Chris Carter - An Evil Mind

Leisurely, Lucien lay down on the bed and interlaced his fingers behind his head.

‘Give Susan’s parents my best for me, will you, Robert? Oh, and by the way, if you’re wondering. . yes, I did sit down and have dinner with them that night.’

Hunter’s fist connected with the punch bag with so much force, it sent it swinging backward almost a whole meter. He’d been hitting one of the 45-kilo leather bags that hung from the ceiling in the BSU building’s boxing gym for a little under an hour. His shirt and shorts were drenched in sweat, which was pouring down from his forehead like rain. His whole body was sore from the grueling workout and he felt mentally exhausted. But he needed some time to think, to try to organize the mess of thoughts inside his head, to disconnect, even if only for a few minutes, and for Hunter, more times than not, heavy exercise did the trick.

Today was not one of those times. Frustration ran through his body like bad blood, and no matter how hard Hunter punched that bag or how much weight he lifted, he just couldn’t seem to get rid of it.

‘If I were thirty years younger, I’d spot you with that punch bag,’ Kennedy said, standing at the door to the gym. The place was deserted, except for Hunter. ‘But even so, the way you’re punching that thing, you’d probably put me through the wall. I’m surprised your hand isn’t broken yet.’

The long day and a full pack of cigarettes made Kennedy’s hoarse voice sound even weaker, even more guttural.

Hunter delivered one quick final series of heavy punches to the bag — jab, jab, cross, left hook, cross. The bag swung back and sideways awkwardly, as if it’d had enough and had been finally defeated, before Hunter embraced it into a stop. His breath was tortured, his face a dark shade of pink, the veins on his arms and shoulders swollen from the whole effort and the extra blood flow. Panting, he rested his head against the bag for a moment, taking his time, waiting for his breathing to slowly return to normal. Sweat dripped from his chin onto his shoes and the floor.

Kennedy stepped closer.

‘Any news from La Honda?’ Hunter asked at last, his arms still hugging the punch bag.

Kennedy nodded with very little enthusiasm.

Hunter used his teeth to pull free the Velcro straps on both of his gloves and turned to face the director.

‘I had four agents check the site.’

Hunter used the inside of his left arm and the left side of his torso to grab his right glove and pulled his hand free, before undoing his left glove.

‘They found the house Lucien mentioned.’ Kennedy threw Hunter a towel. ‘The agents followed Lucien’s instructions to the specific location and began digging. They dug for an hour.’ He handed Hunter an A4-size envelope. ‘And this is what they found.’

Hunter quickly dried his face and hands before reaching inside the envelope and retrieving a couple of printed-out photographs. As his eyes devoured the images, his heartbeat picked up speed once again.

The first photograph showed a full human skeleton, its bones old and time-discolored, lying inside what looked to be a five-foot-deep grave.

The second one was a close-up snapshot of the skull.

In silence, Hunter stared at both pictures for a long time, dwelling on the second one for a lot longer than the first, as if he were mentally reconstructing Susan’s face over her skull.

Kennedy took a step back, giving Hunter a moment before he spoke again. ‘Since we already know that Lucien is a serial offender, protocol dictates that we now dig up the entire site,’ Kennedy said, ‘looking for possible remains of other bodies. It’s a huge operation, and there’s no way of doing that without getting the local authorities involved and bringing a Hollywood-size spotlight to this case.’

‘I’d wait a while, Adrian,’ Hunter said. He’d never been a big fan of protocol. ‘At least until we’re finished interviewing him. So far Lucien has been straight with us. If there are other bodies buried around that same area, I have a feeling he will tell us. Bringing a spotlight to this investigation right now won’t benefit anyone.’

Kennedy usually played by the book, but right then he was inclined to agree with Hunter.

‘It will take at least a couple of days and a few tests to confirm if what we’ve got really is Susan Richards’ skeleton,’ Kennedy said.

‘It will be,’ Hunter replied, returning the printouts to the envelope.

Kennedy looked a question at Hunter.

‘Lucien had no reason to lie,’ Hunter said.

The question remained in Kennedy’s eyes.

‘We already know he killed Susan,’ Hunter clarified. ‘He told us that, and the framed tattooed piece of skin in his basement confirmed it. If he had disposed of Susan’s body in a way where no remains could be found, he would’ve just told us so.’ He jabbed a finger at the envelope. ‘If those were the remains of someone else’s body, who he’d also have killed, because he knew the exact location where it was buried, there was no point in telling us it was Susan’s, because he knows we will be testing it anyway.’

Kennedy’s head bobbed down once. ‘I understand, but just to be on the safe side, I think you’d better wait for official confirmation before contacting her parents.’

Hunter nodded slowly before using the towel on his face and arms again. Bringing the news to Susan’s parents was one job he wasn’t looking forward to. ‘I’ve got to take a shower.’

‘Come up to my office when you’re done,’ Kennedy said. ‘There’s something else I need to show you.’

Twenty minutes later, Hunter, his hair still wet from his shower, was back inside Director Kennedy’s office. Special Agent Taylor was also there. She had lost the ponytail. Her blonde hair was loose and wavy, falling naturally over her shoulders. She was wearing a dark pencil skirt with a tucked-in blue blouse, black nylon stockings, and black strappy court shoes. She was sitting in one of the armchairs in front of Kennedy’s desk. In her hands, the same photographs Hunter had looked at down in the gym, the ones of Susan Richards’ remains.

Kennedy got up from behind his desk.

‘You still drink Scotch?’ he asked Hunter.

Single-malt Scotch whisky was Hunter’s biggest passion. Unlike so many, he knew how to appreciate its palate instead of just getting drunk on it. Though sometimes getting drunk worked just fine.

Hunter nodded. ‘Do you?’

‘When at all possible.’ Kennedy walked over to the cabinet to his left, opened it and retrieved three tumblers and a bottle of Tomatin 25-year-old.

‘Not for me, sir, thank you,’ Taylor said, placing the photographs back inside the envelope.

‘Relax, Agent Taylor,’ Kennedy said in a reassuring tone. ‘This is an informal meeting, and after what we’ve all been through today, I’d say a drink is more than appropriate.’ A hesitant pause. ‘Unless you don’t drink Scotch. In that case I can get you something else.’

‘Scotch is fine, sir,’ Taylor replied confidently.

‘Ice?’

Hunter shook his head. ‘Just a drop of water, please.’

‘Same here,’ Taylor said.

Kennedy smiled. ‘Looks like I’ve got a couple of true Scotch drinkers in my office.’

He poured the three of them a healthy dose, added a splash of water, and handed a glass to Hunter and one to Taylor.

‘I need to ask you something, Robert,’ Kennedy said in a more serious tone.

Hunter sipped his Scotch. It was pleasantly rich without being overpowering, with notes of citrus and fruit. A complex but very smooth palate. He enjoyed the taste for a moment.

Taylor did the same.