Chris Carter - Gallery of the Dead

As the sheet was pulled back, Hunter immediately noticed the incredible discoloration of the skin.

‘I’ve been a pathologist for thirty-one years,’ the doctor began. ‘And in those years I’ve seen things that truly beggar belief, but what we have here...’ he shook his head, ‘should belong in a Hollywood movie, not in real life.’ He repositioned himself by the head of the table. ‘If any of you could give me a hand in turning the body over, I’d like to start with what’s visible.’

Hunter and Garcia stepped forward to help the doctor. Once the body had been flipped over, Dr. Morgan took a second observing his guests before speaking again.

‘From the lack of surprise on everyone’s faces, I’m guessing you were all expecting to see these carvings on the victim’s back.’

Silence ruled the room for just a couple of seconds.

‘Unfortunately,’ Agent Fisher replied, her eyes still on the corpse on the table, ‘this isn’t this killer’s first victim, Doctor. The carvings are just one of his signatures. So yes, we were expecting to see them.’

Once again, and now knowing what to look for, Agent Fisher tried to silently decipher the markings right there and then, but this time the lines across the victim’s back seemed longer. The carvings seemed more compact and closer to each other, with fewer immediately identifiable letters. She tried to blink the tiredness and the headache away, but it didn’t work. She would need a lot more time to figure out this one.

Instinctively, just like a competitive schoolkid, she peeked at Hunter. His eyes were slowly moving from one cut to another, the look on his face sturdy, full of focus.

‘What are they, if I may ask?’ Dr. Morgan tried his luck. ‘Some sort of message?’

‘Something like that,’ Agent Fisher agreed.

‘Do you know what it means?’

‘Not yet, Doc.’ She shook her head. ‘The killer changes the message from one victim to another. They are never the same.’

Another quick peek at Hunter. His eyes had left Timothy Davis’s body and had refocused on nothing at all. His expression had moved from deep concentration to deeply thoughtful. Agent Fisher knew he had figured out the message again.

How the hell can he do that so fast?

All of a sudden, the pensive look disappeared and Hunter blinked a couple of times before looking at Garcia.

Garcia had been Hunter’s partner for long enough to be able to decode most of his partner’s facial expressions. Without uttering a single word, Hunter had just told him that this made no sense.

Both FBI agents also noticed the peculiar look on Hunter’s face and, though they were unsure of what it meant, they could tell that something wasn’t quite right. But maintaining the secrecy of the investigation was still paramount, so neither of them asked the question. They knew that they would find out soon enough.

‘If you’ve seen similar cuts before,’ Dr. Morgan continued, ‘then you probably already know that the killer uses a very sharp instrument to create them. Something just as sharp and precise as the medical scalpels we use in this facility. Every one of those markings was made by a single slashing movement.’

Both FBI agents gave the doctor a subdued head nod.

‘So I’m sure you also know the killer’s MO,’ the doctor said. ‘You know how he takes the life of his victims.’

‘Asphyxiation by suffocation,’ Agent Fisher replied. ‘Yes, Doctor, we do know his MO.’

Dr. Morgan met the agent’s stare with confusion.

‘Asphyxiation?’

Even the air inside the room stood still.

‘He wasn’t asphyxiated?’ Hunter asked.

‘No, he wasn’t,’ the doctor replied.

‘Are you sure?’ The question came from Agent Fisher.

Dr. Morgan looked almost offended. ‘Did you hear when I said that I’ve been a pathologist for thirty-one years? Yes, I’m very sure, Special Agent Fisher.’

‘I’m sorry, Doc,’ she said, feeling embarrassed. ‘I didn’t mean it as disrespect. I’m just truly surprised, plus I’m very tired.’

‘It’s OK,’ Dr. Morgan said. ‘Have all the previous victims died by suffocation?’

‘They have,’ Agent Fisher replied. ‘Every single one of them.’

‘Well.’ The doctor indicated the carvings to Timothy Davis’s back one more time. ‘Since you’ve all seen something similar to this before, I can understand how this odd, “Zodiac killer” type of code failed to shock you, but if you were expecting this victim to have been asphyxiated, then you’re all in for a huge surprise.’

‘I guess it’s time for a break,’ the man the FBI called The Surgeon said out loud, as he exited the highway, taking the slip road that led to a small truck stop with a faulty neon sign up front. He’d been driving solidly for the past three hours and he still had at least another three to go. He felt hungry, but not desperately so; what he really needed was a bathroom break and a coffee refill.

The truck-stop diner was reasonably sized — twelve seating booths, nine of them empty. Against the counter, the man counted ten rotating red bar stools. Their bases were fixed to the floor. A young couple, having their last bites of a hamburger meal, occupied stools number eight and nine, counting from the diner’s entrance inwards. The old-fashioned, black-and-white checkered floor was spotlessly clean, which pleased the man. Outside, a Kenworth, a Peterbilt and a Volvo truck were parked side by side. The load of the Kenworth seemed to be about twice the size of the other two trucks.

As the man entered the diner, all three truck drivers, who were individually occupying booths one, two and three, curiously looked up from their food to check on the newest arrival. None of them paid the tall man more than a couple of seconds’ attention.

As the man approached the counter, the short-haired, middle-aged waitress standing behind it smiled at him. It was a courteous and professional smile, the same greeting smile she gave every customer who walked through the diner’s front doors. The red apron around her waist had a couple of finger marks on it — mustard, judging from their color. A pair of dark-framed glasses hung from her neck on a thin cord. Her nametag read Nancy .

‘Hi there,’ Nancy said. ‘Please take any seat you like. I’ll be right with you.’

Her voice, despite being warm and welcoming, sounded tired. Her face looked worn and defeated, which gave away the fact that she’d been working at the same place for way too long and by then had given up on any dreams that she once might’ve had when young.

‘Thank you,’ the man replied with a nod, and made his way to the last seating booth at the other end of the diner. He sat with his back against the wall, facing the entry door.

The menu was pretty much a box-standard, middle-of-the-road diner menu — burgers, sandwiches, hot dogs, mac-and-cheese, ribs and so on. The diner specialty was a meatball sandwich with the chef’s own secret recipe sauce.

‘So what can I get you?’ Nancy asked. Her glasses were now perched high up on her nose and she held a notepad and pen in her hands.

‘Do you have any meatball sandwiches left?’

Nancy looked back at the man and the courteous and professional smile returned to her lips.

‘Darling, meatball sandwiches are our trademark. We have them twenty-four seven, and they are always fresh, plus they really do taste amazing.’

‘Sold,’ the man replied. ‘Can I also have a coffee refill in here, please?’ He handed her a large travel coffee container.

‘Of course.’ Nancy took the container. ‘Anything else? Our pecan pie is also quite fabulous.’

‘Fabulous?’