Chris Carter - Gallery of the Dead

‘Something?’ Garcia leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘Like something that might link the first two crime scenes to this art theory?’

‘Possibly.’

Even the air inside the private jet seemed to stand still in anticipation.

‘There’s something you said yesterday,’ Agent Fisher said, once again addressing Garcia, ‘that kept on repeating itself inside my head over and over.’

‘And what was that?’ Garcia asked.

‘That though we had deciphered the Latin phrases, we hadn’t yet figured out the real meaning behind them. So, as I reassessed the photos of the first two crime scenes, I realized you were right. Blinded by our initial theory, we perhaps made a grave mistake.’ Her voice took on an almost apologetic tone. ‘That mistake was that we looked exclusively at the victims and disregarded everything else.’

‘Everything else?’ Garcia asked. ‘As in the scene itself?’

‘Exactly. Our sole concern was always the victim.’ Agent Fisher lifted her right hand in a ‘wait’ gesture. ‘Let me ask you all a question here — are any of you big into art? I mean, do you read about it, go to galleries, museums, expositions, that sort of thing?’

‘No, not really,’ Garcia replied.

‘Rarely,’ Hunter admitted it.

‘Why?’ Garcia again.

From her briefcase, Agent Fisher grabbed three printouts she had obtained from the internet. None of them were related to any of the crime scenes or the victims.

‘Well, I have never really been an art buff,’ she said. ‘But yesterday, in your office, you mentioned that art is subjective. It depends on your point of view.’

She placed the first photo on the table. It displayed a perfectly made bed, with crisp white sheets, at the center of a very dirty and messy room.

‘What may look like art through someone’s eyes...’

She displayed the second printout. It was almost the reverse of the first — a messy and dirty bed at the center of a totally white, sterile room.

‘... can look like nothing but junk through someone else’s.’

The last of the three printouts showed exactly that — a pile of junk that had been dumped at the center of an art gallery.

As Agent Fisher placed the printouts on the table, the thoughtful look on Hunter’s and Garcia’s faces deepened.

‘These are only three quick examples, but art galleries just about everywhere seem to be littered with similar pieces. Art used to be something people would cherish, but in our modern world, just about anything can be considered art. This pile of junk,’ she once again indicated the last of the three printouts she had shown them, ‘sold for half a million dollars.’

‘No way.’ Garcia looked surprised and upset at the same time. ‘I’m definitely in the wrong line of work, because that I can do.’

Agent Fisher left the printouts on the table while she selected a photo from the ‘victim’ pile.

‘So, with that in mind, like I said, perhaps we made a grave mistake by looking at the victims in isolation. Take our first victim, for example.’ She presented the photo she had selected. It was a full-body shot of Kristine Rivers lying on the shed’s dirty floor. The rest of the shed could not be seen. ‘If you isolate the victim, this is pretty much what you see.’

Agent Fisher returned the photo to the table and selected a new one, this time from the ‘crime scene’ pile. It was a wide-angle shot where Kristine Rivers’ body could be seen against a backdrop of vibrant graffitied walls and a floor packed full of colorful debris. The agent took several steps back, placing herself in the Middle cabin before showing everyone the photo.

‘But if you take in the entire crime scene as a whole, or better yet, a single image...’

The distance added a whole new perspective to the photograph.

‘... then you just might be able to see the big picture.’

Detective James Miller stepped into interrogation room one inside the Alvernon Way Police Station in downtown Tucson and closed the door behind him. Instead of approaching the small metal table at the center of the claustrophobic, underground chamber, he stood by the door in complete silence, hands tucked into his trouser pockets, eyes firmly locked on the man sitting at the table.

Despite the door closing with a loud enough bang, the man didn’t look up. He kept his stare on his cuffed hands, which were chained to the tabletop.

The whole ‘standing by the door in silence’ act was all part of Miller’s interrogation technique, a technique he had developed over twelve years as a homicide detective in Arizona, but in spite of all his experience, Miller did feel a tad nervous.

Yes, in those twelve years he had interrogated hundreds of suspects, many of them violent murderers, but as far as he knew he had never been face to face with a serial killer, let alone one wanted by the FBI. He’d read many books and watched a ton of documentaries on them and, truth be told, Miller had always hoped that he would one day be the lead detective in a serial-murder investigation — the kind of investigation that would generate nationwide interest and press coverage. In his head, he had pictured time and time again being the person in charge of the interrogation — the one whose task was to extract the truth from the killer. But as soon as that door closed behind him, Miller felt an uneasiness he hadn’t felt in many years. There was definitely something very different about the man sitting at that table, something that Miller couldn’t yet tell, but whatever it was it seemed to chill the air inside the room.

Miller’s eyes moved to the two-way mirror on the east wall. He knew his partner would be on the other side of it, watching.

Miller kept his composure.

The man kept his head down.

Miller waited.

Inside that same room, Miller had played several variations of that game before — the silent, ‘I will not move, I will not lock eyes with you’ game. From experience, the detective knew that that was nothing more than a mental tug-of-war. A strength-of-mind game. Would the man acknowledge the detective first, either verbally, by movement, or by eye contact, or would Miller give in to the man’s resolve and speak first?

To an outsider, something that trivial could easily sound childish, but Miller knew better than to disregard the importance of such psychological games inside an interrogation room, and that was why he had spent time studying the man from the other side of the two-way mirror. Just like a professional poker player tries to read his opponents and adapts his game tactics accordingly, Miller had tried to do the same, but the man gave nothing away, except the fact that his resolve seemed to be flawless.

Who , Miller thought, after being arrested at the scene of a homicide, spends all that time sitting alone inside an interrogation room without moving a muscle or saying a word? Miller had never encountered anybody with that much self-control before. The man’s discipline, he had to agree, was watertight.

Miller kept his eyes on the man.

The man kept his eyes on his hands.

To his surprise, the first part of Miller’s tactic — the door closing behind him with a loud enough bang — had failed gloriously. The bang was supposed to break the man’s concentration, forcing him to look up and acknowledge the detective’s presence. It was a shock tactic that, until then, had never failed Miller.

Maybe I should’ve slammed the door harder , Miller thought.

He pulled his hands from his pockets and took four steps forward, placing himself directly in front of the metal table.

The man didn’t look up.

Miller took a seat.