Chris Carter - Gallery of the Dead

‘Once again,’ Hunter replied. ‘Credibility.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘If he contacts the press himself,’ Hunter explained, ‘his story would lack credibility — he could be just another psycho looking for attention. Whatever photos he sends in could’ve been created using image-editing software. But even if they want to believe his story, any newspaper or TV station would have to confirm it either with the FBI or local police departments before printing or broadcasting anything. The story could very easily be played down by law-enforcement agencies and instead of prime time he would get a bottom corner on the fifteenth page.’

‘But if the Federal Bureau of Investigation breaks the story in a national press conference,’ Garcia said, jumping into Hunter’s train of thought, ‘he gets the credibility, the prime time and the ego boost he’s after because this would be you, the FBI, admitting that you’re struggling with the case.’

Garcia’s words seemed to enrage Agent Fisher.

‘Well,’ she countered, ‘the FBI certainly won’t be admitting struggling with anything. Not in this press conference. I will not inflate this freak’s ego in any way, shape or form. Actually, for this conference, we think that it would be best if the two of you stayed away from the cameras and let us do all the talking. After all, this is primarily an FBI investigation.’

Garcia fixed his ponytail while consulting Hunter with a simple look. Not that he needed to. Hunter hated being in front of cameras.

‘Sure,’ Hunter agreed. ‘That’s absolutely fine by us.’

After two more bathroom breaks and a total of almost seven hours behind the wheel, the man whom the FBI had initially called The Surgeon finally parked his car on his driveway. It had been a terribly long and awfully exhausting trip, but by all means worth every second, every drop of sweat, every bated breath. His latest piece of work had been exquisite. He wasn’t shy to admit it. If he could actually put a price on it, he would have to say that Timothy Davis had been his most valuable item yet — inspirational.

The man couldn’t help wondering how astounded the police, the FBI, even the coroner would be once the true extent of his ingenuity and intelligence was revealed through the autopsy examination. A catheter threaded directly through the inferior vena cava? Simply magnificent. Truly the work of a superior mind. No doubt that now they would have to at least recognize his genius, even if they didn’t understand it.

The man loved the little ‘wits’ game he’d been playing. He was proud of how perfectly puzzling, how deceiving, how ambiguous the clues he’d left at every scene were, and they had to be. In a case like this, he had no doubt that the FBI would’ve turned to their NCAVC’s Behavioral Analysis Unit — the topmost elite — the best of the best when it came to puzzle solving. But were they, really? Had they actually figured anything out yet? Would they ever understand the grandeur of his vision, or see the importance of his work?

Despite how much the man enjoyed the game he’d created, he would be lying if he didn’t admit that he was somewhat disappointed with the ‘best of the best’. So far it had pretty much been a one-sided affair. By now, he had expected to see something on the news, or to hear something on the radio, or to at least read something in a newspaper or on the internet, but after over two months, he hadn’t read a word or heard a sound about his work anywhere. Even after Los Angeles.

True, the man had never really cared much for cats. In his view they were animals without a purpose. All they ever did was eat and sleep. They were also disloyal, unashamedly befriending anyone who offered them food. But that wasn’t reason enough to kill them — the man acknowledged that. No, back in LA the man had placed the cat inside the freezer simply for the shock effect. He believed that that would have rubbed up the police and the FBI the wrong way. It was simply the logic of this crazy world — take the life of a human being and people might get angry — take the life of a domestic animal and people will get utterly outraged.

But that wasn’t all. Also solely for the shock effect, the man had practically painted the walls, the furniture, the entire room in blood — and still, even after Los Angeles, not a word about his work anywhere. But things were about to change. The man had made sure of it. Bringing the freelance reporter into the action had been another simple but cunning idea.

‘There’s no more denying it now,’ he said out loud while staring into his own eyes in the rearview mirror.

But his trip to Arizona had proven even more fruitful than he had expected, because by sheer luck, in a truck stop in the middle of shit-kickers-country USA, he had found her.

Just a girl.

Just a young girl.

But perfect in every sense.

From the moment he’d laid eyes on her photo, pinned to that dirty bulletin board inside that greasy diner, he knew his collection would be getting a new piece. Now that he was back home, all he had to do was research her, devise a brand-new plan and then set it in motion, and he just couldn’t wait to get started.

Twenty-eight minutes. That had been how long it had taken Agent Brandon to drive from their hotel in downtown Tucson to Timothy Davis’s house in Catalina Foothills. By most standards the house was certainly impressive, but still modest when compared to the other four on East Miraval Place.

Owen Henderson hadn’t lied. Timothy Davis’s property was surrounded by thick, overgrown vegetation. There was no way anyone could have seen into the house or grounds from a neighboring window, never mind witness someone breaking into the place.

On the driveway, two white forensics vans were blocking a silver Buick Encore. Leaning against one of the vans, a forensics agent, dressed up in a blue Tyvek coverall, was just finishing a cigarette. Her charcoal hair was bunched up into a messy bun at the top of her head. She too looked like she’d been up for most of the night. As Agent Brandon parked the black SUV on the road outside, the forensics agent stubbed out her cigarette, cleared a couple of loose hair strands from her face and walked back into the house.

Hunter, Garcia and all three FBI agents stepped out of the SUV, signed the crime-scene manifest and followed the footsteps of the forensics agent, rounding the driveway to the house’s front porch, but as they got to it, Hunter paused, turned around and regarded the area before him.

‘Something wrong?’ Agent Fisher asked, noticing the intrigued look on Hunter’s face.

Hunter’s gaze moved left, in the direction they had come from. From where he was standing, he couldn’t see the road, the entrance to the driveway, or any of the vehicles parked on it.

‘Have forensics checked the live fence?’ he asked Agent Brandon, indicating the thick, desert-like shrubs that surrounded the house.

‘The fence?’ Agent Brandon asked in reply. ‘You mean like — in the bushes?’

‘Yes, in them.’

‘I know they’ve processed the outside of the house, including the driveway, but I don’t think they’ve gone as far as checking in the live fence. Why?’

‘I think it would be a good idea if they did,’ Hunter replied before explaining. ‘The killer placed the 911 call pretty much the second Owen Henderson entered this house.’ He pointed to the driveway. ‘The problem is, this front porch cannot be seen from the road, the driveway, or any of the neighboring houses.’ He turned to face the live fence. ‘But to make that “second-perfect” call, the killer would’ve needed eyes on this door.’ He shrugged. ‘Where would you have hidden?’