An Evil Mind (12 page)

The smell didn’t bother Hunter.

Taylor found a light switch on the inside wall to the right of the door and flicked it on.

The front door led into a very small and completely bare, white-walled anteroom. They quickly moved past it and to the next room along – the living room.

Once again, Taylor found the light switch by the door and flicked it on, activating a single light bulb that hung from the center of the ceiling. The thick red and black shade around it dimmed its already weak strength considerably, throwing the room into a penumbra.

It wasn’t the most spacious of living rooms, but with almost no furniture to speak of, it also didn’t feel cramped. The disinfectant, mothball smell was much stronger in this room, making Taylor cringe and look like she was about to heave.

‘You OK?’ Hunter asked.

Taylor nodded unconvincingly. ‘I hate the smell of mothballs. It messes my stomach up.’

Hunter gave her a few seconds, and allowed his eyes to slowly scan the room. There was nothing to indicate that the house was home to anyone, no pictures, no paintings on the walls, no decorative items anywhere, no personal touches, nothing. It was like Lucien was hiding even from himself.

The open door on the west wall led into a dark kitchen. Across from where they’d entered the living room, a corridor led deeper into the house.

‘Do you want to check the kitchen?’ Hunter asked with a head gesture.

‘Not particularly,’ Taylor said. ‘I just want to find this diary, and go get some fresh air.’

Hunter nodded his agreement.

They crossed the living room and entered the corridor on the other side. The light here was just as weak as the one in the living room.

‘I guess he liked moody lighting,’ Taylor commented.

There were four doors down the hallway – two on the left, one on the right, and one down the far end. The two on the left and the one at the far end were wide open. Even with the lights off, Hunter and Taylor could tell that they led into two bedrooms and a bathroom. The thick and heavy door on the right side of the corridor, on the other hand, was securely locked with a large padlock.

‘This has got to be the door to the basement,’ Taylor said.

Hunter agreed, checking the padlock, which surprised him. It was a military-grade padlock, made by Sargent and Greenleaf – supposedly resistant to every form of attack, including liquid nitrogen. Lucien certainly didn’t want anyone going down into that basement uninvited.

‘And we’re back to the key roulette,’ Taylor said, retrieving Lucien’s keychain once again.

As she started going through the keys, Hunter quickly checked the first room on the left – the bathroom. It was small, tiled all in white, with a heavy musty and wet smell. There was nothing interesting in there.

Click
.

Hunter heard the metal noise coming from the corridor and stepped out of the bathroom.

‘Got it,’ Taylor said, letting the padlock drop to the floor. ‘Took me twelve tries this time.’ She twisted the door handle and pushed the door open.

There was a light cord hanging from the ceiling on the inside of the door. Taylor clicked it on. A yellowish fluorescent tube flickered on and off a couple of times before finally engaging, revealing a narrow cement staircase that bent right at the bottom.

‘Do you want to go first?’ Taylor asked, taking a step back.

Hunter shrugged. ‘Sure.’

They both took the steps down slowly and carefully. At the bottom, another two yellowish fluorescent light bulbs lit a space about the same size as the living room upstairs, with a crude cement floor and tired white walls. Furniture wise, it could also be compared to the sparsely decorated living room upstairs. A tall wooden bookcase overflowing with books hugged the north wall. A large rug, together with a flowery sofa, centered the room. Directly in front of it, there was a beech-wood module with an old tube TV on it. To the left of the module was a chest of drawers and a small beer fridge. A few framed drawings adorned the walls. Everything was covered in a thin layer of dust.

‘The diary must be there,’ Taylor said, nodding at the bookcase.

Hunter was still looking around the room, taking everything in.

Taylor stepped forward toward the bookcase; she paused before it, and let her eyes quickly browse through all the titles. Several of them looked to be on psychology, a few on engineering, a few on cooking, a few on mechanics, several paperback thrillers, and a few on self-motivation and how to overcome adversity. In one corner, a small collection of books looked a little different from all the others. The main difference was – they had no title. They weren’t printed books. They were hardcover notebooks, the kind easily found in any stationery store.

