Chris Carter - The Caller

For the next forty minutes he scrolled through pages and pages of information, some of it mind-numbing. His eyes were watering and a ghost of a headache began haunting him. He decided to take another break and try something completely different, but just as he closed the browser tab he was on, something at the bottom of the page caught his eye for a fraction of a second.

‘Shit! What was that?’ he said, blinking a couple of times. Immediately, Garcia right-clicked on the browser window and selected ‘reopen closed tab’. The tab popped back up on his screen. He scrolled down and slowly read the entry.

‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’

Michael Williams — that was the name of the plumber Cassandra had called to fix the burst pipe in her utility room two months earlier. Despite paying him cash instead of using one of her credit cards, Cassandra had demanded a receipt. She had always been very strict and organized when it came to those, especially when that receipt also doubled as a guarantee for the work done.

Williams was employed by a company called NoLeaks Plumbing, based in Sylmar, San Fernando Valley. It took Mr. J just one phone call to get a residential address on Williams. The drive there took him just over an hour.

The house was a small bungalow that sat halfway down a discreet dead-end street, just a couple of blocks away from the plumbing company itself. The entire property looked like it’d been neglected for years. Its front lawn was a mess, with overgrown patches of grass, dead leaves from nearby trees, and rubbish sprinkled all over the place. The house itself looked tired and in desperate need of some repairs. Its once vibrant yellow had lost its fight against the Californian sun years ago, fading into a pastel cream color that reminded Mr. J of sour milk. The front door, with an oval bevel glass window, was dirty and stained with what looked to be either oil marks or grease. The windowsills were peeling and riddled with dry rot. There was no driveway, but parked on the street, directly in front of the house, was a black Chevy Mark 2 van, with the plumbing company’s logo, phone number and web address showing on both sides of it.

Mr. J walked up to the house, knocked on the door and waited. He looked nothing like what he did earlier that morning. The wig he had on was black, with the hair layered in waves. It made him look like an aging rock star from the 1990s. His cheeks and under-chin had gained half an inch in volume, making his face look unhealthily puffy. His peppery goatee was thick, but well trimmed. His eyes — light blue. His fake nose looked like it had been broken at least a couple of times.

Twenty seconds went by with no reply from the house. Mr. J stepped closer, bringing his right ear to an inch from the door. No sound from inside. He knocked again, a little firmer this time. Another twenty seconds went by before he saw some movement through the beveled glass window.

‘Hold your fucking horses,’ a thick male voice called from inside, ‘I’m coming.’

Mr. J took a step back and cracked his knuckles.

The door was pulled open by a man who looked to be around the same age as Mr. J. He wore basketball shorts, an old pair of sneakers, and a blue tank top that seemed too small for his muscular physique. His strong arms were completely exposed.

‘Can I help you?’ the man asked, sizing Mr. J up. He didn’t seem to be in a good mood.

With the open door, Mr. J picked up the scent of food cooking in the background. Something spicy and greasy.

‘Mr. Williams? Michael Williams?’ Mr. J asked.

There was a moment of hesitation.

‘Who wants to know?’

Mr. J produced an almost perfect forgery of an LAPD’s detective badge. Even an expert would struggle to tell the difference.

‘I’m Detective Craig Lewis with the LAPD.’ Mr. J’s voice also sounded completely different. His tone had gone up about half an octave and the accent was typical of northern California.

In hearing those words and seeing the badge, Michael Williams’ demeanor changed slightly.

Mr. J noticed it.

‘I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?’

For a second, Michael Williams looked like he was debating what his next move should be.

‘What’s this concerning?’ he asked.

‘I think we would be better if we could talk inside,’ Mr. J replied.

Both men studied each other for a couple more seconds.

‘Sure,’ Michael Williams said, taking a step to the side.

Mr. J stepped forward, but as he was about to enter the house, Michael Williams lifted his right leg and delivered a front kick to Mr. J’s abdomen so powerful, it lifted him off the ground and sent him stumbling back at least six or seven feet. As Mr. J crashed on to the messy front lawn, he heard the front door slam shut.

‘Motherfu...’ He coughed frantically, trying to breathe in. The kick had knocked the air out of Mr. J’s lungs. He tried to get up, but pain forced him to sit back down for a couple more seconds. He brought his right hand to his stomach and squeezed his eyes tight. Finally. He was able to breathe life back into his limbs.

‘You sonofabitch.’ He got back on to his feet and ran towards the door.

Locked.

‘Arghhhh...’ Mr. J let out a full-of-frustration cry. He stepped back and, using all the power he had in his muscles, threw his whole body, shoulder first, against the door. It rattled but that was about it.

‘Shit!’

He stepped back again and this time used his right leg to deliver a kick into the door handle. The door shook again, but it still didn’t open. He tried again. Nothing. One more time. Almost. Again, and this time Mr. J gave it everything he had. If this failed, he would use his gun.

SLAM!

The door finally flew open, cracking the doorframe and throwing splinters up in the air.

As he cautiously stepped into the house, Mr. J pulled out a Sig Sauer P226 Legion from his lower-back holster. The pistol was equipped with a silencer.

The front door took him straight into a sparsely furnished living room.

Empty.

Mr. J looked left, then right.

Nothing.

‘Jeffery?’ Mr. J called in a loud and angry voice, while taking in the room.

No reply.

‘Jeffery? C’mon, let’s talk.’

Silence.

Across the room from him there was a shut door. ‘The kitchen,’ he thought. To his right, a corridor would take him deeper into the house. There was no one there either.

Mr. J decided to go for the kitchen door. If he went for the corridor that would mean that he would have his back to the shut door. Never a good idea. He crossed the room and threw his back against the wall to the side of the door. He was about to try its handle when he heard the sound of a motorbike engine revving up. It hadn’t come from the front of the house. It came from the back, through the kitchen.

‘Motherfucker.’ Mr. J reached for the door handle.

Locked.

There was no way that he would be taking the time to kick this one in. Instead, he took a step back and aimed his pistol at the door lock. One barely audible ‘thuffft’ was all it took. The lock exploded out of the door as it swung open.

The kitchen was tiny, and it smelled as if Michael Williams had been deep-frying lard in goose fat. The back door was wide open and Mr. J got to it just in time to see the motorbike vanish through a side passage on the backyard fence. He squeezed two shots from his pistol, but it was way too late. The shots hit the woodwork.

In a flash, Mr. J turned and ran back into the house. He got to the living room and was about to run out to his car when his mind let go of the anger and began thinking clearly again.

What’s the point in trying to go after him now, he thought. He’s on a bike, cutting through small alleyways and backstreets. Right now he could be three, four, maybe even five streets over in any direction. Driving around in a car to try to find him is a pretty dumb idea. He looked around the living room. Your best chance to find him is in here, somewhere. Something in here will give him up.