Chris Carter - Gallery of the Dead

‘His arm was bandaged,’ the kid confirmed. ‘I do remember that.’

Hunter just made a face.

‘Good call, Detective,’ Agent Brandon said to Hunter, as the group finally left the Red Cross blood-donation center. ‘Forensics seems to have found the spot where the killer hid in the live fence at Mr. Davis’s house, just like you suggested. So far they’ve managed to retrieve a partial shoeprint, which is already on its way to our lab in Quantico. They are still checking for any fibers that might’ve lodged themselves in the bushes. With some luck, this might be our first real break.’

To keep the number of reporters down to a minimum, one of the Bureau’s favorite tricks when it came to press conferences was quite a simple one: issue the official press release, which would reveal the time and location of the press conference, as late as possible. The less time the press had to organize themselves the better. In the case of The Surgeon’s investigation, the FBI’s NCAVC decided to give the media only two hours’ notice, which wasn’t much, considering that the press conference was to take place in a boutique hotel in Tucson, Arizona.

The trick didn’t work.

News of a serial killer roaming the streets of any US city was enough to get crime reporters jumping for joy. The news of a serial killer practically putting the entire country under siege was almost a once-in-a-lifetime event.

By 6:55 p.m., the conference room inside the Lodge on the Desert Hotel was packed to capacity. Broadcasting cameras and microphones seemed to be absolutely everywhere. Photographers and reporters were literally falling over each other for a better position even before anyone took the stage. Speculation ran around the room like kids out of control, with an army of voices interweaving to form a totally incomprehensible web of sound.

‘Wow,’ Garcia said, cringing at the noise as he and Hunter blended into the crowd by perching themselves between two cameramen right at the back of the room. ‘This place is louder than a Sunday fish-market. Smells almost as bad, too.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Hunter replied. ‘This won’t take long.’

At exactly 7:00 p.m., Agents Fisher and Williams entered the conference room. As Agent Fisher stepped up to the microphone podium on the small stage, Sunday fish-market turned into Sunday church.

‘Good evening, everyone,’ Agent Fisher began. She wore black straight-legged pants with a white satin blouse under a black blazer. Her hair was loose, falling down to her shoulders in ringlets. Her makeup was subtle and professional, but still elegant. Her posture was impeccable, oozing self-confidence. One didn’t need to be a detective to know that she’d done this before.

‘Hubba, hubba,’ Hunter heard the cameraman to his right whisper to his friend. ‘Is she an agent or a model? I wouldn’t mind getting me a piece of that.’

‘You know she carries handcuffs and a gun, right?’ his friend replied.

‘Hell yeah. Sign me up.’

‘I’m Special Agent Erica Fisher with the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit,’ the agent continued, before glancing at her partner. ‘And this is Special Agent Larry Williams.’

Agent Williams greeted the room with a simple nod.

‘I’d like to begin by saying that we’re not here to make any sort of statement.’ Agent Fisher’s voice was placid but firm, full of authority. ‘That was made in the press release you received this afternoon. What we’re here to do is answer a few questions.’

She immediately lifted her hand, halting the loud murmur that threatened to engulf the room.

‘But there are ground rules.’

She paused and let her eyes travel the room. Five seconds later they were back to absolute silence.

‘This is a high-profile, ongoing investigation, which means that I will not discuss any avenues we are pursuing at the moment, so please don’t even bother asking. We have very limited time to spare, so right now I’m prepared to answer questions for ten minutes only. That’s all. Do not projectile vomit your questions at me. You want to ask me something, put your hand up like you were back in school. If I pick you, you are a lucky one. If I don’t, don’t start shouting your question over other people’s voices. If this even hints at turning into a circus, this conference is over. I hope I’ve made myself clear.’

‘OK, I take it back about wanting me some of that,’ Hunter once again heard the cameraman say to his friend. ‘She sounds like a nasty piece of work.’

Garcia didn’t even try to hide his smile.

‘All right,’ Agent Fisher said from the stage. ‘Your ten minutes start now.’

Hands flew up in the air. Most of them were holding microphones emblazoned with insignias — CNN, Fox, NBC, CBS, CNBC, Court TV, and even some international channels like the BBC, 9Live, France4, and several others.

Agent Fisher’s gaze crawled around the room. She didn’t recognize any of the faces.

‘Please,’ she pointed to an attractive dark-haired reporter who was sitting on the fourth row from the front.

‘Thank you.’ The reporter stood up and identified herself before asking her question. ‘Lindsay Cooper, CBS News. In the FBI press release you say that this killer has claimed four lives so far. How certain are you of that number? And why can’t the FBI disclose any of the victims’ names at this moment?’

A Mexican ‘yeah’ wave circled the room.

Agent Fisher once again waited for the place to quiet down.

‘Two questions in one,’ she replied. ‘You no doubt have experience in this.’

The room laughed.

‘To answer your first question,’ Agent Fisher carried on. ‘We are one hundred percent sure of the number of victims so far. The reason we are not disclosing any of their names at the moment is because we have been asked by their families not to. We are respecting that wish.’

The reporter tried to tag her own question, but Agent Fisher quickly moved on to someone else.

‘You,’ she said, pointing at a tall and slim man, wearing a baseball cap and thick, round glasses. ‘Red shirt, right at the back. What’s your question?’

The man stood up. ‘Alan Curry, representing the LA Times .’ He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. In his right hand he had a printout of the FBI’s press release. ‘Two months, four victims, four different states — other than that, your press release hasn’t told us much else. My question is simple — how do you expect not to provoke countrywide panic with this kind of information? You haven’t really told us anything about this killer. We don’t know who to look out for, or what to look out for. Is this guy going after victims who are old, young, male, female, gay, straight, black, white, tall, short, blonde, brunette... what? The four victims, has the killer picked them out of the streets, bars, clubs, colleges, parks, their own houses... where? Should we all be concerned about going out at night, or walking our dogs early in the morning? Did the victims share any characteristics that we should know about? Did the killer torture his victims? Is he likely to be timid and socially awkward? Are there any indications that he is an intelligent person, or the opposite?’

The man paused and looked around. All eyes were on him.

‘C’mon, Special Agent Fisher,’ he continued, his tone becoming a little somber. ‘You need to give us a little bit more than this joke of a press release.’ He raised the printout in his hand. ‘You are the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit. When it comes to serial killers, you’re supposed to be the utmost authority, not only in the country, but in the world. You study them, you collect them, you pick their brains apart, don’t you? Two months... you must’ve had a team of criminal psychologists working non-stop to come up with some sort of profile on this guy, so where is it? What should we look out for? If this press release is all you can give us after over eight weeks of investigation, then it can only be for one reason — the utmost authority in the country doesn’t have a clue where it stands, does it? There’s no profile on this killer because you simply cannot come up with one.’