment from other human beings that he’s now clearly unable to feel anything other than anger, or rage, or perhaps repugnance. There’s no remorse, guilt, compassion, pity, love, nothing — no sort of affectionate sentiment of any kind. I’m not even sure if he ever did feel those things.’

The coffee finished brewing. Garcia filled two cups and took one over to Hunter.

‘Thanks,’ Hunter said. The strong aroma of the special brew made him smile.

‘And then there’s the really scary part,’ Garcia said.

‘Which is?’ Hunter asked.

‘This.’ Garcia pointed at the killer’s sign-off on his note — I AM DEATH. ‘Giving yourself your own pseudonym?’ He chuckled. ‘That’s the pinnacle of arrogance, isn’t it? Son of Sam, The Happy Face Killer, The BTK Killer, The Zodiac Killer, Jack the Ripper, whoever... they all did it because they all believed that they were special.’

‘Back to delusions of grandeur,’ Hunter said.

‘And then some,’ Garcia agreed. ‘But what we do know about serial killers who like to name themselves is that they’ve been planning their murders for a long time, and they intend to carry on murdering for even longer. That’s the scary bit. That’s why they like to torment the authorities with notes, or images or what have you. Because a letter to the authorities constitutes a very bold challenge — the note is like a formal invitation to turn the investigation into a cat-and-mouse chase — a game where they create the rules, and they can change them whenever they see fit. And since they decided to turn it into a game, they might as well make it fun. And we have just been dragged into that game.’

Hunter couldn’t disagree with anything Garcia had said.

What Garcia also knew was that killers who liked taunting authorities with messages tended to hide clues deep within those messages, sometimes in cryptic format. And Garcia knew no one better at reading between the lines than Hunter.

‘OK,’ Garcia said, once again indicating the transcribed notes on Hunter’s desk. ‘Now it’s your turn. Have you come up with anything?’

Hunter gave his partner a shabby shake of the head. ‘The note clearly isn’t written in riddle format, and if there is any double meaning to anything I haven’t been able to find it. In fact, the more I read it, the more I copied it, the more of the opposite feeling I got.’

‘Opposite feeling?’ Garcia looked a little confused. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Whoever wrote this note put a lot of effort into it, Carlos, carefully choosing every word. And here’s the twisted bit. He didn’t do it to confuse us, on the contrary. He did it to leave the least amount of doubt possible.’

Garcia paused what he was doing, turned toward his partner and allowed his gaze to settle on the note on Hunter’s desk.

‘OK,’ Hunter said. ‘Let’s try to break this down into parts.’

He slid a copy of the note to the edge of his desk. His coffee had finally cooled down enough for him to have his first sip. It tasted like paradise.

‘Have a look just at the first and second paragraphs and tell me what you think they mean. Don’t try to read between the lines or find any double meanings to anything. Just read them and tell me what you think.’

Garcia didn’t bring his chair around. Instead, he just leaned over Hunter’s desk, placing both hands on the desktop.

People in this city put their trust in law enforcement agencies like the LAPD, and sometimes even the FBI, to keep them safe, to help those who can’t help themselves, to right them when they’re wronged, to protect them, and to seek justice no matter what.

Those agencies are supposed to be the best of the best. The experts when it comes to reading people and discerning good from evil. But the truth is that they only see what they want to see. And the problem with that is that when they play at being blind men, people suffer... people get tortured... and people die.

Garcia read the paragraph three times before scratching his chin and looking back at Hunter.

‘He’s preaching, being condescending even, reminding us of who we are, what our job is, what the public expect of us, and what happens when we fail or make a mistake.’ There was a short pause. ‘There’s also a blatant accusation, saying that we see only what we choose to see. And this line —’ he pointed to it on the note — ‘ “ And the problem with that is that when they play at being blind men, people suffer... people get tortured... and people die.” Though very aggressive,’ Garcia continued, ‘it doesn’t sound like a threat. It sounds like a statement.’

‘You’re exactly right,’ Hunter agreed. ‘There’s no other way of interpreting those two paragraphs, Carlos. They’re clear and concise. No ambiguity, no sarcasm, no play on words, no double meanings, and nothing hidden between the lines.’

Garcia’s attention didn’t deviate from the note.

‘Now, have a look at the third paragraph and tell me what you think. Again, forget double meanings and all. Just read it like a letter.’

So now I have a question. If any of these so-called experts stood face to face with someone like me, if they looked straight into my eyes, would they see the truth inside me? Would they see what I have become, or would they falter?