Gallery of the Dead

Fifty-Seven

Owen Henderson was sitting forward on his chair, staring at his cuffed hands, when Hunter reentered the interrogation room.

‘Coffee?’ Hunter offered, nodding at the cup he held in his right hand.

Owen’s eyes burned a little brighter. ‘I’d love some.’

Hunter closed the door behind him, placed the cup on the metal table and used the keys he had picked up from the officer outside to finally free Owen from his restraints.

‘Thanks for that,’ Owen said, rubbing his wrists vigorously. ‘These were really very uncomfortable.’

‘They weren’t designed with comfort in mind,’ Hunter replied calmly.

Owen gave Hunter a humorless smile before reaching for the coffee.

‘It’s black,’ Hunter said. ‘No sugar, no cream.’

‘That’s just fine.’

As Owen had his first sip, his eyes closed and his face softened as if inside that cup was the best-tasting liquid in the world.

‘Sorry to interrupt your moment with the coffee,’ Hunter said. He had also decided to stand instead of taking the seat across the table from Owen. ‘But we have zero time to waste here. You’ve already done a great job in that department.’

Owen sipped his coffee again and sat back on his chair.

‘So how about we start from the very beginning,’ Hunter continued. ‘How did you hear about Timothy Davis? How did you get his address?’

‘Through a phone call.’

Hunter waited, but Owen went quiet again.

‘I said no more time-wasting, Owen.’

The odd gravel in Hunter’s voice made Owen pause halfway through his next sip. His stare gravitated toward Hunter.

‘No more games.’

‘All right. I was having some food at Kaleidoscope Juice — it’s a... coffee shop, juice and salad bar, and restaurant.’

‘And where’s that?’

‘Downtown Phoenix. Not that far from where I live.’

‘So you were having some food when you got the call?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Were you by yourself?’

Owen chuckled. ‘Story of my life.’

Hunter’s expression remained blank.

‘Yes,’ Owen rephrased. ‘I was by myself.’

‘And at what time was that?’

‘The call came in at around...’ He looked down at his coffee cup as his memory went back. ‘Two fifteen... Two twenty in the afternoon.’ Owen’s voice showed no excitement. No trepidation.

‘Is the cellphone on which you received the call registered in your name?’

Owen frowned at the question. ‘Of course.’

Hunter didn’t look at the two-way mirror, but he knew that since Agent Williams and the FBI were already compiling a file on Owen Henderson, they would no doubt also already have any cellphone numbers registered to his name. With that, they could contact the cellphone provider and possibly retrieve a copy of the conversation.

‘So what was said?’ Hunter asked, but at the same time signaled Owen to wait just a moment. ‘With as much detail as you can remember.’

Owen breathed out and placed his cup on the table. ‘It wasn’t a very long conversation,’ he began. ‘The phone rang, I answered it and the first thing he asked was if I would be interested in the biggest story of my life.’

‘Hold on,’ Hunter said, lifting a hand. ‘Was that really the first thing the caller asked? Didn’t he first ask who was speaking?’

‘Well,’ Owen replied with a half shrug. ‘Not in so many words.’ He decided to explain before Hunter had a chance to push him. ‘I always answer my phone by announcing who I am.’ He demonstrated by bringing his right hand closer to his face. His thumb became the earpiece and his pinky the mouthpiece. “Owen Henderson speaking”.’

Hunter nodded. He always answered his phone in a very similar manner.

‘But you’re right,’ Owen admitted. ‘Once I told him my name, his first words were — “the investigative reporter, Owen Henderson?”.’

‘Did you ask him how he got hold of your cellphone number?’

‘No, because that wouldn’t be too hard. I’m listed, plus I have a website, a Facebook account and a LinkedIn account. Several newspapers have me on file as well. Getting hold of my cellphone number wouldn’t be a problem to anyone.’

‘All right, how about his voice? Did you notice if there was anything odd about it — too much bass...? Husky...? Deep...? Soft...? Could you tell if it was being put through a pitch shifter? A voice modifier?’

Once again, Owen took his time as he thought back.

‘No, not at all. To be honest, it sounded as normal as normal voices go, and by normal I mean there was nothing about his voice, or even his tone, that I would call memorable. Nothing that would stick out. And I really don’t think that he was using any sort of voice effect.’ He shrugged. ‘It just sounded normal.’

Hunter kept his disappointment completely hidden.

‘OK, so tell me about the rest of the conversation, and as I’ve said, in as much detail as you can remember.’

Owen finished his coffee before picking up from where he’d left off. ‘So he asked me if I was indeed the investigative reporter. I replied that I was and then, like I’ve said, he asked me if I would be interested in the biggest story of my life. Well, that was just too generic, so I asked him what sort of story he was talking about.’ Owen paused to readjust his seating position.

‘And his reply?’

