Chris Carter - The Caller

‘Yes, we do,’ Garcia countered. ‘This killer is too clever, Robert, we both know that. He kills his victims inside their own homes, which means that there is no detail you can isolate in any of those two images that can lead us to a location, because we’re already here.’

Hunter stayed silent.

Garcia pointed at the phone in Hunter’s hand. ‘That living room... that dining table...’ he then pointed at Dr. Barnes’ house, ‘... is the living room in there. The dining table in there. We already know where those images originated from. This killer also creates his own mask. He creates his own murderous devices, which again means that nothing in those images can lead us to a place where he has purchased anything. And to finish it all off he uses his victims’ cellphones to make his video-calls, which means that there’s nothing to trace, Robert. Nothing to listen to.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Hunter admitted, his tone half defeated. ‘But what else am I supposed to do, Carlos?’

‘Go home, Robert. Get some rest. You’ve barely slept in four days. We’ll pick everything up again tomorrow. Even if only a few hours, you need the break. Your brain needs the break, and we all need you be sharp and on your toes. Exhausting yourself, chasing something that isn’t there, won’t help.’

Hunter looked like he was considering his options. ‘What are you going to do?’ he asked.

Garcia jerked his chin in the direction of the house. ‘I’ll stay with the scene until everything here is done. Then I’ll go home and I’ll get some rest as well.’

Hunter noticed that Erica was starting to get fidgety again.

‘Go on, Robert,’ Garcia said, ‘take her home then go home and get some rest. I’ll wrap up here.’

Hunter watched his partner zip up his coverall and make his way back to the crime scene.

His wristwatch read 11:23 p.m., when Mr. J’s cellphone rang again.

‘Brian, tell me you’ve got something.’

‘I’m not really sure.’ The fatigue in Brian’s voice was evident. ‘It could be something, or absolutely nothing.’

‘Give me whatever you have.’

Mr. J heard fast keyboard clicks coming from the other end of the line.

‘OK,’ Brian began, ‘what you told me got me thinking. Cory Russo, Michael Williams, whatever name this guy is using, he’s now probably on the run, right? And in America, you can’t run without money.’

‘You flagged his credit cards.’

‘I flagged everything under both names,’ Brian confirmed. ‘Credit cards, bank transactions, money withdrawals, the lot, so unless he has some hard cash stashed away somewhere, this guy won’t be able to buy a pack of gum without my computer screen turning into a Christmas tree here.’

‘And did you get a hit?’ Mr. J asked.

Brian breathed out heavily. ‘I did, but not on any of his cards.’

Mr. J made a face at his phone. ‘What the hell does that mean?’

‘Well, I didn’t put a flag only on his credit cards and bank transactions...’

‘You extended it to family and known friends too,’ Mr. J said, catching up with Brian’s line of thought.

‘Well, that was the idea,’ Brian admitted. ‘But unfortunately all we’ve got on Cory Russo are two distant relatives, both living in Oregon, and no known friends, but then I thought of something else.’

‘And what was that?’

‘Three years ago, when Cory Russo was released from prison, he didn’t take the prison bus. He was picked up.’

A smile threatened to appear on Mr. J’s lips. ‘And you have the name of the person who picked him up.’

‘That I do.’ Brian’s voice sounded triumphant.

‘And who is he?’

‘His name is Toby Bishop. He lives in Monrovia in San Gabriel Valley, and here is where it gets good. About twenty minutes ago, he withdrew twenty-five hundred dollars from his account. I’ve checked his withdrawal history going back two years. He has never withdrawn anywhere close to that amount, so unless he decided to buy a car this late at night...’

‘Do you have an address?’

‘You should be getting an email right about now.’

Mr. J heard a bell coming from his laptop. He killed the call.

Hunter had every intention of following Garcia’s advice. After dropping Erica Barnes back at her place, the idea really was to drive home and try to get some sleep, but the two screenshots Erica had captured on her cellphone were playing havoc with his mind, so Hunter decided to do a quick detour and stop by his office.

He had emailed himself the two screenshots from Erica’s cellphone as he dropped her off, being sure to also delete them from her phone’s ‘Image Gallery’. The media had now definitely caught the scent of blood, and if they ever got word that those two screenshots existed, they would do just about anything to get their hands on them.

Once Hunter’s computer finished booting up, he quickly found Erica’s email and double-clicked on the first of the two attached images — the killer’s horror mask.

Despite how terrifying, how sickening the mask looked, it was practically a work of art, crafted out of silicone rubber. The facial laceration that ran from the right corner of his lips, across his cheek and all the way to his right ear looked fresh, as if it’d been made into real flesh just moments earlier. Hunter almost expected blood to come pouring out of it. The mask’s sharp, blood-smeared teeth looked half-human, half-animal, but very real. The exposed lower jawbone and nose were incredibly detailed, with the eyes, covered by two blood-red sclera contact lenses, indeed looking like they belonged to a dem—

Hunter’s heart picked up speed, as adrenaline flooded his veins with such intensity it made his whole body shiver, because that was when he saw it.

The address Mr. J was given by Brian Caldron took him to the edge of Monrovia, on the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains. The road, a hilly street on a residential area where California oaks shaded the sidewalks, was desert quiet, which suited Mr. J just fine. He paused under a tree at the entrance to the road and spent five minutes taking everything in. At that time of night, most of the houses had all their lights switched off, with the exception of two. One of them was the house he was looking for.

Mr. J pulled the hood of his black jacket over his head, cracked his knuckles and began making his way to number 915. He walked at a normal pace. Not too fast. Not too slow. His shoes, black and with anti-squeak soles, made absolutely no noise. His gloved hands were firmly tucked into his pockets, where he carried the same weapon he had with him earlier, a Sig Sauer P226 Legion, and a small hunting knife for good measure.

As he approached the house, Mr. J quickly turned around, making sure that the road was still deserted. Satisfied, he finally crossed the front lawn in the direction of the side wooden door that led to its backyard. The lock on the door was old, the wood not too sturdy. One firm kick and the door would fly open, but Mr. J wanted to avoid the noise. It took him less than five seconds to climb over it to the other side.

The house’s backyard was nothing more than a rectangular patch of green grass — no swimming pool, no garden, no flowers, no shed, nothing. Mr. J quietly stepped on to the back porch, avoided the squared window that looked into the kitchen, and flattened his back against the wall to the left of the back door. No lights were on inside or outside, which placed the entire porch in a dark shadow. On the floor, by the two short steps that led down from the porch, an ashtray was overflowing with cigarette butts and joint tips. Mr. J was about to try the handle on the door, when the lights in the kitchen came on. His back returned to the wall and he waited.