Chris Carter - The Caller

‘Of course, Detective,’ Mr. J replied. ‘If I remember anything, I’ll call you immediately.’

What Hunter didn’t know was that Mr. J had lied.

Garcia had just finished making a brand new pot of coffee when Hunter stepped back into their office. The mouthwatering smell of the strong Brazilian brew Garcia had used had completely intoxicated the air and Hunter found it impossible to resist. Not that he wanted to, anyway. He walked over to the machine and poured some into his mug. As he began stirring his coffee, Garcia chuckled, sat back in his chair and crossed his legs.

‘Why do you do that?’ he asked.

‘Do what?’

‘Stir your coffee? You drink it black. No sugar. No cream. No milk. There’s nothing for you to stir into the coffee, so why do it?’

‘I like the noise it makes,’ Hunter replied with a shrug, deliberately hitting the metal spoon against the side of the porcelain mug.

‘Yeah, I bet you do. You know, that’s just like putting water inside a shaker, adding absolutely nothing to it, shaking it vigorously, then drinking it. It’s still just water.’

‘Yes,’ Hunter replied. ‘But that would be water shaken, not stirred.’

‘Oh, hell, no,’ Garcia said, half laughing. ‘You didn’t just make a double-oh-seven joke, did you? That was absolutely awful, Robert.’

‘You laughed.’

‘That wasn’t a laugh.’

‘Yes it was.’

‘No it wasn’t... Anyway. Any luck?’ Garcia asked, referring to Hunter’s phone call to John Jenkinson.

‘No,’ Hunter replied, placing his mug on his desk. ‘He can’t remember any sort of work being done to their house recently. No technicians either, but he said that his wife was the one who took care of things like that.’

‘Just like we thought,’ Garcia agreed.

As they’d left Mr. Jenkinson’s house that morning, before getting to the coroner’s office, Hunter and Garcia had asked Operations to run a search, backtracking all of Cassandra Jenkinson’s credit-card transactions in the past five years. The idea was to flag any sort of home improvement or home repair company she might’ve used, including electronic repairs, plumbers, gardeners, gutter cleaning, even delivery people who might’ve had to walk through her living room — a new sofa, new rug — anything. The same was also being done to Karen Ward’s credit cards. The lists would then be cross-referenced. If Karen and Cassandra had used the same company, or even the same tradesman at any time, they knew that they were probably on to something.

‘While on the phone,’ Hunter said, sipping his coffee. ‘I thought of something else. Let’s add John Jenkinson’s credit cards to our search. Maybe his wife used one of his to pay for something and forgot to tell him. If he’s not tight with his finances, he could’ve easily missed it.’

‘Good point,’ Garcia agreed, reaching for the phone on his desk.

Hunter finished his coffee and consulted his watch. ‘There’s something I need to go check with the forensics lab, but can I ask you a favor?’

‘Sure. By the way, this something you need to check doesn’t happen to be called Dr. Susan Slater, does it?’

‘What?’

‘Just saying. Anyway, what’s the favor?’

Hunter shook his head. ‘Remember how you came across the probable way in which our killer found out about Tanya Kaitlin not knowing Karen Ward’s cellphone number by heart?’

‘Of course, the entry on their friend’s social media page. Pete Harris. The brainlazy fun chart thing.’

‘I was thinking,’ Hunter said, ‘if the killer really used social media to gain that sort of information on Tanya Kaitlin, why wouldn’t he have tried the same thing to gain information on Cassandra Jenkinson’s husband?’

‘I’ve been thinking about that myself,’ Garcia admitted. ‘Don’t worry. I’m on it.’

As soon as he disconnected from the call with Hunter, Mr. J urged his exhausted brain to pick up speed. Until then, he had to admit that he was sold on the assumption that the idea for the killer’s wedding question had been something he had come up with on the spot, instigated by the photographs on the mantelpiece. The thought that maybe the killer had been to his home before had never crossed his mind. At least not yet, but it made sense. It made a hell of a lot of sense. When Hunter mentioned the possibility of a stranger entering the house — someone doing some sort of repair work, like a technician — then, and only then, the memory came back to him.

About two months ago, while he was away on another ‘business trip’, a major pipe had burst in their utility room, flooding most of the kitchen with it. Cassandra had called a plumber who had been recommended to her by a friend of hers. According to what she had told Mr. J, the plumber was a very skillful and friendly man. Not only did he fix the problem in a lot less time than she expected he would, but he also helped dry the kitchen floor and put everything back in place. She also told him that he was a very pleasant man to talk to. Very chatty. She even mentioned that he had paid her a very nice compliment, saying that her husband was a lucky man. Once in conversation, extracting the information about Cassandra’s wedding anniversary would’ve been child’s play.

On the phone, while speaking to Hunter, Mr. J made a split-second decision to keep that information to himself, at least for the time being. He wanted to talk to the plumber first before the police did. Even if the detectives found out about the repair work, and Mr. J had no doubt they would eventually, Mr. J could easily blame his forgetfulness on his exhausted brain.

Cassandra had paid the plumber in cash, he clearly remembered her telling him that, but, as always, she had obtained a receipt, which also served as a guarantee for the work done. The receipt would be with all the other house receipts — in a drawer in their kitchen — but, before getting back to his house, Mr. J had to make one more phone call.

Once Hunter had left, Garcia went back to his computer. He had two separate browsers and several applications open at the same time. Essentially, what he’d been trying to do was find some sort of link between the two victims — places they both could’ve been to in the past, activities they enjoyed, groups they could’ve belonged to... anything.

Serial murderers rarely chose their victims at random. There was always something that would grab the killer’s attention and attract him to them. It could be a physical attribute, a mannerism, a tone of voice, a belief... the possibilities were almost endless and most of the time obscure, because in truth, they didn’t have to make sense to anyone else but the killer. To the outside world, it could be something as silly and insignificant as wiping their mouth from right to left, instead of left to right, but to the killer, for some reason, that insignificant action made him mad. Mad enough to want to kill.

Garcia knew that he was clutching at straws, but straws were really all they had at the moment.

He spent another half an hour or so trying a few new combinations, but they all ended up at a brick wall. Frustrated, Garcia got to his feet. What he really needed was a break.

He refilled his coffee mug and placed it on his desk. After a quick trip to the bathroom, he began pacing the room. Just like Hunter, he liked walking when he was thinking. He spent five minutes punishing the office floor before he got back to his seat.

Think out of the box, Carlos, he told himself. Think out of the box, because that’s exactly what this killer is doing. A few minutes later, he’d had a couple of very odd ideas. ‘Oh, what the hell! What have I got to lose, anyway?’