‘It was a peculiar one,’ Owen recounted it. ‘Because he said that initially, what would grab the public’s attention would be the murders — a series of them.’

‘Initially?’ Hunter asked.

‘That was the word he used, yes.’

‘And did he also use that exact combination of words — “murders — a series of them”?’

‘He did, which I found intriguing, so of course I asked him for a specific number. A series was again, too generic. His reply was — “enough for the FBI to consider it a serial-murder case”.’

Now Hunter understood why when Owen was cold-reading Agent Fisher, asking her how many bodies had been found, he started the count with three. Not one or two. A serial killer is defined by the FBI as a murderer who kills three or more people on three or more separate occasions, with a cool-off period between those murders.

‘That surprised me even more,’ Owen said.

‘Why?’

‘Because I had no idea the FBI was involved. And if the Feds are involved, then we really are talking big case here.’

‘But according to what you just told me,’ Hunter retorted, ‘the caller never told you that the FBI was involved. All he said was “enough for the FBI to consider it a serial-murder case”. That doesn’t really imply involvement.’

‘Granted,’ Owen accepted. ‘And my next question was exactly that. I asked him if the FBI was involved. His answer was a laugh.’

‘A laugh?’ Hunter found that strange.

‘Yep.’

‘What sort of laugh?’

Owen looked back at Hunter.

‘Was it a nervous laugh, a short laugh, a long laugh, a sarcastic laugh, a crazy-sounding laugh...?’

Owen made a face at Hunter. ‘OK, now you’re really asking too much. It was a laugh, you know? Just a laugh that obviously meant “hell yeah, the FBI is involved”.’

Hunter knew that he was indeed asking too much. That was the psychologist in him talking.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Did you ask him why he used the word initially?’ Hunter asked.

‘I didn’t have to,’ Owen said. ‘Because what he actually said was that initially, what would grab the public’s attention would be the murders — a series of them, but the real story went much, much deeper than that.’ Owen paused and, while regarding Hunter, rubbed his wrists again. ‘So that’s something that we’ll need to talk about when it’s my turn to ask the questions. I’ll need to know what the real story behind these murders is.’

‘Of course,’ Hunter agreed with a perfectly straight face.

‘Great,’ Owen said before continuing. ‘So the caller asked me again if I wanted the story or not. My reply was “Of course I do, but first, for credibility, could you tell me who you are?” He told me that who he was wasn’t important. What was important was that I listened carefully.’

The caller obviously knew how to entice an ambitious reporter, Hunter thought.

Owen reached for his coffee, forgetting that the cup was empty.

‘Do you think I could get another one?’ he asked. ‘It helps.’

‘That can be arranged,’ Hunter replied as he slightly turned his head in the direction of the two-way mirror to his left. ‘Please continue.’

‘Well, he told me to listen, so I did. He began by saying, “Note down this address,” which I did. It was Timothy Davis’s address. Then he said something on the lines of “You have two and a half hours to get there.” ’

Hunter stood till, hands tucked into his pockets, his undivided attention on Owen’s account of events and his physiological reactions. Hunter noticed no pupil dilation, no skin flush and no alteration in his breathing pattern. If Owen Henderson was lying, he was an expert at it.

‘He told me that when I got to the address,’ Owen continued, ‘I was to enter the house. He told me that the front door would be open. He told me that I needed to go downstairs into the house’s basement and that was where I would find what I was looking for.’

There was a knock on the door to the interrogation room.

‘Yes,’ Hunter called out.

The door was pushed open by the officer who’d been standing outside. He handed Hunter a steaming cup of coffee.

Hunter placed it on the metal table.

‘Thank you,’ Owen said, reaching for it. ‘I do like the fast service in here.’

Hunter disregarded the joke.

‘So what came next?’ Hunter asked.

Owen spent a few seconds watching the steam from his cup dance in the air.

‘He told me that I should take an analogue camera with me, not a digital one.’

‘The caller instructed you to do that?’

‘Yes, that’s what I just said, isn’t it? And before you ask, no, I don’t know why he wanted me to take an analogue camera with me. I just did as I was told.’

Hunter thought about it for a second. ‘OK. What else did he say?’

‘That was basically it,’ Owen confirmed. ‘The caller reminded me that I had two and a half hours to get to the address he had given me, then the call disconnected.’

‘Did you ask him why two and a half hours? What would happen if it took you longer than that?’

‘I tried,’ Owen replied. ‘But he told me not to interrupt him. He told me that if I wanted the story, I had to follow his instructions. That was it.’

Hunter walked from one side of the room to the other.

‘So what made you believe him?’ he asked. ‘What made you think that that wasn’t a prank call? Because, let’s be honest here, who would really receive a call like that and follow it through, especially when you’re asked to drive to a different city?’

