Chris Carter - Gallery of the Dead

‘That was the word he used, yes.’

‘And did he also use that exact combination of words — “murders — a series of them”?’

‘He did, which I found intriguing, so of course I asked him for a specific number. A series was again, too generic. His reply was — “enough for the FBI to consider it a serial-murder case”.’

Now Hunter understood why when Owen was cold-reading Agent Fisher, asking her how many bodies had been found, he started the count with three. Not one or two. A serial killer is defined by the FBI as a murderer who kills three or more people on three or more separate occasions, with a cool-off period between those murders.

‘That surprised me even more,’ Owen said.

‘Why?’

‘Because I had no idea the FBI was involved. And if the Feds are involved, then we really are talking big case here.’

‘But according to what you just told me,’ Hunter retorted, ‘the caller never told you that the FBI was involved. All he said was “enough for the FBI to consider it a serial-murder case”. That doesn’t really imply involvement.’

‘Granted,’ Owen accepted. ‘And my next question was exactly that. I asked him if the FBI was involved. His answer was a laugh.’

‘A laugh?’ Hunter found that strange.

‘Yep.’

‘What sort of laugh?’

Owen looked back at Hunter.

‘Was it a nervous laugh, a short laugh, a long laugh, a sarcastic laugh, a crazy-sounding laugh...?’

Owen made a face at Hunter. ‘OK, now you’re really asking too much. It was a laugh, you know? Just a laugh that obviously meant “hell yeah, the FBI is involved”.’

Hunter knew that he was indeed asking too much. That was the psychologist in him talking.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Did you ask him why he used the word initially ?’ Hunter asked.

‘I didn’t have to,’ Owen said. ‘Because what he actually said was that initially , what would grab the public’s attention would be the murders — a series of them, but the real story went much, much deeper than that.’ Owen paused and, while regarding Hunter, rubbed his wrists again. ‘So that’s something that we’ll need to talk about when it’s my turn to ask the questions. I’ll need to know what the real story behind these murders is.’

‘Of course,’ Hunter agreed with a perfectly straight face.

‘Great,’ Owen said before continuing. ‘So the caller asked me again if I wanted the story or not. My reply was “Of course I do, but first, for credibility, could you tell me who you are?” He told me that who he was wasn’t important. What was important was that I listened carefully.’

The caller obviously knew how to entice an ambitious reporter, Hunter thought.

Owen reached for his coffee, forgetting that the cup was empty.

‘Do you think I could get another one?’ he asked. ‘It helps.’

‘That can be arranged,’ Hunter replied as he slightly turned his head in the direction of the two-way mirror to his left. ‘Please continue.’

‘Well, he told me to listen, so I did. He began by saying, “Note down this address,” which I did. It was Timothy Davis’s address. Then he said something on the lines of “You have two and a half hours to get there.” ’

Hunter stood till, hands tucked into his pockets, his undivided attention on Owen’s account of events and his physiological reactions. Hunter noticed no pupil dilation, no skin flush and no alteration in his breathing pattern. If Owen Henderson was lying, he was an expert at it.

‘He told me that when I got to the address,’ Owen continued, ‘I was to enter the house. He told me that the front door would be open. He told me that I needed to go downstairs into the house’s basement and that was where I would find what I was looking for.’

There was a knock on the door to the interrogation room.

‘Yes,’ Hunter called out.

The door was pushed open by the officer who’d been standing outside. He handed Hunter a steaming cup of coffee.

Hunter placed it on the metal table.

‘Thank you,’ Owen said, reaching for it. ‘I do like the fast service in here.’

Hunter disregarded the joke.

‘So what came next?’ Hunter asked.

Owen spent a few seconds watching the steam from his cup dance in the air.

‘He told me that I should take an analogue camera with me, not a digital one.’

‘The caller instructed you to do that?’

‘Yes, that’s what I just said, isn’t it? And before you ask, no, I don’t know why he wanted me to take an analogue camera with me. I just did as I was told.’

Hunter thought about it for a second. ‘OK. What else did he say?’

‘That was basically it,’ Owen confirmed. ‘The caller reminded me that I had two and a half hours to get to the address he had given me, then the call disconnected.’

‘Did you ask him why two and a half hours? What would happen if it took you longer than that?’

‘I tried,’ Owen replied. ‘But he told me not to interrupt him. He told me that if I wanted the story, I had to follow his instructions. That was it.’

Hunter walked from one side of the room to the other.

‘So what made you believe him?’ he asked. ‘What made you think that that wasn’t a prank call? Because, let’s be honest here, who would really receive a call like that and follow it through, especially when you’re asked to drive to a different city?’

Owen shrugged. ‘I’m a freelance investigative reporter. We basically depend on tips to lead us to good stories. I had nothing else on my agenda for the rest of the day. My choices were to ignore the call and carry on doing nothing, or take a gamble. Do you have any idea of how many good and great stories are lost every day by reporters, just because they chose to disregard a tip?’

‘I can imagine,’ Hunter agreed. ‘But I can also imagine how many bogus trips are made by reporters every day based on worthless tips. There must’ve been something there. Something that tipped the balance the other way.’

‘Probably,’ Owen accepted. ‘But if I had to put it down to anything, it would have to be a gut feeling. After so many years on the job, you sort of develop a sense for it — a tingle at the back of your neck — a tightening inside your stomach — it’s hard to say, but you feel it and a voice inside your head goes “do not disregard this one”.’ Owen sat back on his chair once again. ‘C’mon, don’t tell me that you don’t know what I’m talking about. You might not be an FBI agent, but you’re certainly a cop. A detective, no doubt. You guys depend on your gut feeling more than anything else. And so do we.’

Hunter had no argument against that comment.

‘So how long did it take you to get there?’

‘I left Phoenix pretty much straight away,’ Owen replied. ‘At 2:31, to be precise. I know because I checked the dashboard clock as soon as I turned on my engine, and I kept on checking the time almost every minute. I got to where I parked my car — the next street along from the address I was given — with twenty-five minutes to spare, at 5:38.’

‘Why?’ Hunter asked. ‘Why did you park on the next street along? And why didn’t you have anything with you? I mean — no cellphone, no wallet, no identification whatsoever? All you had was a camera. Why?’

Owen rested the cup on his lap.

‘Because I had no idea what I was getting into,’ he said. ‘If I drove up to the house, that could’ve alerted someone, inside or outside the house. Having no identification, no phone, no anything would give me deniability in case I needed it. It was a decision I made on the drive down here. And it paid off.’ He had another sip of his coffee. ‘You all haven’t visited the crime scene yet, have you? You got out of your FBI plane and came straight here, didn’t you?’