Chris Carter - Gallery of the Dead

‘We should let Robert talk to him,’ Garcia suggested. ‘He’s an expert interrogator.’

‘Oh, I really don’t think so,’ Agent Fisher said, taking a step back from the two-way mirror. ‘Despite whatever title appears on the official report, Detective Garcia, this is an FBI investigation and as such, an FBI agent will be the first one to interrogate the suspect. And please rest assured that Detective Hunter isn’t the only expert interrogator in this room.’

‘So Agent Williams will interrogate him?’ Garcia asked, his face as straight as a die.

‘You probably think you’re funny, don’t you?’ Agent Fisher asked back.

‘I have my moments.’

‘Well, this is definitely not one of them.’

Agent Fisher grabbed the notepad and the pen that were sitting on top of the small rectangular table inside the observation room. ‘Please remember something, Detective: make no mistake, you’re here as guests, nothing more, so you’d better get used to the view from the back seat. My advice to you is: get comfortable and try to pay attention, OK?’ She reached for the door. ‘Who knows? You might even learn something.’

The door to interrogation room one closed behind Agent Fisher with an unrestricted bang, but once again the noise didn’t seem to bother the man sitting at the metal table. He kept his eyes low, as if calmly reading some invisible book resting on his lap.

Agent Fisher studied the man from where she stood for a long moment before slowly approaching the table. The clicking of her low heels against the concrete floor echoed ominously throughout the room.

The man’s eyes stayed where they were, but his lips stretched into a short, cynical smile, as if he knew exactly what was coming.

Click, clack, click, clack.

The man seemed to enjoy the odd suspense.

Agent Fisher finally paused before the table and waited.

No movement from the man. His eyes stayed low. His hands stayed on the table.

Agent Fisher half-placed, half-slapped the notepad she had with her on the tabletop. The noise it made didn’t startle the man, but it seemed to get his attention, as he finally lifted his stare and locked eyes with the FBI agent.

‘Hello there,’ she said, her expression stern, her voice serene but firm, full of authority.

The look in the man’s eyes was icy and calculating. No apprehension. No fear. He was studying her, Agent Fisher could tell. She’d seen that cold look many times before and it didn’t scare her.

‘I’m Special Agent Erica Fisher with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.’

If Agent Fisher was expecting even an ounce of hesitation to flash across the man’s face as she mentioned which law-enforcement agency she worked for, she was bitterly disappointed. The man’s demeanor didn’t change, not even a little bit. He simply carried on analyzing the woman standing in front of him. In the mood she was in, Agent Fisher saw no point in wasting any time with frivolous conversation.

Trick number one — make the subject believe that you are the highest-ranking official in the investigation. The highest-ranking official he will ever talk to. Why? Many psychopathic serial killers, when they finally realize that the game is probably over, will do all they can to bargain their position, and they know that only the person at the very top has the power to conduct any sort of bargaining. Talking to anyone else is nothing more than a waste of breath. Agent Fisher could distinctly see that the man wasn’t about to waste his.

‘I’m the senior agent in charge of this entire investigation,’ she lied.

On hearing those words, something finally changed inside the man’s eyes.

Agent Fisher peeked at her image reflected in the two-way mirror to her left before taking a seat across the table from the man.

‘This is the only opportunity you’ll have to speak directly to me. After this, I’ll be gone and I will not grant you another opportunity. Do you understand what I’m telling you?’

The man’s stare seemed to intensify. He was still clearly trying to read her.

‘So,’ the agent continued. ‘With that said, let’s get through the introductions here, shall we? As I’ve said, I’m Special Agent Fisher... and you are?’

Nothing.

‘Any name I can call you by, just for the sake of this conversation?’ she insisted.

The man’s poker face was almost as solid as his adversary’s, but not quite. Still, there was no reply.

Agent Fisher sat back on the chair and crossed her legs. There was no agitation on her part.

The man clasped his hands on the tabletop.

Agent Fisher noticed that his nails were very clean and neatly clipped.

‘Would you rather I come up with a name I can use until you decide to tell me your real one?’ she asked.

For several seconds the man didn’t move, then he gave her a barely noticeable shrug, which, despite being silent, was still a response. She was making progress.

Time to test some reactions.

‘OK... let’s see... I could call you...’ she pretended to be thinking about it. ‘Surgeon. How about that? Does that appeal to your skills?’

No reaction whatsoever from the man, which surprised Agent Fisher, but she kept a steady face, still not giving anything away.

‘Don’t you like that? Really? OK, I’m sure I can come up with something else. How about...’ Another pause. ‘Artist?’

A muscle flexed just under the man’s left eye. It was a minute twitch, which Agent Fisher wasn’t sure if the others on the other side of the two-way mirror had picked up on, but she certainly had.

‘Is that better? Is that how you perceive yourself? As an artist?’

The man breathed in.

Agent Fisher gave him a somewhat sarcastic nod followed by a careless chuckle. ‘You think that being silent will somehow help you?’

She waited.

Nothing.

‘Well, I can guarantee you it won’t. Why don’t you try this: take a moment and look around you.’ Agent Fisher waited a couple of seconds, but the man once again didn’t move. ‘Those are solid walls, and you’re sitting down in the basement of a police precinct. I hate to break it to you, but... you’re fucked. You’re going nowhere from here but to death row. You know that, don’t you? Your only chance at anything is to talk to me.’

The threat didn’t seem to bother the man.

Time to step things up a little.

Trick number two: push, challenge, or try to discredit the subject, but aim your punches at their overinflated egos. Due to their delusional belief that they are superior to everyone else, psychopaths will be much quicker to defend their egos than their actions.

‘You know, for someone who thinks he’s so smart, so creative, you sure screwed up fast, didn’t you?’

The man blinked at her.

The punch got through.

Push again.

‘Well, I’ve got some news for you. You’re not smart. You’re not an artist. You’re just another crazy psycho who likes killing people and leaving stupid clues behind. Our archives are full of people like you.’

Silence.

Push further.

‘Actually, no.’ Agent Fisher made a face. ‘Let me correct myself here. Our archives are full of people a lot smarter than you because they didn’t get caught so quickly. They didn’t forget that people have neighbors, and neighbors like to look out their windows.’

The man’s eyes narrowed a touch.

Agent Fisher read it and chuckled again. ‘Oh, you didn’t know that that was how you got caught, did you?’

The man’s jaw tightened.

‘That’s right, one of Mr. Davis’s neighbors saw you breaking into Mr. Davis’s house — a neighbor who was supposed to be on holiday, but had to cut it a few days short. Now how unlucky for you was that, huh?’ She paused for effect. ‘For someone who thinks he’s so intelligent... so prepared, that’s a stupid mistake to make, wouldn’t you say? A last-minute check would’ve really come in handy for you.’