Chris Carter - An Evil Mind

The door led them into a long corridor where the walls were made of cinder block. There was a distinct sanitized smell in the air, something that tickled the inside of the nose, similar to what one would find in a hospital, but not as strong. The corridor led them to a second heavy metal door — breach and assault proof. As they got to it, Taylor and Newman looked up at the security camera high on the ceiling above the door. A second later, the door buzzed open. They zigzagged through another two smaller hallways and two more breach/assault proof doors, before arriving at the interrogation room, halfway down another nondescript hallway.

This new room was nothing more than a square box, 16 feet by 16 feet, light gray cinder-block walls, and white linoleum floor. The center of the room was taken by a square metal table with two metal chairs at opposite ends. The table was securely bolted to the floor. Also bolted to the floor, just by where the chairs were, were two sets of very thick metal loops. On the ceiling, directly above the table, two fluorescent tube lights encased in metal cages bathed the room in crisp brightness. Hunter also noticed the four CCTV cameras, one at each corner of the ceiling. A water cooler was pushed up against one of the walls, and the north wall was taken by a very large two-way mirror.

‘Have a seat,’ Taylor said to Hunter. ‘Get comfortable. Your friend is being brought here.’ She gestured with her head. ‘We’ll be next door, but we’ll have eyes and ears in this room.’

Without saying anything else, Taylor and Newman exited the interrogation room, allowing the heavy metal door to shut behind them, and leaving Hunter alone inside the claustrophobic square box. There was no handle on the inside of the door.

Hunter took a deep breath and leaned against the metal table, facing the wall. He’d been inside interrogation rooms countless times. Many of them face to face with people who turned out to be very violent, brutal and sadistic killers. Some of them serial. But not since his first few interrogations had he felt the choking tingle of anticipation that was now starting to strangle at his throat. And he didn’t like that feeling. Not even a little bit.

Then the door buzzed open again.

To Hunter’s own surprise, he found himself holding his breath while the door was being dragged open.

The first person to step through it was a tall and well-built US Marine, carrying a close-quarters combat shotgun. He took two steps into the room, paused, and then took one step to his left, clearing a pathway from the door into the room.

Hunter tensed and stood up straight.

The second person to step into the room was about one inch taller than Hunter. His hair was brown and cropped short. His beard was just starting to become bushy. He was wearing a standard, orange prisoner jumpsuit. His hands were cuffed and linked together by a metal bar that was no longer than a foot. The chain that was attached to that metal bar looped around his waist and then moved down to his feet, hooking on to thick and heavy ankle cuffs, restricting his movements, and forcing him to shuffle his way along as he walked — like a Japanese Geisha girl.

His head was low, with his chin almost touching his chest. His eyes were focused on the floor. Hunter couldn’t clearly see his face, but he could still recognize his old friend.

Directly behind the prisoner followed a second Marine, armed identically to the first.

Hunter took a step to his right, but remained silent.

Both guards guided the prisoner to the metal table and to one of the chairs. As they sat him down, the second Marine quickly shackled the prisoner’s ankle chain to the metal loop on the floor. The prisoner never lifted his head up, keeping his eyes low throughout the entire procedure. Once all was done, both guards exited the room without uttering a word, or even looking at Hunter. The door closed behind them with a heavy clang.

The tense silent seconds that followed seemed to stretch for an eternity, until the prisoner finally lifted his head up.

Hunter was standing across the metal table from him, immobile. . transfixed. Their eyes met, and for a moment they both simply stared at each other. Then, the prisoner’s lips stretched into a thin, nervous smile.

‘Hello, Robert,’ he finally said, in a voice that sounded full of emotion.

Lucien had gained a little more weight since Hunter had last seen him, but it looked to be all muscle. His face looked older, but leaner. He still had the same unmistakably healthy hue to his skin as he had all those years ago, but the look in his dark brown eyes had changed. They now seemed to possess a penetrating quality often associated with greatness, looking at everything with tremendous focus and purpose. With his high cheekbones, full, strong lips and a squared jaw, Hunter had no doubt that women would still refer to him as handsome. The one-inch-long diagonal scar on his left cheek, just under his eye, gave him a rough, ‘bad boy’ look that Hunter was sure would come across as charming to many people.

‘Lucien,’ Hunter said, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.

The staring continued for several seconds.

‘It’s been a very long time,’ Lucien said, looking down at his shackled hands. ‘If I could, I’d hug you. I’ve missed you, Robert.’

Hunter stayed quiet simply because he didn’t really know what to say. He’d always hoped that one day he would see his old college friend again, but he’d never imagined that it would be in the situation they found themselves in at that moment.

‘You look well, my friend,’ Lucien said with a renewed smile, his eyes analyzing Hunter. ‘I can tell you’ve never stopped working out. You look like. .’ He paused, searching for the right words. ‘. . a lean boxer ready for his championship fight, and you barely look like you’ve aged. Looks like life has been good to you.’

Hunter finally shook his head, just a subtle movement, as if awaking from a trance.

‘Lucien, what the hell is going on?’ His voice was calm and composed, but his eyes were still showing surprise.

Lucien took a deep breath and Hunter saw his body tense uncomfortably.

‘I’m not sure, Robert,’ he said. His voice was a little weaker.

‘You’re not sure?’

Lucien’s eyes returned to his cuffed hands and he shuffled himself on his seat, looking for a more comfortable position, a clear sign that he was struggling with his own thoughts.

‘Tell me,’ he said, avoiding eye contact. ‘Have you ever heard from Susan?’ For an instant he seemed surprised by his own question.

Hunter frowned. ‘What?’

‘Susan. You remember her, don’t you? Susan Richards?’

Flashes of memory exploded inside Hunter’s head. He remembered Susan very well. How could he not? The three of them were almost inseparable during their years at university. Susan was also a psychology major, and a very bright student. She had moved from Nevada to California after being accepted into Stanford. Susan Richards was one of those happy-go-lucky kind of girls, always smiling, always positive about everything, and very little ever fazed her. She was also very attractive — tall and slim, with chestnut hair, beautiful almond-shaped hazel eyes, a petite nose, and plump lips. Susan had inherited most of her Native American mother’s delicate features. Everyone used to say that she looked more like a Hollywood star than a psychology student.

‘Yes, of course I remember Susan,’ Hunter said.

‘Have you ever heard from her in all these years?’ Lucien asked.

Hunter’s psychological training took over, and he finally realized what was happening. Lucien’s defense and fear mechanisms were kicking in. Sometimes, when a person is afraid, or too nervous, to talk about a delicate subject, he/she might, almost unconsciously, try to steer the conversation away from that fragile topic, and avoid talking about it, at least for a little while, until their nerves settle. That was exactly what Lucien was doing.