The Caller

Fifty-Four

Still with a sincerely puzzled look on his face, Mr. J turned to look at Garcia, who had just re-entered the room. The first thing that he noticed was that the detective was carrying a medium-sized, see-through plastic evidence bag in his right hand.

‘Your wife’s handbag was found in your living room, Mr. Jenkinson, just by the sofa,’ Hunter explained. ‘Inside it, we found this note.’

Garcia placed the evidence bag on Mr. J’s desk.

His confusion lasted an extra couple of seconds before he managed to snap out of it and drag his attention to the note.

Have you ever felt like you’re being watched, Cassandra?

Mr. J blinked a couple of times, as if his eyes were having trouble focusing. Then he read the note again. And again. And again.

‘I don’t understand,’ he finally said, his tone almost robotic.

‘There was also an envelope with her name across the front of it,’ Garcia added. ‘No address. No stamp. Which means that it was hand-delivered. Slid under the door, placed in the mailbox outside, left on her car, maybe at the place where she works... What we do know is that this note wasn’t posted to her.’

‘Was the name on the envelope a cut-out as well?’ Mr. J asked.

‘Letter by letter,’ Garcia confirmed.

‘She never mentioned this note to you?’ Hunter this time.

Mr. J looked at him with a mixture of frustration and embarrassment. Just seconds ago, he had told Hunter with unflinching conviction that his wife would’ve certainly shared something like this with him.

‘No,’ he finally replied. His eyes, now heavy with anger, returned to the note. ‘Maybe she got this while I was away,’ he suggested. ‘This morning, yesterday morning or the day before.’

‘Maybe,’ Garcia accepted it. ‘But wouldn’t she have called you?’

For an instant it looked like Mr. J hadn’t heard the question.

‘Mr. Jenkinson?’

‘No, she wouldn’t,’ he replied thoughtfully. ‘That was just the way Cassandra was. My business trips are usually very rushed, so when I’m away, she’d only call me if she considered whatever it is that she needs to talk to me about to be something very important.’

‘And you think she wouldn’t consider this to be?’

‘Oh, c’mon, Detective.’ Mr. J looked back at Garcia. ‘Don’t be naive. You find a note that looks like it came out of an old Kojak episode.’ He nodded at it. ‘Written by putting together a few cut-out letters and words from a magazine, with a cliché scary line like this one, and what do you do, freak the fuck out? Believe that your life is at risk?’

Garcia didn’t reply.

‘Well, I can tell you that Cassandra wouldn’t. It would take a hell of a lot more than something like this to scare someone like her.’ He paused and for a quick second looked like he was searching his memory. ‘In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her sacred. She was strong like that. She probably laughed at this when she got it. Dismissed it as a hoax or something, which is what I think most people would’ve done. She would’ve never called me on a business trip to tell me about a note that looks like it was put together by a four-year-old.’

‘I’d have to agree,’ Hunter cut in. ‘Most people would’ve discarded this note as a hoax, a very bad practical joke, and that’s why I would like to ask your permission to properly search the house, more specifically, your wife’s belongings.’

Mr. J knew that the use of the word ‘properly’ meant that they had already searched the house and Cassandra’s belongings. They just haven’t done it meticulously enough.

‘What for?’ he asked.

‘For other notes similar to this one. Notes she might’ve received previously.’

‘What?’ Mr. J studied both detectives’ faces, but found nothing. ‘You think she received other notes like this one?’

‘I do,’ Hunter admitted it.

Mr. J chuckled anxiously. ‘And what makes you think that?’

‘Because this note,’ Hunter said, pointing at it, his tone firm and confident, ‘unlike what you might think, Mr. Jenkinson, certainly scared your wife.’

Another intrigued frown. ‘And you know that how?’

Hunter scratched his chin. ‘Because she never threw it away, Mr. Jenkinson. We didn’t find it in a trashcan, tucked away in a drawer, or under a sofa. We found it inside her handbag, together with her car keys and her purse. If she had thought that this note was nothing more than a silly prank, why keep it? And better yet, why keep it in her handbag?’

Mr. J hadn’t thought of that. He had actually forgotten that Hunter had told him that the note had been found inside Cassandra’s handbag. And the detective had a point. Mr. J knew Cassandra better than anyone did. She would never have paid any attention to something like this, unless she had received enough of them to either test her patience or scare her.

It was while pondering that idea that the reason why she had kept the note in her handbag came to him — she wanted to show it to him, get his opinion on it, ask him if she should be worried about something like that.

Of course, he thought. It must’ve been. She was waiting for me to get back from my ‘business trip’ so she could show it to me. Talk it over.

That thought drove a new spike of guilt right through Mr. J’s heart. His eyes closed instinctively and he pressed his lips tightly together, as if an unforeseen wave of pain had taken over him.

‘Mr. Jenkinson?’ Hunter said, legitimately concerned. ‘Are you all right?’

He reopened his eyes and for a second lost grip of his cool. The anger in his voice painted the room red.

‘My wife was tortured and murdered inside my own house while I was away, arguably by some psychopath who had been tormenting and stalking her with stupid notes like this one.’ He stabbed his finger at the evidence bag. ‘Which I knew nothing about. How “all right” would you like me to be, Detective?’

‘I’m sorry, Mr. Jenkinson,’ Hunter replied, his eyes low and apologetic. ‘I didn’t mean it that way.’

‘Please,’ Mr. J said, lifting a hand. His cool was back, and so was his perfect acting. ‘If you have no more questions, could I be left alone now?’

Hunter exchanged another troubled look with Garcia.

‘Unfortunately, we can’t allow you to stay in the house, Mr. Jenkinson. Not tonight.’

Mr. J glared at Hunter. He knew fully well that he would never be allowed to stay, but he needed to play his ‘oblivious citizen’ part.

‘What do you mean — you won’t allow me to stay? This is my house.’

‘We understand that, Mr. Jenkinson.’ Once again, Hunter’s voice was calm and composed. ‘And the only thing I can do at the moment is apologize, but unfortunately your house is now also a crime scene, and for reasons I’m sure you can imagine, we need to keep it isolated until it’s given the “all clear” by us and the forensic team. We’ll be back here in the morning to go over everything again with fresh eyes, looking for anything we might’ve missed tonight.’

Retaining the angry look on his face, Mr. J remained silent, pretending to consider Hunter’s words.

‘I can promise you that we’ll work as fast as we possibly can, Mr. Jenkinson. With a little luck, we’ll be able to hand the house over to the crime and trauma scene decontamination team by tomorrow night. After that, the house is yours to do with as you please again.’

Still silence.

‘I’m very sorry about that,’ Hunter restated.

‘Could I at least grab some fresh clothes?’ Mr. J asked, being sure to keep some of the anger in his tone of voice.

‘Of course. Take as long as you need. We’ll wait outside.’