Chris Carter - The Caller

The captain scratched the top of her forehead, considering it.

‘Days, weeks, months...?’ Hunter suggested. ‘In that time, both witnesses could’ve very well learned the answer to that easy question.’

Again, Hunter gave the captain a few seconds to think about it.

‘On the morning of the murder,’ he proceeded, ‘Tanya Kaitlin could’ve decided to memorize her best friend’s number for whatever reason. John Jenkinson could’ve decided that this year he would go back to being a romantic husband and surprise his wife by remembering their wedding anniversary, bring her flowers, take her on a holiday... whatever. The killer had no real guarantees that they would actually get it wrong, Captain. The best he could do is go for a question that they should get wrong.’

Captain Blake stayed silent.

‘So he strengthens his chances with yet another clever trick,’ Garcia said, taking over. ‘Both of his second questions carried either a number sequence, or a date. It’s a proven fact that number sequences, formulas and dates are the hardest things for the average human brain to memorize.’

The captain couldn’t argue with that. She always had trouble remembering dates and phone numbers. Formulas? That was a definitely no-no.

‘So,’ Garcia continued, ‘going back to where we were: The killer hits them with his second question immediately after he gave them a false sense of security. Both witnesses have told us that with that second question, the first thing they did wasn’t to search their memory for the answer.’ Garcia shook his head. ‘No. They question the question: “What? What do you mean? Wait a second...” and so on.’

‘Big mistake.’ Hunter again. ‘By the time they actually start searching their memory for an answer, three maybe even four out of the five seconds the killer gives them are gone. And they know this, because he counts them down, which adds to the pressure. Now we have one more element. One that even if the numbers and dates are there...’ Hunter pointed to his own head... it could cause them to mix them up.’

‘Panic,’ Captain Blake said.

‘Almost, but not yet,’ Hunter disagreed. ‘What we’ve got is anxiety, nerves kicking in, maybe even a little fear. So just before the killer counts them down to zero, they blurt out the wrong answer, either because they don’t really know it — Tanya Kaitlin’s case — or their time is up and anxiety causes them to mix up the dates — John Jenkinson’s case.’ Hunter stepped away from the picture board. ‘With that, the killer finally shows them his trump card — the punishment for their wrong answer.’ He nodded at the captain. ‘ Now we’ve got panic. And that’s why he used a pointy chisel instead of the hammer on its own.’

‘Too soft an impact,’ Captain Blake said, the puzzle finally solved in her head. ‘And all he would’ve had would’ve been a victim with a bump on the head. No pyramid splinter fracture. Too hard an impact and the victim would’ve either been dead too soon or have been knocked out with a concussion.’

‘Correct,’ Hunter agreed. ‘Neither case would’ve worked for our killer because with the first strike he needed two things to happen. One: He needed Cassandra Jenkinson to be in pain but stay conscious. Two: He needed to drive panic deep into her husband’s heart and consequently his brain. And what better way to do that than to make him watch his wife bleed?’

Captain Blake closed her eyes for an instant while shaking her head.

‘A light hit with a blunt instrument wouldn’t have caused her scalp to rupture,’ Hunter added. ‘For that, he would’ve needed a much more powerful strike, and controlling that would’ve been a problem.’

‘As soon as he’s got blood pouring down his victim’s face,’ Garcia took over again, ‘it’s game over, Captain. Even if the answer was right at the tip of his tongue, he wouldn’t be able to get it out because the final psychological element is the most destructive of all.’

Captain Blake had thought that ‘panic’ would’ve been the last of those elements. She frowned at both detectives.

‘Guilt,’ Hunter explained. ‘John Jenkinson now knows that whatever is happening is not a prank, and the reason why his wife is bleeding, the reason why his wife is in pain, the reason why his wife is dying... is him. It’s because he can’t remember their anniversary date. As the five-second count starts again, his brain is mush. In less than five minutes it’s been through surprise, confusion, shock, doubt, panic, terrifying fear, and now soul-destroying guilt. Add to that the fact that he’s watching his wife being tortured inside his own home and there’s nothing he can physically do to stop it, and any dates or numbers won’t make any sense in his mind anymore. It’s not a fail-proof plan, by any means, but it’s very clever because it tips the odds heavily in the killer’s favor.’

‘And that guilt will sit with him for the rest of his life,’ Captain Blake said.

Her confirmation came in the form of silence from both detectives.

‘Wow! You look stunning,’ Detective Julian Webb said as Dr. Gwen Barnes pulled open her front door. She wore a white knee-length cocktail dress with spaghetti straps, revealing well-toned arms and legs. Her clutch bag, decorated with rhinestones, matched her platform evening sandals. Her hair sparkled under the dying rays of the late afternoon sunlight.

‘Thank you so much,’ she replied, giving him a smile that was as inviting as it was mysterious. ‘You look very nice yourself.’

Dr. Barnes didn’t know this, but Webb was pretty much wearing his everyday work attire — a dark suit with a white button-up shirt and a striped tie. The shoes were black, comfortable and shiny.

Dr. Barnes checked her watch: 6:00 p.m. sharp. ‘You are... exactly on time. I’m impressed.’

‘If at all possible, I try to be,’ Webb replied. ‘But in my line of work, it gets hard sometimes. Things don’t really happen by appointment, if you know what I mean.’

Her smile widened. ‘Yes, I can imagine.’

‘So, how have you been?’ he asked, looking past her shoulder and into the house. ‘Everything OK? Did you manage to get any sleep during the day?’

As he had promised, Webb had called Dr. Barnes in the morning to check on her. She had told him that other than having almost no sleep overnight, everything else was fine.

She shook her head. ‘No, no sleep at all, hence the heavy makeup under my eyes, but...’ she turned her head to look over her own shoulder, ‘everything seems to be all right. Thank you.’

The look in her eyes as she delivered her last few words made Detective Webb wonder if she was now debating what she seemed so confident about before — that her bracelet had really been taken from inside her bedroom. He decided to leave the subject alone, at least for now.

‘Look,’ he said, renewing his smile, hoping to cheer her up a little. ‘I know that we sort of agreed on having coffee, but I was thinking, what do you say if we grab some dinner?’

‘I was about to suggest the same thing,’ Dr. Barnes said. ‘But with one condition.’

‘And what is that?’

‘That you take me to a place where you and your detective friends usually go to.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You know, during your regular day, where do you usually stop to eat?’

‘During a regular day I barely have time to breathe, never mind eat.’

‘Yes, I understand that, but you do eat, don’t you?’

‘Yeeeeees?’

‘And I bet you have a couple of favorite places you like dropping by, don’t you?’

Webb tilted his head from side to side two or three times, accepting it.