Gallery of the Dead

Fifty-Two

Agent Fisher closed the interrogation-room door behind her and pinned Agent Williams down with a stare that could’ve cut through steel.

‘What the hell is going on, Larry?’ she asked, half-confused, half-angry. ‘I know that this isn’t “bad cop” time because I didn’t use any of our trigger words.’

‘Could you give us a minute, please.’ Agent Williams addressed the Tucson police officer who was guarding the interrogation-room door.

The officer nodded and walked over to the other end of the corridor.

‘That’s not him, Erica,’ Agent Williams said, once the officer was out of earshot, pointing to the interrogation room. ‘That’s not The Surgeon in there.’

Agent Fisher’s eyes widened at her partner. ‘What? Have you been listening to the same interrogation?’ She began numbering the events, using the fingers on her right hand to emphasize her points. ‘His demeanor completely changed when I mentioned the word “artist”. He practically told us that there are more than four victims and that he’s been killing for longer than two months. All you need to do is read between the lines, Larry. Have you been asleep?’

‘No I haven’t, Erica, and you’re not reading him. He’s reading you.’

‘What?’ She chuckled nervously. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘It’s called “cold-reading”, Erica,’ Agent Williams tried to explain. ‘It’s a technique used by many—’

‘I know what cold-reading is, Larry.’ Agent Fisher’s voice acquired an even angrier tone.

‘Good, because that’s what he’s been doing in there,’ Agent Williams replied. ‘Very professionally, I might add.’ He lifted both hands in a “please wait” gesture. ‘Just try to think back to the moment you set foot in that room and the exact words you have used.’ He gave her a second before recapping with her. ‘You first introduced yourself, then asked him for a name. He stayed silent. You offered to come up with one just for the sake of conversation. His “go ahead” sign was a shrug. Not because he didn’t care, but because he wanted to hear what you would come up with. Why? Because he knows that during an ongoing investigation, especially one involving a probable serial killer, law-enforcement agencies, including us, the FBI, tend to use some sort of moniker to refer to the perp. A moniker that is usually self-describing — The Tourniquet Killer, The Yorkshire Ripper, The Trailside Strangler, The Vampire of Sacramento, The Surgeon, The Artist. He wanted to know what we were calling the perp, Erica, because he was betting on the chance that the name alone would give him an idea of what this killer has been doing, how he’s been taking out his victims. And his gamble paid off because you gave him two. You even asked him if The Surgeon appealed to his “skills”.’

Agent Fisher’s angry attitude lost a considerable amount of strength as her memory took her back to just moments earlier.

‘If you had given him any other moniker,’ Agent Williams carried on, ‘The Blood Dancer, The Liver Cannibal, it doesn’t matter — his reaction would’ve still been the same because he would’ve believed that that was what we were calling the killer. Why else would you have used a moniker?’

‘And if I had just called him John, or Frank, or whatever?’ Agent Fisher contested. ‘For the sake of conversation.’

‘Then his gamble wouldn’t have paid off and he would’ve probably replied with another shrug as if saying “Suit yourself. Call me whatever you like.” He had nothing to lose.’

Agent Fisher chewed on that thought for an instant.

‘He finally let go of the silent game when you threatened to leave the room,’ Agent Williams continued. ‘But he didn’t really give you anything. What he did was throw you a question about the number of victims. You gave him back some of his own medicine and stayed quiet. So what did he do to counter your silence? He used a simple cold-reading technique, Erica. He fed you possible answers to his own question — “three, four” — while at the same time paying close attention to your reactions. You might’ve not realized this, but you were absolutely still until he got to four. That was when you finally breathed out and sat back on your chair. He read your movement, stopped counting and smiled. You immediately countered with a double question, which simply confirmed the number on which he had stopped — “Why? Are there more?”

‘After that, he didn’t effectively tell you that there were more than four victims, like you thought he had. All he did was give you a very generic reply — “there might be” — a reply that, one: doesn’t really implicate him in anything, and two: would trick you into believing that he was giving you the answer you wanted. How did he know that you would fall for it? Because that’s one of the foundations cold-reading is built upon. It’s pure psychology. When people are keen, when people want to believe, all you need to do is give them an ambiguous response and their brains will do the rest. It will make that ambiguous response sound exactly how they want it to sound because that’s what they want to hear. So while he replied “there might be”, your brain interpreted that as “yes, there are”. How do I know that? Because my brain did the exact same thing back in the interrogation room.’

From the look in Agent Fisher’s eyes, Agent Williams could tell that her memory was paging through the interrogation as quickly as it possibly could.

‘He used the exact same trick when he asked you about the timeframe,’ Agent Williams added. ‘He fed you possibilities while studying your reaction — “Three weeks...? Four maybe...?” The problem he had was that he couldn’t just carry on. He had no idea how far he would have to go before you picked up on his bullshit. Too risky, so he fed you another generic answer — “Things have been happening for a lot longer than that.” ’ Agent Williams shrugged. ‘Things? What things? Murder? Corruption? Hate? Bigotry? Global warming? Pollution? The ozone layer? My back problem? All of those things have been happening for a lot longer than four weeks. But your brain interpreted his answer the way you wanted it to sound and you gave him the timeframe. He never gave it to you.’

Agent Williams reminded his partner of the words she had used.

‘ “Like what, for example? About two months, give or take?” ’

Agent Fisher began to look a little lost.

‘All he did,’ Agent Williams said, ‘was repeat the three last words you used — “give or take” — and once again, your brain took that as — “yes, longer than two months”.’

There was a long, awkward pause. Agent Fisher avoided her partner’s eyes by looking past him, down the corridor. The Tucson police officer was leaning against the wall. It looked like he was struggling to stay awake.

‘Pure psychology?’ she finally said. ‘Did Detective Hunter fill your head with all this crap?’

Agent Williams ran a hand through his short dark hair.

‘He was the one who called my attention to it, yes.’

Agent Fisher looked angry again.

‘For Christ’s sake, Larry. What the—’

‘Erica, stop it.’ The authority in Agent Williams’ voice matched the anger in Agent Fisher’s. She looked back at him, surprised. Agent Williams never lost his cool.

‘This is not a competition,’ he carried on. ‘This isn’t us against them. It isn’t the FBI against the LAPD. This is all of us against The Surgeon. And we are losing.’

‘If he’s not The Surgeon,’ she asked, ‘then who the hell is he? And why would he allow himself to be wrongly arrested for multiple homicides without saying a single word in his defense?’

Agent Williams cleared his throat. ‘The speculation, given that the only thing he had with him was a camera, is that he’s a reporter, who somehow managed to find out about this investigation. He probably figured that by using a combination of silence and cold-reading, he would be able to extract enough information from the police... the FBI... whoever... to put together a news piece.’

Agent Fisher took a deep breath while her brain tried to come up with a reply, but before it was able to comply, Agent Williams challenged her.

‘It’s not him, Erica. If you think we’re wrong, go back in there, give him something bogus about The Surgeon and see how he reacts.’

Agent Fisher allowed that thought to play in her head for several seconds. Had she been that stupid? Had she really not seen through the man’s bullshit?

Anger threatened to choke her.

‘All right,’ she finally said, about to breathe out fire. ‘Let’s go test this sonofabitch.’