Chris Carter - The Caller

One of the reasons why Mr. J was the best at what he did was because he understood how law enforcement agencies worked. He knew their protocol, their investigative procedures, their tricks... and the guidelines for such a case were simple — a married woman gets savagely tortured and murdered inside her own home without any apparent motive, and the ‘people of interest’ list would be headed by none other than the husband. Add to that the fact that the husband was conveniently away at the exact same time his wife was being murdered, and that he had no alibis to corroborate his story, and his life would be completely picked apart by the investigative team. They would easily obtain warrants to approach banks, Internet providers, phone and credit-card companies... whatever and whoever they wanted. His old emails and text messages would be read. His phone calls would be listened to. His bank account, his business, his trips, his expenditures, his friends, his medical records, all of it would be dissected into tiny little pieces. But even if Mr. J had an alibi, real or forged — and he could easily get an airtight one if he so wanted — he knew that that plan still wouldn’t work.

In a murder investigation, one of the first things to be examined by the homicide team was the victim’s cellphone account. They would want to know with whom she’d been texting and speaking to recently, especially in the last few hours before her death. Mr. J’s cellphone number would’ve flagged up as the last number Cassandra had ever called, and at around the exact same time she was being murdered. Mr. J had no way of circumventing that. And that had been where he’d gotten lucky.

The killer had used the video-call feature, instead of making a regular voice call. Though the dialed number would get logged in, no cellphone provider in the USA was allowed to store their clients’ video-calls. The LAPD, the FBI, the CIA, the NSA, it didn’t matter, no one would be able to obtain even a text transcript of the call, because none existed, and Mr. J was well aware of that. Everything Mr. J had told the killer during that call would stay between him and the killer.

With everything considered, Mr. J came to the conclusion that his best option was to tell the truth... or at least to a certain extent. After that, Brian Caldron would monitor the entire police investigation, while Mr. J ran his own.

Hunter peeked at the clock on the wall just behind Mr. J — 2:03 a.m.

‘Mr. Jenkinson,’ he said, his voice smooth and cordial. ‘We don’t need to do this right now. It’s perfectly OK for us to wait until the morning. I understand you’ve been driving for hours—’

‘And you think I’ll be more rested in the morning?’ Mr. J interrupted Hunter again. ‘You think I’ll be able to sleep?’ Hunter didn’t reply. Mr. J had a point.

‘I’m guessing you’ve either heard a recording of the nine-one-one call I made, or you were told how I came to know about what happened here. You know about the video-call I received.’

Hunter gave him a sympathetic nod.

‘So if it’s all the same to you,’ Mr. J continued, his tone calm and rhythmically perfect. ‘I’d rather talk about it while everything is still fresh in my head. Sleep, if I were to get any, would bring dreams... nightmares... visions... images... whatever. Some of them would be real memories of what happened, but some would no doubt be just my mind going crazy on me. Things that weren’t really there. Things that I didn’t really see. Things that I should’ve said, but didn’t.’ He paused for a second, as if his last few words pained him too much. ‘The problem then is, in my head, there’s no way I’ll be able to discern between what really happened and what didn’t. All of it will seem as real to me as the people in this room.’ His gaze bounced from Hunter to Garcia to Dr. Slater and finally back to Hunter. ‘The longer we wait, Detective, the greater the risk of reality and fantasy getting mixed up in my head.’

Though no one could ever say with total confidence how a person’s brain would react after such a traumatic episode, the nightmares and the images that Mr. J had mentioned would come, of that Hunter had no doubt. As a psychologist, he just couldn’t fault Mr. J’s logic. At the same time, everyone in that room was astounded and intrigued by how composed Mr. J appeared to be.

‘I understand,’ Hunter said, allowing his eyes to quickly circle the room. ‘Would you rather we talk down at the station?’

‘Why?’ Mr. J asked. ‘Is that necessary?’

Everyone’s intrigue intensified.

‘No. Not at all. I just thought that maybe...’ Hunter left the suggestion floating in the air.

‘The room would pose a distraction?’ Mr. J picked it up, his gaze repeating the same movement as Hunter’s, except he chose not to look back at the chair and the pool of blood underneath it. ‘You’re right,’ he admitted. His eyes focused on a random spot on the floor in front of him and his composure finally faltered. ‘I don’t think I could do it in here.’

Again, Hunter gave him a moment.

Mr. J at last looked back up.

‘We don’t have to go downtown, Mr. Jenkinson,’ Hunter proposed. ‘We could use a local police station, or even one of the police vans parked outside if you prefer.’

Mr. J considered the suggestion before throwing a new question back at Hunter.

‘Has any other room in the house been disturbed?’

Hunter’s reply came with a slight lift of the eyebrows. ‘You’re the only person who’d be able to tell us that with any degree of certainty, Mr. Jenkinson, but as far as we can tell, this seems to have been the only room used.’

Looking thoughtful, Mr. J nodded. His answer came several seconds later. ‘We could use my office, if you don’t mind.’ He indicated with a hand gesture.

Seeing no reason why not, Hunter exchanged a quick look with Garcia.

‘Yeah, sure,’ Garcia said, padding his pockets over his Tyvek coverall. ‘I’ve got my notepad with me and I can use my phone to record everything. We’re set.’

As Mr. J turned to lead the way, his gaze brushed against the photographs resting on the mantelpiece and he froze in place. The bottomless pit inside of him that had threatened to swallow him whole came back with the fury of a tornado. Right there, staring at the photographs in those picture frames, he felt his soul abandon him. The question asked by the demonic voice roared inside his ears like a new thunder.

Your wedding anniversary, when is it?

For a long moment, no one moved.

‘Mr. Jenkinson, is everything OK?’ Hunter asked.

No reply.

He looked to be pondering something inside his head.

‘Mr. Jenkinson?’

‘There’s something I need to ask. Something I need to know,’ he finally said, his gaze struggling to meet anyone else’s.

Everyone waited.

‘My wife, I know that she was undressed.’ A new long, emotional pause. ‘I need to know. Was she...’ he stumbled on his next word and decided to start again. ‘Did this psycho...’ Still he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

‘Mr. Jenkinson,’ Dr. Slater said, taking a step forward and pulling down the hood of her white forensic coverall. Her blonde hair had been bunched up into a disheveled bun at the back of her head, but it didn’t distract from how attractive she was. On the contrary, the messy look added a certain charm to it.

Mr. J’s attention moved to her.

‘I’m Dr. Susan Slater.’ She kept her voice quiet and collected. ‘I’m the lead forensic agent assigned to this crime scene. I’m the one who was in charge of thoroughly examining your wife’s body before authorizing it to be transported to the coroner’s office. All I can tell you is that her body showed absolutely no external signs of having been sexually assaulted.’