Chris Carter - Gallery of the Dead

There was almost a smirk in Owen’s tone of voice.

‘Why?’ Hunter asked.

Owen held the suspense deliberately.

‘Because Special Agent Fisher told me that a neighbor saw me breaking into Mr. Davis’s house earlier today,’ he finally revealed. ‘Has anybody talked to this neighbor?’

All Hunter could do was quickly glance at the two-way mirror. He’d had a suspicion about the neighbor story. That had been the reason why he had asked Agent Williams to find out if anyone had interviewed the neighbor or not.

‘I thought not,’ the freelance reporter continued. ‘Mr. Davis’s house is pretty hidden from sight. It sits behind a world of vegetation. There’s no way a neighbor from the next house could’ve seen anyone even approaching the front door or windows, let alone seen anyone breaking in.’

‘We’ll check on that,’ Hunter said, playing the whole incident down before quickly moving on. ‘So what time would you say that you got to Mr. Davis’s house? At around 5:40?’

‘Yes,’ Owen agreed. ‘I’d say that’s about right. Give or take a minute.’

‘And why didn’t you say anything when the police got there?’ Hunter asked. ‘Why didn’t you identify yourself as a reporter? Why did you play the silent game, followed by all that cold-reading theatrical crap?’

Hunter was pretty sure he already knew the answer, but for the record he needed to have Owen say it on tape.

‘I’m an investigative reporter,’ Owen replied. ‘That’s what I do. The caller didn’t give me that much information over the phone. When the police arrived, I made an on-the-spot decision. I knew they would take me in anyway. I knew that I had nothing on me that could identify me. Saying something wouldn’t have helped, so I decided to say nothing at all. I figured that the FBI would turn up sooner rather than later. I also knew that there wasn’t a chance in hell they would voluntarily tell me anything about what I had just seen down in that basement. If I was to get anything, I would have to trick it out of them.’

The smile he gave Hunter was full of confidence.

‘I know that I can pretty much cold-read anyone I want. Before becoming a reporter, I made a living by reading Tarot cards, palms, auras, rocks... whatever clients wanted read. I figured that cold-reading an FBI agent wouldn’t be any different than your regular John Doe.’ He shrugged casually. ‘I was right.’

Hunter first wondered how angry Agent Fisher would be right about then inside that observation room. Then he wondered what sort of sarcastic comment Garcia would be making. He waited a few seconds. No gunshots. Maybe Garcia kept his comment to himself.

‘Right at the end of the call,’ Owen said. ‘That was when it got even weirder.’

‘In which way?’

Owen thought back to the exact wording the man had used over the phone. It took him a few seconds to be absolutely sure.

‘He said that we lived in a false world — a plastic world where real, natural beauty was the purest and rarest of art forms. The rarer it was, the more valuable it became. He said that true beauty could not be fabricated or copied, and for that reason, it was becoming extinct. He also said that true beauty should live forever and that he was making sure of that. He finished by saying that he hoped that I would be able to understand and appreciate true art.’

The Pima County’s Office of Medical Examiner, which was inside the east quadrant of the University of Arizona in Tucson, was an impressive building, both in size and architecture. Its design was punctuated by modern, sharp lines, and the building was fronted by terracotta tiles and large, squared, mirrored windows; a whole generation away from the historic-looking Coroner’s Office in Los Angeles.

A Hawaiian-looking attendant greeted everyone from behind the reception desk in the entrance lobby, a dimly lit room that even at that time of night was air-conditioned to a few degrees below pleasant.

‘Y’all must be with the FBI, right?’ the attendant said, as he came off the phone.

‘We are indeed,’ Agent Brandon replied, displaying his credentials. ‘Dr. Morgan is expecting us.’

‘Yes,’ the attendant acknowledged with a nod. ‘He’s on his way.’

Less than ten seconds later, the metal swing doors to the right and just past the reception counter were pushed open by Dr. Morgan.

‘Agent Brandon,’ he said, coming up to the group. His voice sounded fatigued. He was wearing a blue lab coat, with a matching surgical cap.

‘Doctor,’ Agent Brandon returned the greeting with a handshake. ‘Thank you so much for your time and cooperation. We understand that after-hours examinations are a very unorthodox practice and we really appreciate your help.’

‘It’s not a problem at all,’ the doctor replied. ‘Just doing my job.’ He turned to face the others.

Dr. Morgan was a slight man, bent a little at his shoulders, with gray, thinning hair. He wore dark-rimmed glasses perched far up the bridge of his nose, and he moved slowly, as if his weight was just slightly more than his legs could handle.

After all the respective introductions and handshakes, the group, minus Special Agent Brandon, followed Dr. Morgan past the reception counter and through a set of metal swing doors that led them into a wide corridor with strip lights on the ceiling and linoleum floors so clean and shiny, it made everyone’s shoes either click or squeak loudly with every step.

As they entered the corridor, they were all greeted by a cold, antiseptic odor that lingered in the air and scratched the inside of the nostrils like sharp, angry claws. Hunter and Garcia both hated that smell. No matter how many times they had set foot inside a morgue, neither seemed to ever get used to it, and by the look on both FBI agents’ faces, they weren’t very fond of it either.

Hunter scratched his nose and did his best to breathe mainly through his mouth. Garcia did the same.

They turned right at the end of the corridor and came to another set of double doors with two small frosted-glass windows at eye height.

‘Here we are,’ Dr. Morgan said, pushing the doors open and guiding everyone into a spacious, but bitterly cold examination room. Inside it, the antiseptic smell from the corridor outside lost most of its strength as it was replaced by a faint scent of industrial soap.

The theater itself wasn’t much different from the ones Hunter and Garcia were accustomed to back in Los Angeles. Large double sinks against a corner of the room, metal counters with a multitude of tools, white floors, white-tiled walls and so on. The layout might’ve differed, but the contents were pretty much the same.

The center of the room was taken by a stainless-steel examination table. The body on it was completely covered by a white sheet. Above the table, powerful halogen lights in a circular formation bathed the entire room in great brightness.

Dr. Morgan approached the body, taking slow, hesitant steps, as if each step got him a little closer to sadness.

Hunter, Garcia and both FBI agents followed him, positioning themselves to the right of the examination table. Dr. Morgan walked over to the other side and pulled back the sheet, revealing Timothy Davis’s naked body. His eyes had sunk deeper into their sockets. His lips had lost all their fullness and his skin looked rubbery, almost non-human, but despite all that the peaceful and serene look that Hunter had identified on the victim’s face when he first saw the crime-scene photos back in the SUV was still there. Just like the previous three victims, Hunter was certain that Timothy Davis hadn’t died in pain. He hadn’t suffered.

On his torso, the famous Y incision that started at the top of each shoulder, ran down the front of his chest and concluded at the lower point of the sternum had been stitched up with thick, black surgical thread. The board on the east wall showed the final weight of Timothy Davis’s internal organs.