Chris Carter - Gallery of the Dead

Agent Fisher stood almost motionless before the south wall inside their office at the FBI Headquarters on Wilshire Boulevard. Her arms were folded in front of her chest, her eyes glued to the large monitor on the left. In her right hand, she had a Bluetooth clicker and with every button press the picture on the screen would fade out, quickly giving way to a new one. Judging solely by how much attention she was paying to every image, one would be forgiven for thinking that she was seeing those photos for the first time, but that simply wasn’t the case.

Agent Fisher had been looping through the same crime-scene photographs that she had scrutinized one zillion times before, but that image-looping process had become a morning ritual for her. She did it every day, as she walked into their office. Maybe she was hoping that a fresh, morning brain, aided by fresh eyes, would perhaps pick up a detail somewhere that, until now, they had all somehow missed.

That hadn’t happened yet.

From his desk, leaning back on his chair and always nursing a cup of steaming coffee, Agent Williams went through the ritual with his partner.

Agent Fisher had just clicked onto the last of Linda Parker’s crime-scene photographs when Hunter walked through the office door. Under his right arm he was carrying a significantly fat document folder. No one needed to ask to know that he hadn’t slept. Agent Williams put it politely.

‘It looks like you’ve been working for most of the night.’

‘Some of it,’ Hunter admitted.

Just as he got to his desk, Garcia walked into the office. He, on the other hand, looked completely rested.

There was something in the tone Hunter had used when answering Agent Williams that made both FBI agents turn and face him.

‘Have you found something new?’ Agent Fisher asked.

‘I think so.’

Agent Fisher used the clicker to turn off the monitor before walking over to Hunter’s desk.

Agent Williams was right behind her.

‘I think we made a mistake,’ Hunter said as the group gathered around his desk.

‘A mistake?’ Agent Fisher asked. Her uncertainty was mirrored on Garcia’s and Agent Williams’ faces. ‘A mistake about what?’

‘About this killer’s crime scenes. About them being a canvas. About him seeing himself primarily as an artist.’

The confusion on everyone’s faces didn’t go away. In fact, Hunter’s words had the opposite effect.

‘Let me show you,’ he said, as he cleared his desk, placing everything except the computer monitor and the keyboard on the floor to his right. He then retrieved four pieces of paper from one of the printer trays and placed them on his desk. Next, he wrote down the four different Latin phrases the killer had carved onto his victims’ backs. For clarity, he wrote their English meaning just under the Latin words. That done, he reached inside the fat file he had brought with him and retrieved a portrait photo of each victim, placing them next to the corresponding phrase.

‘This investigation has been a cryptic maze from the get-go,’ he began. ‘This killer likes to play mind games and I think Adrian was right.’

‘About what?’ Agent Williams this time.

‘About the killer testing us.’ Hunter pointed to the four pieces of paper on his desk. ‘There’s no doubt that the carvings are clues meant for us. And we know that because at first view those clues are hidden. The victims are always left lying on their backs. The carvings are not a visual element in his canvases, if that really is what he’s aiming for, or even an element in the shocking effect of his murders, because no one will see those carvings until the victims are moved, and that will only happen once the investigative team gets there. Still, after the carvings have been revealed, we have to put everything together — the symbol-like lines, the oddly split words, all of it — to finally form a sentence... in Latin, which automatically adds an extra layer to his cryptic game.’

‘Ambiguity,’ Agent Williams said.

‘Precisely,’ Hunter agreed, once again indicating the four sheets of paper on his desk. ‘Every single one of these phrases could have more than one meaning, a meaning that doesn’t necessarily have to refer to the crime scenes themselves, but whichever way we choose to look at these clues, it does seem like the killer has gone to great lengths to shroud everything in as much confusion as he could.’

‘Well,’ Garcia cut in, ‘it looks like he’s done a fantastic job so far, because right now he’s got all of us chasing smoke.’ He looked at both FBI agents. ‘And he’s had you guys chasing after your own tails for over two months now.’

Agent Fisher looked at him sideways.

‘And that was what Adrian Kennedy meant when he suggested that the killer was testing us,’ Hunter clarified. ‘The killer made his clues cryptic and ambiguous for a reason — in his mind, delusional or not, only those “worthy” would be able to decipher them, but deciphering the clues was only half of the test. They also needed to be understood, and to the killer, only those with the right vision, higher intelligence, or whatever, would be able to truly understand them... to truly understand him .’

‘And what you’re saying is that we misunderstood those clues?’ Agent Fisher asked.

‘Yes,’ Hunter confirmed. ‘I think we did. We thought that they were the killer’s way of telling us that he saw himself as an artist, right?’

‘Yes,’ Agent Fisher agreed firmly.

‘Well,’ Hunter said, ‘the clues are certainly telling us something about him, but they’re not telling us that he’s an artist.’

Everyone paused in anticipation.

‘They are telling us that he’s a collector.’

It was as if Hunter had cast a flash paralyzing spell on everyone inside the office, because for the next five seconds no one spoke, no one moved, no one even blinked.

‘What?’ Agent Fisher broke the spell, quickly followed by Garcia, then Agent Williams.

‘What?’

‘What?’

Awkward looks all around.

‘So what is he collecting?’ Agent Fisher asked.

Hunter took a deep breath before speaking because he knew how crazy he was about to sound.

‘Human rarities.’

Surprise and bewilderment came together to form a very peculiar look, which masked everyone’s faces.

‘Human rarities? What does that even mean?’

‘OK,’ Hunter said, calling everyone’s attention to the first photograph on the left. Next to it was the Latin phrase the killer had carved into the victim’s back.

‘Kristine Rivers,’ he began. ‘Our very first victim. The killer scalped her and took out her eyes. Now have a look at this.’ From his folder, Hunter retrieved the personal file the FBI had compiled on Kristine Rivers and placed it on the table. He then indicated two fields displayed right on the first page.

Hair color: Red.

Eye color: Blue.

‘Now remember,’ Hunter stressed, pointing to Kristine Rivers’ portrait on the desk. ‘This is her official profile, so we’re not talking about her dyed bright red hair here.’

On the photo, Kristine Rivers’ hair, which had been styled into large curls, was fire-engine red.

‘Beneath all that bright red color,’ Hunter carried on, ‘Kristine Rivers was actually a natural redhead.’

Hunter went back to his file and selected a new photo of Kristine Rivers. This one showed her sitting with two other girls on a bench somewhere. Her hair was loose, falling several inches past her shoulders, a gorgeous shade of natural red.

‘According to what we have,’ Hunter added, ‘this picture was taken just a few days before Kristine Rivers was murdered.’