Chris Carter: An Evil Mind

‘No, we haven’t,’ Taylor replied. ‘No need. As Director Kennedy said, Mr Shaw was too confident. He knew that it would take us no time to find out exactly whom he was referring to.’

Kennedy took over. ‘As soon as I heard the name, I knew that he could only be talking about one person. You, Robert.’

‘Do you have that footage?’ Hunter asked.

‘I do,’ Taylor replied. ‘I also have a photograph of Mr Shaw.’ She retrieved one last picture from her briefcase and handed it to Hunter.

Hunter stared at the photograph for a very long, silent moment. Again, neither his facial expression nor his body language gave anything away. Until he took a deep breath, and his eyes moved up to meet Kennedy’s.

‘You have got to be shitting me.’

The man who called himself Liam Shaw sat on the bed inside the small cell located deep underground — sublevel five of a nondescript building inside the FBI Academy complex in Quantico, Virginia. His legs were crossed under his body, his hands loosely clasped together, resting on his lap. His eyes were open, but there was no movement in them, just a dead, half-scared, half-uncertain look, staring straight ahead at the blank wall in front of him. In fact, there was no movement from him at all. No slight headshake, no twitching of the thumbs or fingers, no tiny adjustment of the legs under him, no shifting or rocking of the body, nothing, except for the unavoidable physical motor-reaction of blinking.

He’d been in that position for the past hour, simply staring at that wall, as though if he stared at it for long enough he’d be magically transported somewhere else. His legs should’ve cramped by now. His feet should’ve been tingly with thousands of pins and needles. His neck should’ve been stiff from the lack of movement, but he looked as comfortable and as stress-free as a man sitting in his own luxurious living room.

He’d taught himself that technique a long time ago. It had taken him many years to master it, but he could now practically empty his mind from most thoughts. He could easily block out sounds and blind himself to what was happening around him, despite having his eyes wide open. It was a sort of meditation trance that elevated his mind onto an almost unearthly level; but most of all, it kept him mentally strong. And he knew that that was exactly what he needed right now.

Since last night, the agents had stopped bothering him. But he knew they would. They wanted him to talk, but he just didn’t know what to say. He knew enough about police procedure to know that whatever explanation he gave them wouldn’t suffice, even if it were the truth. In their eyes, he was already guilty, no matter what he said or didn’t say. He also understood that the fact that he wasn’t being held by a regular police or sheriff’s department, but had been turned over to the FBI, complicated matters immensely.

He knew he had to give them something soon, because the interrogation methods were about to change. He could feel it. He could sense it in the tone of voice of both of his interrogators.

The attractive blonde woman who called herself Agent Taylor was softly spoken, charming and polite, while the big man with the crooked nose who called himself Agent Newman was much more aggressive and short-tempered. Typical good-cop-bad-cop team play. But their frustration due to his total commitment to staying silent was starting to show. The charm and politeness were about to end. That had become obvious in the last interrogation session.

And then the thought came to him, and with it came a name:

Robert Hunter.

Hunter eventually made it back to his apartment to pack his bags, but the flight he took just a couple of hours later wasn’t the one he had booked to Hawaii.

After taxiing its way up the runway, the private Hawker jet finally received the takeoff ‘go ahead’ from the Van Nuys airport control tower.

Hunter was seated toward the back of the plane, nursing a large cup of black coffee. His job didn’t really allow him to travel much, and when he did, if at all possible, he usually drove. He’d been on a few commercial planes before, but this was his first time inside a private jet, and he had to admit that he was impressed. The plane’s interior was both luxurious and practical in equal measures.

The cabin was about twenty-two feet long by seven feet wide. There were eight very comfortable, cream leather seats, set out in a double-club configuration — four individual seats on each side of the aisle, each with their own power outlet and media system. All eight seats could swivel 360 degrees. Low-heat LED overhead lights gave the cabin a nice, bright feel.

Agent Taylor was sitting on the seat directly in front of Hunter, typing away on her laptop, which was sitting on the fold-out table in front of her. Adrian Kennedy was sitting to Hunter’s right, across the aisle from him. Since they left Captain Blake’s office, he seemed to have been on his cellphone the whole time.

The plane took off smoothly and quickly climbed up to a cruising altitude of 30,000 feet. Hunter kept his eyes on the blue, cloudless sky outside his window, wrestling with a multitude of thoughts.

‘So,’ Kennedy said, finally coming off his phone and placing it back inside his jacket pocket. He had swiveled his seat around to face Hunter. ‘Tell me about this guy again, Robert. Who is he?’

Taylor stopped typing into her laptop and slowly rotated her seat around to face both men.

Hunter kept his eyes on the blue sky for a moment longer.

‘He’s one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met,’ he said at last. ‘Someone with tremendous self-discipline and control.’

Kennedy and Taylor waited.

‘His name is Lucien, Lucien Folter,’ Hunter carried on. ‘Or at least that’s the name that I knew him by. I met him on my first day at Stanford University. I was sixteen.’

Hunter grew up as an only child to working-class parents in Compton, an underprivileged neighborhood of South Los Angeles. His mother lost her battle with cancer when he was only seven. His father never remarried and had to take on two jobs to cope with the demands of raising a child on his own.

Hunter had always been different. Even as a child his brain seemed to work through problems faster than anyone else’s. School bored and frustrated him. He finished all of his sixth-grade work in less than two months and, just for something to do, he read through all the modules for the rest of his lower-school years. After doing so, he asked his school principal if he was allowed to take the final exams for grades seven and eight. Out of sheer curiosity and intrigue, the principal allowed him to. Hunter aced them all.

It was then that his principal decided to get in contact with the Los Angeles Board of Education; after a new battery of exams and tests, at the age of twelve, he was accepted into the Mirman School for the Gifted.

But even a special school’s curriculum wasn’t enough to slow his progress down.

By the age of fourteen he’d glided through Mirman’s high school English, History, Math, Biology and Chemistry curriculums. Four years of high school were condensed into two and at fifteen he’d graduated with honors. With recommendations from all of his teachers, Hunter was accepted as a ‘special circumstances’ student at Stanford University.

By the age of nineteen, Hunter had already graduated in Psychology — summa cum laude — and at twenty-three he received his PhD in Criminal Behavior Analysis and Biopsychology.

‘You said he was your roommate?’ Taylor asked.

Hunter nodded. ‘From day one. I was assigned to a dorm room on my first day in college.’ He shrugged. ‘Lucien was assigned to the same room.’