‘It looks like we’ve got more than one diary here,’ Taylor announced, reaching for the first book.

She got no reply from Hunter.

Without looking at him she flipped the book open, and as she started flicking through it, she frowned. There was nothing written on any of the pages. They were all covered by hand drawings and sketches.

‘Robert, come have a look at this.’

Still no reply from Hunter.

‘Robert, can you hear me?’ Taylor finally turned to face him.

Hunter was standing in the middle of the room, immobile, staring at the wall straight in front of him. The look on his face had changed to something Taylor couldn’t quite recognize.

‘Robert, what’s going on?’

Silence.

She followed his stare toward one of the framed drawings.

‘Wait a second,’ she said, squinting at it and moving a little closer. It took her several seconds to understand what she was looking at, and as she did, her whole body was suddenly covered in gooseflesh.

‘Oh, my God,’ she whispered. ‘Is that . . . human skin?’

Hunter finally nodded slowly.

Taylor breathed out, took a step back, and looked around the room again.

‘Jesus Christ . . .’ Her throat went completely dry and she felt as if she was being choked by a pair of invisible hands.

There were five different frames adorning the walls.

Hunter still hadn’t moved. His stare was still locked onto the frame directly in front of him. But the fact that what seemed to be framed drawings, were actually framed human skin, wasn’t what had shocked him the most. What had frozen Hunter to the spot was what was drawn onto the human skin in the frame he was staring at. A very unique tattoo. One that Hunter remembered well, because he had been there when it was done. And so was Lucien. A tattoo of a red rose, where its thorny stem wrapped itself around a bleeding heart, giving the impression that it was strangling it.

Susan’s tattoo.

Part Two

The Right Man

Twenty-Five

This time, Lucien Folter was already sitting at the metal table inside the interrogation room when the door buzzed open and Hunter and Taylor walked in. Just like before, his hands were cuffed, linked together by a metal chain. His feet were also shackled, with the ankle chain already securely fastened to the thick metal loop on the floor by his chair. Standing right behind him were two armed US Marines. They both nodded at Hunter and Taylor before exiting the room without saying a word.

Lucien was leaning forward on his chair. His hands were resting on the table with his fingers interlaced together. He was very slowly and calmly tapping his thumbs against each other in a steady rhythm, as if he was doing it to the beat of some song that only he could hear. His head and his eyes were low. His stare was fixed on his hands.

Taylor deliberately allowed the door to slam shut behind her, but the loud bang didn’t seem to reach Lucien’s ears. He didn’t flinch, didn’t look up, didn’t stop with the thumbs tapping. It was like he was in a world of his own.

Hunter stepped forward and stopped across the table from him, his arms loose and relaxed by the side of his body. He didn’t take a seat. He didn’t say a thing. He simply waited.

Taylor stood by the door, anger burning inside her eyes. On their trip back to Quantico, she had promised herself that she wouldn’t let that anger show, that she would be pragmatic . . . professional . . . detached. But seeing Lucien again, sitting in that room seemingly unperturbed, made her blood boil inside her veins.

‘You sick sonofabitch,’ she finally blurted out. ‘How many have you actually killed?’

Lucien just kept staring at his thumbs, following the beat that no one else could hear.

‘Did you skin them all?’ Taylor carried on.

No reply.

‘Did you make one of those sick trophies out of every victim?’

Still no reply, but this time Lucien stopped with the thumbs tapping, slowly lifted his head, and locked eyes with Hunter. Neither of them said anything for a very long moment. They simply studied each other like two complete strangers who were about to go into battle. The first thing Hunter noticed was that Lucien’s demeanor had totally changed from their previous interview. The emotional Lucien, the one who seemed scared that a huge injustice was being done to him, the one who needed help, that Lucien was all but gone. The new Lucien sitting before Hunter now looked stronger . . . more confident . . . fearless. Even his face looked tougher, like a fighter who wouldn’t walk away from any sort of confrontation – someone who was ready for come what may. There was also something very different about the look in his dark brown eyes. Something very cold and disconnected, void of any emotion. It was an empty look that Hunter had seen several times before, but never in Lucien’s eyes. It was a psychopathic look.

