Chris Carter - Gallery of the Dead

‘Wow. I had no idea. She doesn’t look like a mother, if you know what I mean.’

‘Agent Fisher isn’t a bad person, Detective Garcia. She’s just—’

‘Rude and a massive pain in the butt?’ Garcia beat Agent Williams to the punch. ‘And c’mon, call me Carlos. We’re like old friends now. We’ve known each other for...’ He looked at his watch. ‘Almost twenty-four hours.’

Agent Williams smiled. ‘Sure, Carlos, she can be rude at times, but I was about to use the word “dedicated”. She’s a very strong woman, who’s been through one hell of a lot in the last few years.’ He shook his head to indicate that that was all he was prepared to reveal. ‘This job and her daughter are pretty much all she’s got left, so every day, when she wakes up and grabs those credentials, she gives it one hundred and ten percent. Never less. Yes, to a lot of people she might come across as arrogant, intense, pushy, rude, and no doubt a pain in the butt sometimes, but the one thing you can always bet on is that she will get the job done. And she’ll always have your back. No matter what situation you might find yourself in, if you ever need her, she’ll always be there for you.’

They’d been sitting inside the SUV for less than ten seconds when Agent Fisher rejoined them. The only seat left was the one next to Garcia.

‘Is everything all right?’ he asked.

Agent Fisher had to do a double take. She had detected absolutely no sarcasm in the detective’s voice. In fact, she could swear that there was concern in his words.

‘Yes, everything is fine, thank you,’ she replied, her tone a little skeptical.

Garcia smiled and once again Agent Fisher picked up no cynicism in his action. For some reason that prompted her to reveal a little bit more.

‘I haven’t been home for almost two weeks now. My daughter just wanted to hear my voice.’

‘That’s really nice,’ Garcia said, his words sincere. ‘So where is home, DC?’

Agent Fisher chuckled. ‘Not for any amount of money. No, I’m also in California. Not that far from LA, actually.’

‘Is that so?’

Agent Fisher nodded. ‘Fresno. When I heard that I was flying to LA yesterday, I had high hopes of maybe making it back home, even if only for a night. Unfortunately, The Surgeon had other plans.’ The agent’s harsh look softened a touch. ‘Have you got any kids?’

‘No,’ Garcia replied. ‘My wife and I haven’t decided if we really want kids or not.’

Hunter and Agent Williams were both sitting back on their seats, quite enjoying the scene playing out before them. Agent Brandon was also relishing the unusually cordial exchange between the two, but it didn’t last very long. Just a couple of seconds later Agent Fisher was back to her normal self.

‘Why aren’t we moving yet?’ she asked Agent Brandon as their eyes met in the rearview mirror. ‘Go, go, go. We’ve got no time to lose here.’

Agent Brandon put the car into drive and hit the gas.

Their trip to the Red Cross blood-donation center in downtown Tucson proved to be immensely disappointing. All three nurses on duty could clearly remember Timothy Davis — the very sweet African American gentleman who insisted on calling everyone ma’am — but none of them had any recollection of a tall stranger being at the blood center at around the same time Mr. Davis was there.

Inside the snacks room they found the same twenty-one-year-old volunteer who’d been tasked with monitoring that room the day before. He was the only one who could vaguely remember this mysterious tall man, but he was unable to give anyone any real details on the man’s appearance. All the six-foot kid with acne-ridden cheeks could remember was that the man was quite tall, about three to four inches taller than him. He remembered that the man was wearing a baseball cap, but he couldn’t be sure of its color. He also couldn’t remember the man’s attire. The kid never noticed the man’s eyes; the man was wearing aviator sunglasses.

‘Aviator sunglasses?’ Agent Fisher asked.

‘That’s right,’ the kid replied. ‘A little bit like yours, though not as expensive-looking.’

‘Did he talk to you at all?’ Hunter asked. ‘Say hello, goodbye, anything?’

‘No, the man never spoke to me.’

‘Do people usually?’ Agent Fisher again. ‘Speak to you, I mean.’

‘Most of them say at least “hello” or “goodbye”. Some ask if they can take a few cookies with them or what have you.’

‘And you didn’t find that strange?’ the agent insisted. ‘A man in a baseball cap and sunglasses... indoors, who didn’t say a word to you?’

Garcia’s eyebrows arched at the agent’s comment about sunglasses indoors.

‘I volunteer here whenever I can,’ the kid explained. His voice was beginning to sound a little fearful. ‘I was in an accident three years ago, and if it hadn’t been for someone else’s blood, I wouldn’t be here now. So I donate blood every twelve weeks or so, and volunteer whenever possible. I know this might sound funny, but you do get to see a lot of people coming in here in dark shades, baseball caps and long coats. It’s not really an odd practice. Some people are also very shy. If they talk to me, I always talk back. Try to make them feel as comfortable as I can. If they don’t, I just leave them be.’

‘And this tall man in a baseball cap and shades,’ Agent Fisher said, showing the kid a portrait photograph of Timothy Davis. ‘You remember seeing him talking to this man?’

The kid looked at it for a long instant. ‘Yeah, for sure.’ He nodded. ‘They were talking by the cookie table over there.’ He indicated the last of the three tables in the room.

‘Do you remember seeing him coming into the room?’ Hunter asked, pointing at the same door they had all come in from.

The kid took a moment.

‘Actually no, I don’t,’ he finally replied. ‘I don’t remember seeing him coming in through that door at all, but he could’ve come in while I went for a bathroom break, or to pick up some more cookies and juice.’

Hunter turned and faced the other door, the one across the room from them.

‘How about that door?’ he asked. ‘Is that door always open?’

‘The exit door?’ The kid nodded. ‘Most of the time, yeah. It helps cool the room, you know? Many donors also like to take their drinks outside to escape how stuffy it can get in here sometimes. Some just step outside for a cigarette. Some people will spend a lot longer in here than they will donating blood.’ He shrugged. ‘As far as I know that door is only pulled to when it rains.’

‘Where does it lead to?’ Garcia asked.

‘Just a back alley, really.’

Hunter faced Agent Fisher.

‘There’s your answer,’ he said.

‘To what?’ she countered.

‘To how our subject got in here. I had a quick chat with the girl at the reception desk,’ Hunter explained. ‘Contrary to everyone else at this center, she’s not a volunteer. She’s actually employed by the Red Cross. She deals with all the bookings and schedules and so on... computer stuff. She’s also the receptionist, which means that she’s the one who greets everyone who walks through that front door, sits them down and makes sure that they have stuck to the blood-donation guidelines. She has to speak with everyone who enters this center.’

‘And she doesn’t remember our tall mysterious man.’ Garcia could see where Hunter was going with his explanation.

‘No, she doesn’t,’ Hunter said. ‘She clearly remembers Mr. Davis. She said that it would be hard not to, but she does not remember any tall man coming in yesterday morning, whatsoever. My guess is that our subject simply sneaked in here through the back door. He knew nobody would really question him. He probably even had some sort of false bandaging around his arm just so he could blend in.’