Chris Carter - Gallery of the Dead

Everyone nodded.

‘OK, what we didn’t know was that Linda Parker was one of the most requested hands, feet and cosmetic models in Los Angeles, shooting for catalogs and adverts that ran all over the world, not only in the USA.’

Hunter retrieved a pile of photographs from his folder and placed them on his desk.

‘These are just a few of the photos Operations have sent over.’

He began flipping through the first batch of photographs — a series of close-up images showing only Linda Parker’s hands and feet. The images advertised a variety of products, ranging from false nails to jewelry, to sandals, to nail varnish, to moisturizing creams and beyond.

‘There’s a reason why Linda Parker was one of the most requested models when it came to these sorts of adverts,’ Hunter explained. ‘Her hands and feet were considered perfectly balanced and symmetrical.’

‘Perfectly balanced and symmetrical?’ Agent Fisher intervened. ‘What does that mean?’

‘It’s got to do with the shape, curvature and the size ratios: how long the fingers and toes are in comparison not only to each other, but also to the palms and feet.’

‘You’re kidding, right?’

‘Not even a little bit. In the same way that clothes companies look for specific-sized models for specific items, shoe, jewelry, and cosmetic companies look for models with the most perfect hands, feet and skin they can find. That alone can boost sales by about five to ten percent.’

‘I’ll admit,’ Agent Williams said, his attention still on the photos Hunter was showing them, ‘her hands were very attractive. Very delicate.’

The next series of advert photographs Hunter showed them were facial and body close-ups of Linda Parker, all of them advertising a variety of cosmetic products.

‘Her skin was also considered ideal for cosmetic advertisements — no blemishes, no marks, no freckles... nothing. So much so that in the past two years, she graced the cover of no fewer than fifteen dermatological magazines, not only in this country, but also abroad.’

Hunter showed them all fifteen magazine covers.

Silence once again ruled the room.

Hunter indicated the phrase the killer had carved into Linda Parker’s back.

Pulchritudo Circumdat Eius — ‘Beauty surrounds her.’

Garcia’s brain was the first to engage.

‘As in the skin that surrounds her body,’ he said in a thoughtful tone. ‘Not the room that surrounded her dead body.’

‘Precisely,’ Hunter agreed. ‘The killer wanted her skin. He wanted her hands and feet because they were “perfect”.’

Hunter spread the photographs over his desk.

Eyes moved in all directions, jumping from picture to picture, trying to take in everything.

‘So if we follow your line of thought,’ Agent Williams said, ‘there has to be something special about Timothy Davis’s blood.’

Hunter placed Timothy Davis’s autopsy report on the desk and flipped it to the second page, where he indicated the third entry from the top.

Blood type: AB-

From his folder, Hunter retrieved the FBI file on Timothy Davis that Agent Brandon had given them back at the airport in Tucson. The information he was looking for was right on the first page. He placed the file on the desk, next to the autopsy report.

‘Timothy Davis’s mother’s name was Anjana.’ He indicated on the file as he explained. ‘And though she was born in the USA, she was of Asian-Indian descent. His father’s name was Terrence and he was a Deep-South African American, born and raised in Madison, Alabama.’ He brought the autopsy report back to the top of the pile before clarifying. ‘AB Negative is the rarest type of blood in the world. In the USA, it comprises less than two percent of the population. That number drops significantly when we divide the population into ethnic groups. In African Americans the frequency is less than 0.3 percent. In Asian Americans less than 0.1. If you combine the two ethnic groups together...’

Hunter once again indicated the information concerning Timothy Davis’s mother — Asian-Indian descent — then the information concerning his father — African American.

‘We’re talking a negligible number of the population here. When it comes to blood type, due to his heritage, Timothy Davis was one in five million. He had the rarest of all blood types running through his veins.’

Hunter indicated the Latin phrase the killer had carved into Timothy Davis’s back.

Pulchritudo habitantem in interius — ‘beauty lives on the inside.’

‘The killer’s phrases aren’t allusions to his crime scenes. They aren’t a set of instructions on how to look at his work. They are direct references to what he takes — eyes, hair, skin, feet, hands, blood...’

Hunter returned to his folder.

‘We have one more detail,’ he said. ‘The phone conversation between our killer and Owen Henderson, the freelance reporter he called in Phoenix. You have all received the official transcript yesterday, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘The killer’s last few words to Owen Henderson over the phone,’ Hunter carried on. ‘After he gave Owen the instructions on how to get to Timothy Davis’s house. At first, I couldn’t make any real sense of what he’d said, but now...’

Hunter placed a copy of the transcript on his desk. To emphasize his argument he had underlined a few key words.

We live in a false world — a plastic world where real, natural beauty is the purest and rarest of art forms. The most valuable of art forms. True beauty cannot be fabricated or copied, and for that reason, it’s becoming extinct, but true beauty should live forever. I am making sure of that. I hope that you will be able to understand and appreciate true art.

‘He’s talking about pure, true, natural beauty ,’ Hunter said, once everyone had finished reading the transcript. ‘A rare kind of beauty that cannot be fabricated or copied .’

‘His victims’ body parts,’ Agent Williams concluded.

Hunter nodded once. ‘And he finishes by saying, “True beauty should live forever. I am making sure of that.” So how do you think he’s making sure of it?’

Garcia and both FBI agents exchanged worried looks.

Hunter addressed Agent Fisher.

‘I think you’re right, Erica, the killer is probably creating some sort of “gallery of the dead”, but not from pictures he takes at the crime scenes. He’s creating his gallery from their body parts. To him, they’re much more than simple trophies. They are items of true, rare beauty that cannot be copied or duplicated, and the only way he can make sure that those items will live forever is by preserving them.’

Hunter brought everyone’s attention back to the photographs on his desk.

‘He’s not creating art. He’s collecting it.’

The door closed behind him with a muffled thud, but the man didn’t move. Not for a while. He simply stood there, admiring the room he had created with his own hands.

It had taken him almost two years to transform the space down in his basement into exactly what he wanted, but the time and effort he had put into it had clearly paid off. The room — his gallery — was nothing less than magnificent.

The man closed his eyes and breathed in the stale air inside the oddly shaped room. As the air traveled into his nostrils, bringing with it a very familiar chemical scent, his skin turned into gooseflesh.

The man adored that smell.

He kept his eyes closed for a full minute, savoring every second, allowing the anticipation to build up inside him. He could feel his lungs expanding and collapsing with every breath, his heart beginning to increase its rhythm, his muscles tensing ever so slightly.