Chris Carter - Gallery of the Dead

Hunter, Garcia and Captain Blake could clearly see why.

‘You said Mr. Greene was found inside his own house?’ Hunter asked.

‘He was,’ Agent Williams confirmed, displaying six new photos. These ones showed details of the room in which Albert Greene had been found — his own room. There was no blood on any of the walls. No blood on the floor. No blood on the furniture.

‘Any signs of a break-in?’ Garcia this time.

‘None,’ Agent Fisher replied. ‘And no signs of a struggle either, but then again, what sort of struggle could an eighty-four-year-old man with aching joints put up anyway?’

‘What about Mr. Greene’s wife?’ Hunter asked. ‘You said he was married, right?’

‘He was for many years,’ Kennedy replied. ‘But his wife, Elena, passed away six years ago. Mr. Greene lived alone in a small one-bedroom house in Murdock, another poor and rough neighborhood in Wichita. His daughter lives in Colorado with her husband and two kids. She would visit him twice a year, sometimes more, if time and money allowed. Mr. Greene never had a caregiver. Despite his age, he was still able to do everything himself, from going to the shops to cooking and cleaning the house. According to everyone we talked to, he was a very simple but proud man. He was alone in the house when the attack happened.’

‘So who found the body?’ Garcia asked. ‘And how long after the murder?’

‘One of his neighbors,’ Agent Williams replied. ‘Two houses down — Mr. Morales, who is sixty-nine. He’s also a widower and he and Mr. Greene were best friends. They tended to spend most of their days together. Each had a key to the other’s house. On the morning of the twelfth of March, Mr. Morales didn’t see his old friend sitting outside on his front porch like he did every day, so he got worried and went knocking. No answer, he used his key and...’

Garcia nodded, his attention back on the photographs on the desk.

‘We can talk details later,’ Agent Williams added. ‘Or you guys can read the files to your heart’s content, but this is the bulk of what we have.’ He stepped back from Hunter’s desk, placed his blue folder on top of a metal cabinet and faced the picture board. ‘I guess now it’s your turn. Tell us about Linda Parker.’

‘Before we do that,’ Hunter suggested, ‘how about we all take a twenty-minute break? We’ve been locked in this office for over an hour. I, for one, could use a trip to the bathroom and a cup of coffee.’

‘And a cigarette,’ Kennedy added. ‘I certainly could do with a cigarette right now.’

Everyone in the room agreed.

Outside the Police Administration Building, Hunter caught up with Kennedy as he lit his first cigarette.

‘We need to talk, Adrian.’

Hunter’s tone concerned Kennedy, but he kept a straight face. ‘Sure. What’s up?’

Hunter handed the NCAVC director the first portrait photograph they had been shown of Kristine Rivers.

Kennedy took a long drag of his cigarette.

‘OK,’ Hunter asked. ‘So who is she?’

‘What? What do you mean? We’ve told you that upstairs. Her name is Kristine Rivers.’

‘That I know. What I want to know is who she is .’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘Yes you do. You know exactly what I’m talking about, Adrian. No more bullshit. Who is this woman... really ?’

‘I’m starting to get a little hungry,’ Officer Jack Palmer from the Tucson Police Department in Arizona said as he turned right on East Sunrise Drive. ‘How about we grab a couple of tacos or something?’

‘Not a bad idea,’ his partner, Police Officer Diana Bishop, replied as she adjusted her police belt. ‘I could certainly do with a burrito right now.’

‘Blanco Tacos?’ Officer Palmer asked.

‘Sure, either there or El Pueblito. They’re both great.’

‘Blanco Tacos is closer,’ Palmer replied, performing a quick U-turn.

Five minutes later they had ordered an Al Pastor burrito and a double portion of fully loaded tacos.

‘What do you want to drink?’ Palmer asked.

‘Just a bottle of water, thanks.’

‘No coffee?’

‘Nah, I’m drinking too much of that stuff. I need to cut down a little. I practically have coffee running in my veins.’

Palmer chuckled. ‘Yep, that happens when you keep on getting stuck with night shifts.’ He turned and addressed the stocky Mexican man behind the counter. ‘Can I also get a bottle of water and a large coffee to go, please?’

‘Sure, Officer.’ The man didn’t ring it through. ‘The water and the coffee are on the house.’

‘Oh, thank you very much. That’s very kind of you.’

Right then the police radios on both of their belts cracked into life.

‘ Any units in the vicinity of East Miraval Place — Catalina Foothills. We have reports of a possible armed 10–62. ’

Both officers exchanged an anxious look. ‘10–62’ was the police code for ‘breaking and entering’. Instinctively they both turned and looked out the shop window. East Miraval Place wasn’t far.

Palmer nodded at his partner. ‘We’ll take it.’ He faced the Mexican attendant one more time. ‘Sorry, but can you hold on to that food? We’ll come back for it. Trust me.’

As the two of them rushed out of the restaurant, Officer Bishop reached for her radio.

‘This is unit three-two-two, Tucson PD. We’re just around the corner from East Miraval Place and en route. Requesting full address.’

With the sirens blaring, it took them less than three and a half minutes to get to the address dispatch had given them.

East Miraval Place was a dead-end street on the north side of Catalina Foothills, an affluent neighborhood on the north quadrant of Tucson. The street, like most of the neighborhood, had a minimalist style, where paving and concrete blended nicely with the desert landscape of cactuses, desert flowers and even the occasional tumbleweed, giving it a truly Old West feel. Sticking with the minimalist approach, most of the roads and streets in Catalina Foothills had no illumination, and over fifty percent of them had no nameplates or signs of any kind, making it very easy for even residents to miss their street or get a little lost in the process of getting home once the sun had set.

Despite knowing the area well, Officers Palmer and Bishop took no chances, following their sat nav all the way to their destination.

There were only five houses in the wide but short street, and the address they were given took them to the last house on the right — a large, single-story brick building with a three-car garage and overgrown desert vegetation as a live fence. Parked at the end of the driveway, just outside the garage, was a metallic silver Buick Encore. The lights on the outside of the house were on, but inside everything seemed to be in complete darkness.

‘According to dispatch the house belongs to Timothy and Ronda Davis,’ Bishop said, reading the information displayed on the in-car computer screen. ‘He’s a mechanical engineer and she’s a computer programmer. They both work for Raytheon.’

‘The weapons company?’

Bishop shrugged. ‘Must be. Do you know any other Raytheons around here?’

That made Palmer pause for thought. ‘All right,’ he said, a few seconds later. ‘Let’s go check this thing out.’ He jumped out of the car.

Bishop followed suit.

As they passed the Buick on the driveway, Palmer tried the door — locked. He then placed his hand on its hood — no warmth whatsoever. He shook his head at his partner.

Both officers unholstered their weapons.

To get to the house’s front door, they needed to circle around the left side of the garage building, following the driveway. They did so in single file and as stealthily as they could. Palmer took the lead. As they rounded the corner, even from a few yards away, Palmer and Bishop could tell that the front door had been left ajar.