Owen shrugged. ‘I’m a freelance investigative reporter. We basically depend on tips to lead us to good stories. I had nothing else on my agenda for the rest of the day. My choices were to ignore the call and carry on doing nothing, or take a gamble. Do you have any idea of how many good and great stories are lost every day by reporters, just because they chose to disregard a tip?’

‘I can imagine,’ Hunter agreed. ‘But I can also imagine how many bogus trips are made by reporters every day based on worthless tips. There must’ve been something there. Something that tipped the balance the other way.’

‘Probably,’ Owen accepted. ‘But if I had to put it down to anything, it would have to be a gut feeling. After so many years on the job, you sort of develop a sense for it — a tingle at the back of your neck — a tightening inside your stomach — it’s hard to say, but you feel it and a voice inside your head goes “do not disregard this one”.’ Owen sat back on his chair once again. ‘C’mon, don’t tell me that you don’t know what I’m talking about. You might not be an FBI agent, but you’re certainly a cop. A detective, no doubt. You guys depend on your gut feeling more than anything else. And so do we.’

Hunter had no argument against that comment.

‘So how long did it take you to get there?’

‘I left Phoenix pretty much straight away,’ Owen replied. ‘At 2:31, to be precise. I know because I checked the dashboard clock as soon as I turned on my engine, and I kept on checking the time almost every minute. I got to where I parked my car — the next street along from the address I was given — with twenty-five minutes to spare, at 5:38.’

‘Why?’ Hunter asked. ‘Why did you park on the next street along? And why didn’t you have anything with you? I mean — no cellphone, no wallet, no identification whatsoever? All you had was a camera. Why?’

Owen rested the cup on his lap.

‘Because I had no idea what I was getting into,’ he said. ‘If I drove up to the house, that could’ve alerted someone, inside or outside the house. Having no identification, no phone, no anything would give me deniability in case I needed it. It was a decision I made on the drive down here. And it paid off.’ He had another sip of his coffee. ‘You all haven’t visited the crime scene yet, have you? You got out of your FBI plane and came straight here, didn’t you?’

There was almost a smirk in Owen’s tone of voice.

‘Why?’ Hunter asked.

Owen held the suspense deliberately.

‘Because Special Agent Fisher told me that a neighbor saw me breaking into Mr. Davis’s house earlier today,’ he finally revealed. ‘Has anybody talked to this neighbor?’

All Hunter could do was quickly glance at the two-way mirror. He’d had a suspicion about the neighbor story. That had been the reason why he had asked Agent Williams to find out if anyone had interviewed the neighbor or not.

‘I thought not,’ the freelance reporter continued. ‘Mr. Davis’s house is pretty hidden from sight. It sits behind a world of vegetation. There’s no way a neighbor from the next house could’ve seen anyone even approaching the front door or windows, let alone seen anyone breaking in.’

‘We’ll check on that,’ Hunter said, playing the whole incident down before quickly moving on. ‘So what time would you say that you got to Mr. Davis’s house? At around 5:40?’

‘Yes,’ Owen agreed. ‘I’d say that’s about right. Give or take a minute.’

‘And why didn’t you say anything when the police got there?’ Hunter asked. ‘Why didn’t you identify yourself as a reporter? Why did you play the silent game, followed by all that cold-reading theatrical crap?’

Hunter was pretty sure he already knew the answer, but for the record he needed to have Owen say it on tape.

‘I’m an investigative reporter,’ Owen replied. ‘That’s what I do. The caller didn’t give me that much information over the phone. When the police arrived, I made an on-the-spot decision. I knew they would take me in anyway. I knew that I had nothing on me that could identify me. Saying something wouldn’t have helped, so I decided to say nothing at all. I figured that the FBI would turn up sooner rather than later. I also knew that there wasn’t a chance in hell they would voluntarily tell me anything about what I had just seen down in that basement. If I was to get anything, I would have to trick it out of them.’

The smile he gave Hunter was full of confidence.

‘I know that I can pretty much cold-read anyone I want. Before becoming a reporter, I made a living by reading Tarot cards, palms, auras, rocks... whatever clients wanted read. I figured that cold-reading an FBI agent wouldn’t be any different than your regular John Doe.’ He shrugged casually. ‘I was right.’

Hunter first wondered how angry Agent Fisher would be right about then inside that observation room. Then he wondered what sort of sarcastic comment Garcia would be making. He waited a few seconds. No gunshots. Maybe Garcia kept his comment to himself.

‘Right at the end of the call,’ Owen said. ‘That was when it got even weirder.’

‘In which way?’

Owen thought back to the exact wording the man had used over the phone. It took him a few seconds to be absolutely sure.

‘He said that we lived in a false world — a plastic world where real, natural beauty was the purest and rarest of art forms. The rarer it was, the more valuable it became. He said that true beauty could not be fabricated or copied, and for that reason, it was becoming extinct. He also said that true beauty should live forever and that he was making sure of that. He finished by saying that he hoped that I would be able to understand and appreciate true art.’