Chris Carter - Gallery of the Dead

Agent Fisher immediately put up her hand, anticipating the explosion of voices that was about to come her way. But it never happened. Instead, every pair of eyes that a second ago had been fixed on the tall and slim man, darted toward the agent, but no one said a word. The only sound that could be heard inside the room was the incessant clicking of cameras.

‘You’re wrong,’ Agent Fisher replied. Her voice still solid. Her self-confidence undaunted. ‘Yes, we do have a very extensive profile on this killer, Mr. Curry, and the reason why we can’t share it with any of you is because if we do, it will be all over the news and the papers by tomorrow, and guess what? Serial killers also watch the news. They also read the papers.’ She paused so the whole room could absorb her words.

‘If we reveal our findings on this killer now, it will give him a chance to alter his methods, to adapt, to evade the net that is already in place and quickly closing around him. We can’t risk that, but I can tell you this, Mr. Curry.’ Agent Fisher looked straight into the eyes of the reporter. ‘This killer isn’t intelligent, like you’ve suggested, he isn’t smart, or talented, or creative, or gifted, or artistic, or anything else that he might think he is. No, he’s just another pathetic loser. Another psychopath. Someone who probably blames society for his problems. Someone who, to make up for his many inadequacies, decided to go around playing God. But his days are counted, you can bet on that. We have figured him out and—’

‘What the hell is she doing?’ Garcia asked Hunter, his eyes growing wider with every word Agent Fisher uttered. ‘It looks like she’s trying to piss him off, and I’m not talking about the reporter here.’

‘That’s exactly what she’s doing,’ Hunter agreed.

Garcia listened for a few more seconds. ‘That’s not a smart move, is it?’

‘No,’ Hunter replied, transfixed by what Agent Fisher was doing on the stage. ‘Angering this killer is not a smart move at all.’

The man had been working at his desk for the past four hours. He had created ten different sketches — ten different plans. All he had to do now was decide which one he liked best, which one he could implement with most ease, but there was no real rush. After all, he had just added a brand-new item to his collection and he deserved a much-needed rest.

The man put down his pen, sat back on his chair and let his head drop back. He was tired and he could feel the muscles around his neck beginning to stiffen up, but more than that, he was hungry and he was thirsty.

In the kitchen, he switched on the small TV on the counter before pouring himself a large glass of unsweetened ice-tea. As he returned the glass jug to the fridge, an image on the small screen caught his attention. He used the remote control to turn the volume up.

Two crazy gunmen, armed with a high-powered, fully automatic assault weapon, had entered a rock concert in Barcelona, Spain, and opened fire on the crowd. The gunmen had managed to kill one hundred and fifteen people and injure another thirty-nine before they were both finally shot down by Spanish police. The attack lasted around forty-five minutes. The report included several shocking cellphone images shot from inside the venue by the fans themselves.

‘This world is going completely nuts,’ the man commented as he made himself a pastrami and cheese sandwich and divided it into four practically millimeter-perfect triangles.

While the news played out, showing more amateur images together with concert survivors’ interviews, the man set a place at the six-seater table inside his kitchen. Drinks coaster, plate mat, napkin, cutlery and finally salt and pepper mills. That was always the order, and all of it always flawlessly aligned.

Like always, when eating a sandwich, the man started with the topmost triangle and worked his way clockwise. After he finished each triangle, which he would do with exactly two bites, the man would have two sips of his drink before returning it to the coaster. He would then dab the corners of his mouth with the napkin and return it to the right side of the plate mat before realigning everything once again. The process would repeat itself until his meal was finished.

As the man took his first bite of the last sandwich triangle, the news on his TV changed and the report about the atrocities in Spain was followed by a national bulletin.

‘On a much more domestic note,’ the TV anchorman announced, ‘the FBI has held a press conference this evening concerning their investigation into the murders of four people. All of them victims of the same predator — a serial killer who has been roaming our streets for over two months now.’

The man stopped halfway through chewing.

‘This is what Special Agent Erica Fisher had to say,’ the news anchor continued.

The man put down his food and turned the volume up.

The report cut to the press conference held in Tucson, which had already been edited by the station’s news team. The segment started with Agent Fisher replying to the LA Times reporter’s question, though his question was never actually shown.

After the agent’s statement, the report cut to the news anchor once again.

‘The FBI reassured the public that they are already closing in on the killer.’

For a moment the man didn’t breathe. He didn’t hear the end of the report either, all he could hear was the words that kept playing back, over and over in his head — this killer isn’t intelligent, he isn’t smart, or talented, or creative, or gifted, or artistic, or anything else that he might think he is. No, he’s just another pathetic loser. Someone who probably blames society for his problems. Someone who, to make up for his many inadequacies, decided to go around playing God.

‘Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.’

The man’s laugh started slowly, like a locomotive leaving the platform. It was a quiet, reserved laugh, but as it gained momentum, it also picked up strength, echoing around the kitchen, with the man’s shoulders bouncing up and down in an odd rhythm.

All of a sudden, the man went dead quiet. If anyone could see his eyes, they would’ve seen the focus, the determination in them.

‘OK,’ he said out loud, his head nodding a couple of times at the TV. ‘You want to play? Let’s play. How about a new game this time? We can call it “No More Mr. Merciful”.’

‘Hey,’ Tracy Adams said, as she answered her phone after the second ring. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ Hunter replied. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m OK. Thank you.’

‘I really wanted to apologize for having to cancel on you at such short notice... again .’

‘But you’ve already apologized, remember?’

Like always, Tracy’s voice was soft, her tone understanding, but Hunter did pick up a hint of disappointment in her pitch.

‘Yes, but through a text message, which I would also like to apologize for.’ Hunter’s voice, on the other hand, sounded tired. ‘It’s been quite crazy over here and I just couldn’t find the time to call, at least not for longer than a minute. I didn’t want to call and then all of a sudden have to put the phone down on you because I had to rush off somewhere. Given the circumstances, a text message was my best option and even that had to be done in snatches.’

‘It’s all right, Robert. I know it’s not your fault.’

Hunter got the feeling that what Tracy really wanted to say was: It’s all right, Robert. I’m used to it. It’s not the first time you’ve cancelled on me, is it?

Maybe it was the fact that they were in different cities, different states. Maybe it was the fact that distance was different from time in the way it affected people, but right then, Hunter missed her.