Chris Carter - The Caller

‘No, no, no.’

He maximized it.

There it was, a photograph with the exact same theme of the two previous ones he’d just seen.

Hunter stepped away from his computer and started pacing the room. He could feel his muscles tensing up on him. He could feel a headache starting to grab the base of his skull.

The clock on the wall read 01:54 a.m.

His mind felt tired. Exhausted, actually. There was nothing that Hunter wanted more right then than to go home and be able to fall asleep, but the key words were ‘be able to’.

He paused before the picture board and stared at all the photos for a long while. The victims, the video-call witnesses, the savagery of the crime-scene shots. There were pieces missing everywhere and he knew he wouldn’t find them by pacing the length of his office, or sitting behind his desk.

He considered what to do next.

Improvise, Robert, a voice said from deep inside his head. Improvise.

Hunter had no problem finding the house, a brick-fronted, two-story, family home with a well-cared-for front lawn and perfectly shaped hedges. The house was in total darkness, with the exception of a dim light that bathed the porch in a weak yellow glow.

A note by the doorbell read ‘not working’. Hunter gave the door three firm knocks and waited. No reply. He tried again, the knocks a little firmer this time. Still no reply. He stepped back from the porch and looked up at the house. No lights. No movement. No sound.

What are you doing here, Robert? You should go home. The ‘sensible’ half of his brain decided to engage in conversation. He paid it very little attention and skipped over the hedge fence that surrounded the front garden before trying the window on the left — locked, and the closed curtains kept him from seeing inside. He had no better luck with the window on the right.

It’s a sign, Robert. Go home. Sensible half was back.

Hunter walked around to the right side of the house, where he found a door with a large frosted-glass window. Through the frosted glass he couldn’t see much, except that the door looked to lead into the kitchen.

Hunter paused and considered his options for a short instant, before taking off his jacket and rolling it around his right fist. He looked left, then right. All quiet. He held his breath, steadied his legs and sent a firm punch through the frosted window. It smashed with a muffled crash. Instinctively, Hunter looked around again. Still all quiet.

‘Awesome,’ he said to himself. ‘Breaking and entering, followed by an illegal house search. The captain is going to love this.’

Hunter retrieved a latex glove from his pocket, gloved up, slipped his hand through the broken glass and unlocked the door. After pulling his pen flashlight from his gun holster, Hunter stepped into the house.

He quickly cleared the dark kitchen, surfacing in a spacious living room decorated with a combination of antiques and modern furniture. A staircase at the south end of it led to the house’s second floor. Hunter decided to check upstairs later.

Now that you’re in here, Robert, he asked himself. What the hell are you actually looking for? Do you have any idea? He got to the door at the other side of the living room. It led him into a den with leather seats, plush white rugs and a tall bookcase. The east wall was framed entirely by full-length windows, looking out into the house’s backyard. Hunter checked some of the titles on the bookcase and a pit started forming inside his stomach. There were books on medicine, electronics, mechanical engineering, information technology, law, forensic psychology, forensic investigation and police procedure.

‘It looks like he likes to research,’ Hunter said. He was about to go back on himself and check the rooms upstairs, when he noticed a wooden door by the other end of the bookcase. Faint spots of light were coming from underneath it. Cautiously, he walked over, flattened his ear against the door and listened for a moment — some sort of low droning noise was coming from the other side.

Hunter tried the door — unlocked. As he twisted its handle, he felt his heart pick up speed inside his chest. An uncomfortable tingling sensation began rubbing the back of his neck, as if trying to warn him about something. This time he tried to listen, but the sensible voice inside of him had said its piece and was now long gone.

Hunter reached for his gun.

The door opened without a single squeak, revealing a narrow flight of concrete stairs going down into some sort of basement. The stairs were lit by a single light bulb that hung from a wire above Hunter’s head. The air was damp and soiled with a musty smell. At the bottom of the stairs, another closed door.

Hunter took the steps down one at a time, being extremely cautious not to misplace a foot and slip. His grip tightened around the handle of his semi-automatic, and as he got to the bottom, his eyes ping-ponged from one door to the other several times. He stood still for a while, listening for any sort of sound. Still, all he could hear was the low droning noise coming from somewhere on the other side of the new door.

Hunter wiped his forehead with the back of his gun hand and tried the door handle — unlocked. He pushed the door open just enough for him to be able to take a peek inside. He didn’t need his flashlight anymore. At the other side of the door, a large basement room sprawled out before his eyes. There were several shelving units lining the walls to his right and left, with different-sized boxes occupying every inch of space on them.

Without twitching a muscle, and keeping his breathing as steady as he could, Hunter observed from the door for a two full minutes. Nothing. No movement. He took a deep breath, steadied his trigger finger and stepped inside.

The large basement was lit by two fluorescent tube lights, parallel to each other on the ceiling. The droning sound seemed to be coming from somewhere behind one of the shelving units at the other end of the room.

Hunter took tiny steps forward. With each step, his eyes scanned and re-scanned his surroundings as if he was point in a Delta team, but with so many units and boxes, he might as well be walking into a minefield.

The tingling sensation at the back of his neck intensified.

After his tenth step, something to Hunter’s left caught his eyes and he stopped moving. His gaze shot in that direction and towards the large board that had been fixed to the wall.

As he realized what he was actually staring at, his blood froze in his veins.

‘Oh... fuck...’

Cory Russo was still looking at Mr. J with firm steady eyes.

Mr. J stared back at him calmly, his gun still aimed at his forehead. He didn’t mind the defiant look in Russo’s eyes or the challenging smirk on his lips. He seen it before so many times, he actually enjoyed it, because he knew that soon, very soon, that defiance, that smirk, the entire ‘badass’ attitude, would vanish. In its place would come petrifying fear, and a hell of a lot of begging and crying.

Mr. J reached into his pocket and took out a small, wallet-sized photograph.

‘Remember her?’

Russo’s eyes settled on the picture for no longer than three seconds. ‘Nope. Never seen the bitch before.’

Mr. J had been staring straight at Russo’s eyes. He saw the recognition in them. He saw the lie coming.

‘Is that right?’

Russo matched his stare.

Mr. J didn’t ask again. He simply squeezed the trigger on his pistol. The nine-millimeter round missed Russo’s left ear by a mere fraction, exploding against the white tiles behind him and sending shards and dust flying in the air. Mr. J had missed on purpose.