Chris Carter - Gallery of the Dead

Both Hunter and Garcia nodded.

Inside the interrogation room, Agent Fisher countered the man’s silence with a threat, but that also failed to produce any effect. She then began attacking his ego, but again the man’s only reaction was an uneasy blink of the eyes. When she mentioned Mr. Davis’s neighbor, the man’s eyebrows moved down slightly. Not exactly a frown, but definitely a sign of curiosity. That intrigued Hunter, setting off the first alarm bell inside his head.

‘Do we know if anyone has talked to Mr. Davis’s neighbor?’ he asked.

Garcia and Agent Williams turned to face him.

‘The one who made the 911 call. Do we know if anyone has talked to him?’

‘No idea,’ Agent Williams replied. ‘But we can find out. Why?’

‘No reason, but I would just like to check,’ Hunter answered. ‘With the suspect being arrested on the spot and Tucson PD having orders not to initiate an investigation, that sort of detail could’ve easily been overlooked.’

Inside the interrogation room, Agent Fisher carried on with her attack on the man’s ego, but his curiosity seemed to fade way too fast, substituted by a faint, cynical smile.

A second alarm bell started ringing inside Hunter’s head.

The man seemed to be pushing Agent Fisher just as much as she was pushing him. The only difference was that he was doing it in silence.

Agent Fisher got to her feet and began making her way to the door. There was no doubt that she was going through the interrogation-trick book one step at a time. As she got to the door, the man finally spoke.

‘So... Special Agent Fisher, how many bodies have you found so far?’

In the observation room, everybody’s attention heightened exponentially as they watched Agent Fisher slowly walk back and retake her seat at the table, but it was the way in which the man threw the numbers at her that concerned Hunter.

Suddenly, the man surprised everyone when he practically admitted that there could be more than four victims.

‘Sonofabitch,’ Agent Williams said, making no effort to disguise the excitement in his voice. ‘It’s him. It’s the fucking Surgeon. We’ve got him.’ He reached for his phone, ready to call Director Kennedy, but Hunter stopped him by lightly placing a hand on his shoulder.

‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Let this interview play out first.’

‘Why? It’s him. He’s admitting to it.’

‘Not exactly,’ Hunter replied.

‘What do you mean — “not exactly”?’

Back in the interrogation room Agent Fisher and the suspect began talking about the timeframe. The man shrugged before dropping the bomb: ‘Things have been happening for a lot longer than that.’

More alarm bells, but they only seemed to be ringing inside Hunter’s head.

‘It’s him,’ Agent Williams said again. ‘We’ve got him.’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ Hunter said, shaking his head. ‘This is wrong. This is all wrong.’

‘Wrong?’ Agent Williams queried. ‘What do you mean, “wrong”? What’s wrong?’

‘What he’s saying,’ Hunter replied. ‘He’s not telling her anything; she is telling him.’

‘What?’ Agent Williams’ entire forehead creased like an old piece of paper. ‘I’m not following you, Detective Hunter.’

‘He’s cold-reading her.’

Agent Fisher closed the interrogation-room door behind her and pinned Agent Williams down with a stare that could’ve cut through steel.

‘What the hell is going on, Larry?’ she asked, half-confused, half-angry. ‘I know that this isn’t “bad cop” time because I didn’t use any of our trigger words.’

‘Could you give us a minute, please.’ Agent Williams addressed the Tucson police officer who was guarding the interrogation-room door.

The officer nodded and walked over to the other end of the corridor.

‘That’s not him, Erica,’ Agent Williams said, once the officer was out of earshot, pointing to the interrogation room. ‘That’s not The Surgeon in there.’

Agent Fisher’s eyes widened at her partner. ‘What? Have you been listening to the same interrogation?’ She began numbering the events, using the fingers on her right hand to emphasize her points. ‘His demeanor completely changed when I mentioned the word “artist”. He practically told us that there are more than four victims and that he’s been killing for longer than two months. All you need to do is read between the lines, Larry. Have you been asleep?’

‘No I haven’t, Erica, and you’re not reading him. He’s reading you.’

‘What?’ She chuckled nervously. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘It’s called “cold-reading”, Erica,’ Agent Williams tried to explain. ‘It’s a technique used by many—’

‘I know what cold-reading is, Larry.’ Agent Fisher’s voice acquired an even angrier tone.

‘Good, because that’s what he’s been doing in there,’ Agent Williams replied. ‘Very professionally, I might add.’ He lifted both hands in a “please wait” gesture. ‘Just try to think back to the moment you set foot in that room and the exact words you have used.’ He gave her a second before recapping with her. ‘You first introduced yourself, then asked him for a name. He stayed silent. You offered to come up with one just for the sake of conversation. His “go ahead” sign was a shrug. Not because he didn’t care, but because he wanted to hear what you would come up with. Why? Because he knows that during an ongoing investigation, especially one involving a probable serial killer, law-enforcement agencies, including us, the FBI, tend to use some sort of moniker to refer to the perp. A moniker that is usually self-describing — The Tourniquet Killer, The Yorkshire Ripper, The Trailside Strangler, The Vampire of Sacramento, The Surgeon, The Artist. He wanted to know what we were calling the perp, Erica, because he was betting on the chance that the name alone would give him an idea of what this killer has been doing, how he’s been taking out his victims. And his gamble paid off because you gave him two. You even asked him if The Surgeon appealed to his “skills”.’

Agent Fisher’s angry attitude lost a considerable amount of strength as her memory took her back to just moments earlier.

‘If you had given him any other moniker,’ Agent Williams carried on, ‘The Blood Dancer, The Liver Cannibal, it doesn’t matter — his reaction would’ve still been the same because he would’ve believed that that was what we were calling the killer. Why else would you have used a moniker?’

‘And if I had just called him John, or Frank, or whatever?’ Agent Fisher contested. ‘For the sake of conversation.’

‘Then his gamble wouldn’t have paid off and he would’ve probably replied with another shrug as if saying “Suit yourself. Call me whatever you like.” He had nothing to lose.’

Agent Fisher chewed on that thought for an instant.

‘He finally let go of the silent game when you threatened to leave the room,’ Agent Williams continued. ‘But he didn’t really give you anything. What he did was throw you a question about the number of victims. You gave him back some of his own medicine and stayed quiet. So what did he do to counter your silence? He used a simple cold-reading technique, Erica. He fed you possible answers to his own question — “three, four” — while at the same time paying close attention to your reactions. You might’ve not realized this, but you were absolutely still until he got to four. That was when you finally breathed out and sat back on your chair. He read your movement, stopped counting and smiled. You immediately countered with a double question, which simply confirmed the number on which he had stopped — “Why? Are there more?”