Chris Carter - The Caller

Mr. J breathed in that information. ‘No offense, Doctor, but that’s not exactly one hundred percent guaranteed, is it?’ He pinned Dr. Slater down with a gaze that could cut diamonds. ‘I’ll need to wait for the autopsy report to be certain, won’t I? Because technically speaking, this psycho could’ve still—’

‘This killer is not a sexual predator, Mr. Jenkinson,’ Hunter intervened, his voice firm and confident. ‘He’s not after sexual gratification.’

‘And how can you be so certain, Detective?’ Mr. J came back.

‘Because I’ve encountered hundreds of them before,’ Hunter said resolutely. ‘Their incessant quest for sexual pleasure is always the ultimate driving force behind what they do. The sexual act is never subtle. Never hidden. Always violent. It’s one of the first things that’s noticeable as we enter a crime scene.’ Once again, Hunter allowed his gaze to move about the room. ‘We have nothing like that here, Mr. Jenkinson. Given the fact that this killer was alone with your wife for who knows how long, if sexual gratification was what he was after, there was nothing to stop him from gaining it.’

‘That’s precisely my point, Detective,’ Mr. J countered. ‘We won’t know that for certain until we get the autopsy results.’

Hunter didn’t want to reveal that now, with Cassandra Jenkinson, a non-sexual aggressor pattern had been established, because the ‘video-call’ killer had already claimed his first victim less than sixty hours ago. A victim he had also shown no sexual interest in whatsoever.

‘Mr. Jenkinson.’ Dr. Slater was the one who interposed this time. ‘In over twelve years as a forensic agent, I know of no sexual assault case where the victim has shown no external physical signs of it. Not one. There would’ve been something — dermal abrasions, traumas, bruises, scratches... something. There was nothing. Not even a tiny scuff. I promise you, your wife was not touched in that way.’

Mr. J looked away as if he needed time on his own to go over every single word Hunter and Dr. Slater had said. His eyebrows lifted ever so slightly and that caused the light wrinkles on his forehead to deepen, forming a series of ridges that carried on halfway up his shaved head.

From the quick report Garcia had given him outside, Hunter knew that John Jenkinson was forty-eight years old, but at that particular moment, he looked at least twenty-five years older. His eyes looked tired, with dark circles and heavy bags under them. His skin, dull and yellowish, gave everyone the impression that he’d spent half of his life sitting inside a locked room under strong fluorescent lighting. And the worst of all was that from now on every year would count for two, maybe more. Hunter had seen it happen before countless times to spouses, parents, siblings, partners, children, whoever. People who had lost someone dear to them in an overly violent way tended to lose their path in life easier than most, and the years were never kind to those. People who had unfortunately witnessed that violent death for whatever reason usually suffered a great deal more, but Hunter could barely even begin to imagine the sort of physical and psychological devastation that people in Mr. Jenkinson’s shoes would have to endure for the rest of their lives. People like Tanya Kaitlin. People who were forced to watch a loved one being brutally murdered. The images they saw, Hunter was certain of it, would haunt their every living second until their last day.

Mr. J finally looked back at Hunter and Dr. Slater. Their words from just seconds back at last seemed to have their desired effect. Before guiding Hunter and Garcia into his office, his eyes glassed over and he was only able to utter two simple words, but they came out full of meaning.

‘Thank you.’

Mr. J’s house office was about twice the size of Hunter and Garcia’s back at the PAB and a lot less cluttered. Its centerpiece was undoubtedly the antique mahogany partners desk, which sat just a few feet in front of a boxed-out window. The curtains, heavy and dark, had been drawn shut. A brownish-red, winged Chesterfield armchair was positioned in front and a little to the left of the desk, while two hand-knotted Persian rugs covered most of the floor. The east wall was taken by a very large bookcase, with every shelf packed to its limit with a mixture of neatly arranged hardcovers and paperbacks.

‘Let me get you another chair,’ Mr. J said as they entered the room.

‘That’s not really necessary, Mr. Jenkinson,’ Hunter replied. ‘I can stand, it’s not a problem.’

‘Please, I insist. It will take me two seconds.’

Once Mr. J left the room, Hunter pulled down the hood of his forensic coverall, walked over to the bookcase and browsed some of the volumes. The majority of them were business and finance books, with a few scattered ones on law, accounting and architecture.

Garcia checked the opposite wall, which was adorned by framed photographs and achievement awards.

‘Here we go.’ Mr. J re-entered the room, carrying a high-back chair, which he placed by the Chesterfield, before finally taking a seat behind his desk.

‘Thank you,’ Hunter said, taking the chair. Garcia took the Chesterfield.

‘We’ll try to take as little of your time as possible, Mr. Jenkinson,’ Garcia said, reaching for his smartphone. ‘Do you mind if we record this interview?’

Mr. J shook his head. It was time to put his A-game forward.

Once Garcia hit ‘record’, Hunter began.

‘Mr. Jenkinson, I know that what you’ve been put through will be hard to revisit, and I apologize for having to ask you to do so, but could you tell us as much as you can remember about the video-call you received. The more detailed you can be, the more it will help us.’

Mr. J looked down at his sun-beaten and wrinkled hands, which were tightly clasped and resting on the desk in front of him. After several silent seconds, he finally lifted his eyes to meet Hunter and Garcia’s gaze. For the next twenty minutes, he recounted only what he wanted to recount of the video-call, but he did it all in tremendous detail. Hunter and Garcia interrupted him sporadically to clarify certain points, but for most of it they simply allowed him to tell his story in his own time. As Mr. J reached the part where the killer asked him for his wedding date, he paused and looked down at his hands again. They were shaking. Embarrassed, he moved them to his lap and went completely quiet.

Hunter and Garcia waited.

In a faltering voice, Mr. J told them that he tried, but he couldn’t remember. He just couldn’t remember. Then, without realizing it, he whispered the words, ‘I’m so sorry’.

Neither Hunter nor Garcia said anything. They both knew that those words weren’t meant for them. They were meant for Cassandra. Guilt had already settled in and spread itself on to every corner of Mr. J’s body. Whatever psychological damage that video-call would cause him, the guilt that came from not knowing the answer to that damn question would make it a lot worse.

And that was when Mr. J finally realized what he had done — seventh of March was his son’s birthday. That was why the date kept on flashing so intensely inside his head when he was asked for his wedding date.

PING.

And just like that, as if a dark veil had suddenly been lifted from his memory, his wedding date appeared before his eyes, clear as daylight.

April tenth. He and Cassandra had gotten married on April tenth.

Mr. J’s eyes closed and he threw his head back as if he’d been stabbed in the stomach by a fire dagger.

Why? He silently cursed himself, his memory, his brain, his whole existence. Why couldn’t I remember that earlier?