Chris Carter - The Caller

‘This investigation goes a lot deeper than this murder alone, Detective Webb,’ Garcia said.

Webb looked back at Garcia, measuring his words before his eyebrows shot up his rugged forehead. ‘This guy has killed before.’ His intonation didn’t make it clear if it had been a question or a statement.

Garcia didn’t address it either way.

‘Why don’t you tell me about this note and bracelet you’ve mentioned?’

Mr. J snatched the cellphone from the tabletop a millisecond after it started ringing.

‘Brian, you sure as hell took your time.’ He did nothing to disguise the irritation in his voice.

‘Sorry, Mr. J,’ Brian replied. His voice, on the other hand, sounded fatigued. ‘But you managed to pick one slick sonofabitch here. Gathering any sort of info on this guy hasn’t been easy... but we got lucky. Twice .’

‘So what have you got?’

‘You were right in your suspicions. Michael Williams isn’t his real name, but the name was picked for a reason.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘There are over half a million men called Michael Williams in the USA,’ Brian revealed. ‘Around five hundred and fifty of them live right here, in Los Angeles. It’s a common enough name to “escape him out”, but...’

‘Hold on, Brian,’ Mr. J cut him short. ‘ Escape him out? What the hell does that mean?’

‘Sorry, it’s just a term we use. It means that with nothing else other than just a name to go by, and with approximately five hundred and fifty of them living in this city alone, it would take any law enforcement agency — LAPD, FBI, Sheriff’s Department... it doesn’t matter — days, maybe even weeks to track the correct individual down, if at all. That time frame would be more than enough for him to disappear... escape.’

‘OK, so you were saying that Michael Williams is a common enough name to “escape him out”, but—’

‘But not common enough to raise suspicion if he applies for false documentation.’ Brian decided to explain it better. ‘Certain names are flagged by our government for being way too common — John or James Smith, Robert Jones, Michael Williams — basically, any name that totals over one million in the country gets flagged. Those are the names that top the “escape out” list because they’re also the ones criminals use the most, for obvious reasons.’

‘OK, so getting back to our Michael Williams,’ Mr. J urged Brian.

‘Yeah, OK, as I’ve said, we’ve got lucky twice here. One — if you hadn’t sent me that photograph of him, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Not now, probably not ever. But with a picture, I was able to run a face-recognition program against some of our databases, and that was where we got lucky for the second time.’

‘He’s got a record,’ Mr. J said.

‘He did four years for sexual assault,’ Brian confirmed. ‘Quite a violent case too.’

Mr. J closed his eyes, trying to keep his calm, but he could feel his blood starting to boil inside his veins. Back at Michael Williams’ house, inside the suitcase he had retrieved from under his bed, Mr. J had found a varied collection of women’s underwear. Panties, to be more precise. The sizes ranged from six to sixteen. Michael Williams wasn’t only a sexual predator. He was a trophy collector too, and that was when it dawned on him. Cassandra had been stripped naked, but her clothes hadn’t been found.

‘So who the fuck is he, really?’ Mr. J asked.

‘His real name’s Cory Russo. I’m just about to send you his whole file. The guy is a scumbag, no doubt about that, but he’s quite a clever scumbag.’

‘And why is that?’

‘While inside, he acquired three diplomas — plumbing engineering, mechanical engineering, and Internet security.’

‘Yeah, well, that won’t save him. Do you have an address on him?’

‘That’s the problem,’ Brian said. ‘Mr. Russo hasn’t used his real name since his release, three years ago. I’ve got nothing showing under that name. The only address under the false name of Michael Williams is the one you gave me, together with his business one, the plumbing company.’

Mr. J knew that Michael Williams, Cory Russo, whoever he was, wouldn’t be going back to either of those two addresses. He now believed that the police were after him, and the first thing that the police would do would be to stake out both of those addresses.

‘Whoever this guy is,’ Mr. J said, ‘he’s hiding somewhere, and I need you to find him, Brian. I need you to find him now.’

‘She managed to take a photo of the killer?’ Garcia’s tone of voice matched the stunned expression on his face. ‘How?’

‘No, not a photo,’ Hunter clarified, handing his partner Erica Barnes’ cellphone. Displayed on its screen was an image of the killer’s masked face. ‘She captured a screenshot at the end of the call.’

Erica was still sitting inside Hunter’s car, just a few feet from where they were standing. Her eyes were puffy and red, with the skin around them raw from all the tears.

‘Erica is a graphic designer,’ Hunter explained. ‘She works for a company that designs and develops applications for mobile devices. Capturing cellphone screenshots is something she does tens of times a day. It’s part of her job.’

‘So her brain is conditioned to do it,’ Garcia said.

‘Exactly. It was a reflexive movement, not a conscious one. Erica didn’t even realize she had done it until she got off the phone with the emergency operator.’

Garcia’s gaze moved to Erica for a split second before returning to the grotesque mask on her cellphone screen.

From Tanya Kaitlin and Mr. J’s description, Garcia already knew what to expect. He knew what the killer’s mask looked like — the deformed, red-colored eyes, the lacerated mouth, the blood-smeared teeth, the lumpy and leathery skin, the mutilated nose... all of it. Their sketch artist had created a very accurate composite image of it, but still, looking at the actual mask on that screenshot sent a nauseating taste down to his stomach.

‘Is this the only image she managed to capture?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Hunter replied. The look in his eyes changed. ‘She got one more, about halfway through the call. Swipe back.’

As Garcia did, his heart seemed to shrink inside of him.

On the captured screenshot, Dr. Gwen Barnes was still alive, but the white of her eyes were already dusted with blood, with most of her face fractured and twisted out of shape. Death had already closed its ugly fingers around her. All that was left was one final squeeze.

Garcia studied the image for a very long moment.

‘You were right,’ he finally said, rubbing the skin between his eyebrows with one of his knuckles, his voice solemn. ‘The vise-like device he used looks handmade. He didn’t get this from any hardware store. He created it himself.’

‘Just like he created the mask,’ Hunter agreed as he watched another news van pull up at the top of the road.

‘So what’s happening with her?’ Garcia nodded at Erica before handing the cellphone back to Hunter.

‘We can’t get hold of her boyfriend for him to come pick her up, so I’m going to drive her home.’

‘Then what?’

‘Then I’m taking these screenshots to Dennis Baxter from the cybercrime unit. If needs be, we’ll break them down pixel by pixel.’

‘What for?’ The intrigue in Garcia’s voice was real. ‘There’s nothing to be found in them, Robert.’

Hunter looked down at the cellphone in his hands, then at Erica sitting inside his car. When he spoke again, his voice lacked confidence. ‘We don’t know that yet.’