Chris Carter - The Caller

‘I’d have to agree,’ Hunter cut in. ‘Most people would’ve discarded this note as a hoax, a very bad practical joke, and that’s why I would like to ask your permission to properly search the house, more specifically, your wife’s belongings.’

Mr. J knew that the use of the word ‘properly’ meant that they had already searched the house and Cassandra’s belongings. They just haven’t done it meticulously enough.

‘What for?’ he asked.

‘For other notes similar to this one. Notes she might’ve received previously.’

‘What?’ Mr. J studied both detectives’ faces, but found nothing. ‘You think she received other notes like this one?’

‘I do,’ Hunter admitted it.

Mr. J chuckled anxiously. ‘And what makes you think that?’

‘Because this note,’ Hunter said, pointing at it, his tone firm and confident, ‘unlike what you might think, Mr. Jenkinson, certainly scared your wife.’

Another intrigued frown. ‘And you know that how?’

Hunter scratched his chin. ‘Because she never threw it away, Mr. Jenkinson. We didn’t find it in a trashcan, tucked away in a drawer, or under a sofa. We found it inside her handbag, together with her car keys and her purse. If she had thought that this note was nothing more than a silly prank, why keep it? And better yet, why keep it in her handbag?’

Mr. J hadn’t thought of that. He had actually forgotten that Hunter had told him that the note had been found inside Cassandra’s handbag. And the detective had a point. Mr. J knew Cassandra better than anyone did. She would never have paid any attention to something like this, unless she had received enough of them to either test her patience or scare her.

It was while pondering that idea that the reason why she had kept the note in her handbag came to him — she wanted to show it to him, get his opinion on it, ask him if she should be worried about something like that.

Of course, he thought. It must’ve been. She was waiting for me to get back from my ‘business trip’ so she could show it to me. Talk it over.

That thought drove a new spike of guilt right through Mr. J’s heart. His eyes closed instinctively and he pressed his lips tightly together, as if an unforeseen wave of pain had taken over him.

‘Mr. Jenkinson?’ Hunter said, legitimately concerned. ‘Are you all right?’

He reopened his eyes and for a second lost grip of his cool. The anger in his voice painted the room red.

‘My wife was tortured and murdered inside my own house while I was away, arguably by some psychopath who had been tormenting and stalking her with stupid notes like this one.’ He stabbed his finger at the evidence bag. ‘Which I knew nothing about. How “all right” would you like me to be, Detective?’

‘I’m sorry, Mr. Jenkinson,’ Hunter replied, his eyes low and apologetic. ‘I didn’t mean it that way.’

‘Please,’ Mr. J said, lifting a hand. His cool was back, and so was his perfect acting. ‘If you have no more questions, could I be left alone now?’

Hunter exchanged another troubled look with Garcia.

‘Unfortunately, we can’t allow you to stay in the house, Mr. Jenkinson. Not tonight.’

Mr. J glared at Hunter. He knew fully well that he would never be allowed to stay, but he needed to play his ‘oblivious citizen’ part.

‘What do you mean — you won’t allow me to stay? This is my house.’

‘We understand that, Mr. Jenkinson.’ Once again, Hunter’s voice was calm and composed. ‘And the only thing I can do at the moment is apologize, but unfortunately your house is now also a crime scene, and for reasons I’m sure you can imagine, we need to keep it isolated until it’s given the “all clear” by us and the forensic team. We’ll be back here in the morning to go over everything again with fresh eyes, looking for anything we might’ve missed tonight.’

Retaining the angry look on his face, Mr. J remained silent, pretending to consider Hunter’s words.

‘I can promise you that we’ll work as fast as we possibly can, Mr. Jenkinson. With a little luck, we’ll be able to hand the house over to the crime and trauma scene decontamination team by tomorrow night. After that, the house is yours to do with as you please again.’

Still silence.

‘I’m very sorry about that,’ Hunter restated.

‘Could I at least grab some fresh clothes?’ Mr. J asked, being sure to keep some of the anger in his tone of voice.

‘Of course. Take as long as you need. We’ll wait outside.’

This feels all wrong, Mr. J thought as Hunter and Garcia exited his office.

Despite feeling exhausted and emotionally drained, his brain was still able to ponder basic facts, and four of the most basic ones, when it came to this investigation, simply weren’t adding up.

One: He had been conveniently away at the time of his wife’s murder. Two: No signs of forced entry had been found, which meant that the investigation would have to consider the possibility that the perpetrator had a key to the house to start with. Three: The video-call he claimed he had received could never be properly verified. Even the detectives had confirmed that. And four: The note that was found inside Cassandra’s handbag could’ve easily been planted there to create the illusion that she was being stalked and to try to drag the investigation down a different path.

Considering those four facts alone, Mr. J knew that he was supposed to have been grilled like a rack of ribs at a fat men’s barbecue, but that just didn’t happen.

As he left his hotel late last night, he had begun thinking about what sort of questions would be coming his way. Questions about alibis to corroborate any of his stories. Questions about what sort of business or meetings he was supposed to have had back in Fresno. Names, phone numbers, schedules, addresses... everything. As the interview started, with questions about his last two trips and who had keys to the property, he thought that he was well en route to the expected grilling but, to his surprise, the line of questioning quickly moved on to something he could never have predicted. Neither detective seemed too interested in digging any deeper into his business trip.

To Mr. J, that was problem number one. Problem number two was that Cassandra had been murdered inside their own home without an apparent motive. No burglary. No obvious sexual assault. When Mr. J added problem number one to problem number two, and he was sure that the detectives he met had already done so, the main result was a big and shiny ‘crime of passion’, blinking right at the top of the list, but the interview hadn’t gone down that route either. They never asked him if he and Cassandra had been arguing a lot recently, or if he had any indications that she could’ve been involved in an extra-marital affair. They never asked him if he was involved in one himself, or even if any of them had talked about, or considered, a divorce. In fact, there had been no questions whatsoever concerning the state of their marriage after twenty-one years. What the detectives seemed really interested in was the video-call, and in as much detail as possible.

Why? he asked himself.

If they believed that the video-call had been fabricated, maybe it was because they were trying to catch him on a lie, make him contradict himself, but still...

Mr. J’s breath hitched within his throat, because that was when he realized the mistake he had made.

By 8:30 a.m., Garcia was back at the Jenkinsons’ house together with two uniformed officers. He was studying the photographs on the mantelpiece when Hunter finally got to the house, almost two hours after him.