Lucien breathed out.

‘By the look on your face, Robert, I’m sure you’ve recognized the tattoo on one of the frames on my wall.’

Hunter realized now that that had been the real reason why Lucien had mentioned Susan and her tattoo earlier. Not because he was trying to steer the conversation away from a fragile topic until his nerves settled, but because he wanted to make absolutely sure Hunter would remember it before sending him to the house.

Hunter wasn’t exactly sure of what to say, so he remained silent.

‘That piece is by far my favorite,’ Lucien continued. ‘Do you know why, Robert?’

No reply from Hunter.

Lucien gave him a pleased smile, as if the memories filled his heart with joy.

‘Susan was my first.’

‘You sick sonofabitch,’ Taylor said again, stepping forward as if she was about to launch onto Lucien, but sense seemed to take over right at the last second and she paused by the metal table.

Lucien’s icy gaze slowly moved to her. ‘Please stop repeating yourself, Agent Taylor. You’ve already called me a sick sonofabitch.’ His voice was flat. No emotion. No warmth.

‘Maybe I
am
one, but swearing doesn’t really suit you.’ He ran his tongue over his lips to wet them. ‘Name-calling is for the weak. For people who lack the intellect to argue intelligently. Do you think you lack the intellect, Agent Taylor? Because if you do, you have no business being an FBI agent.’

Taylor took a deep breath to steady herself. Though her eyes still burned with anger, she knew Lucien was just trying to push her.

‘I understand that right now you’re still a little in shock from your discovery back in the house,’ Lucien continued, ‘so your emotions are running a little high.’ He shrugged, unconcerned. ‘Understandable. But I bet that little outburst of yours isn’t really what’s expected from a senior FBI agent, is it? I bet it surprised even you, because I bet you promised yourself that you wouldn’t lose it. You promised yourself that you would remain calm and professional, didn’t you, Agent Taylor?’ Lucien gave her no time to reply. ‘But being able to control one’s emotions is a very tricky thing. Even with the best of intentions, your emotions can still easily boil up inside you. It takes a lot of training to be able to properly control them.’ Another shrug. ‘But I’m sure you’ll get there someday.’

Taylor strained to hold her tongue. It was obvious to her that Lucien was counting on another emotional reaction, but she didn’t comply.

‘How many were there, Lucien?’ Hunter asked in a steady voice, finally breaking his silence. ‘You said Susan was your first. How many victims were there?’

Lucien sat back and smiled a smile that looked rehearsed.

‘That’s a very good question, Robert.’ He looked deep in thought for a long instant. ‘I’m not really sure. I lost count after a while.’

Taylor felt her skin starting to goose-bump again.

‘But I have it all written down,’ Lucien said, as he began nodding. ‘Yes. There really is a diary, Robert. Actually, there is more than one, where I documented everything – places I’ve been, people I’ve taken, methods I’ve used . . .’

‘And where are they?’ Taylor asked.

Lucien chuckled and moved his hands, making the chain rattle against the metal table. ‘Patience, Agent Taylor, patience. Haven’t you ever heard the saying: “
Good things will come to those who wait
”?’

Though Lucien’s words were intended for Taylor, all of his attention was on Hunter.

‘I know that right now you have a thousand questions tumbling over each other inside that brain of yours, Robert. I know that all you want is to understand the why’s and how’s . . . and obviously, since you’re a cop, to identify all the victims.’ Lucien rotated his neck from side to side, as if trying to release some tension. ‘That could take a while. But believe me, Robert, I really do want you to understand the why’s and how’s. That’s the real reason why I called you here.’

Lucien looked past Hunter at the two-way mirror behind him. He wasn’t speaking to Hunter or Taylor anymore. He knew that after what they had uncovered in North Carolina, a more senior FBI figure would be on the other side of that glass. Someone with the authority to call all the shots.

‘I know that
you
also want to know the why’s and how’s,’ he said in a chilling tone, staring at his own reflection. ‘After all, this is the famous FBI Behavioral Science Unit. You live to study the minds of people like me. And believe me, you have never encountered anyone quite like me.’