An Evil Mind (3 page)

Captain Blake was standing by the panoramic window. Her long jet-black hair was gracefully styled into a bun, pinned in place by a pair of wooden chopsticks. She was wearing a silky white blouse, tucked into an elegant navy-blue pencil skirt. Standing next to her, holding a steaming cup of coffee, and wearing a conservative black suit, was a slim and very attractive woman, who Hunter had never seen before. She looked to be somewhere in her early thirties, with long, straight blonde hair, and deep blue eyes. She looked like someone who would normally be entirely at ease in whatever situation she found herself in, but there was something a little apprehensive about the way she held her head.

As Hunter entered the office and closed the door behind him, the tall and slim man who was sitting in one of the armchairs, also in a soberly dark suit, turned to face him. He was in his mid-fifties, but the heavy bags under his eyes and his fleshy, saggy cheeks, which also gave him a somewhat hound-like look, made him look at least ten years older. The thin flock of gray hair he still had left on his head was neatly combed back over his ears.

Taken by surprise, Hunter paused, narrowing his eyes.

‘Hello, Robert,’ the man said, standing up. His naturally hoarse voice, made worse by years of smoking, sounded surprisingly strong for a man who looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

Hunter’s gaze stayed on him for a couple of seconds before moving to the blonde woman, and finally to Captain Blake.

‘Sorry about this, Robert,’ she said with a slight tilt of the head, before allowing her stare to go rock hard as it honed in on the man facing Hunter. ‘They simply turned up unannounced about an hour ago. Not even a goddam courtesy call,’ she explained.

‘I apologize again,’ the man said in a calm but authoritative tone. He was definitely someone who was used to giving orders, and having them followed. ‘You look well.’ He addressed Hunter. ‘But then again, you always do, Robert.’

‘So do you, Adrian,’ Hunter replied unconvincingly, stepping toward the man and shaking his hand.

Adrian Kennedy was the head of the FBI’s National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime (NCAVC) and its Behavioral Analysis Unit – a specialist FBI department that provided support to national and international law enforcement agencies involved in the investigation of unusual or serial violent crimes.

Hunter was well aware that unless it was absolutely mandatory, Adrian Kennedy never traveled anywhere. He now coordinated most of NCAVC operations from his large office in Washington, DC, but he was no career bureaucrat. Kennedy had begun his life with the FBI at a young age, and quickly demonstrated that he had tremendous aptitude for leadership. He also had a natural ability to motivate people. That didn’t go unnoticed, and very early in his career he was assigned to the prestigious US President protection detail. Two years later, after foiling an attempt on the president’s life by throwing himself in front of the bullet that was destined to kill the most powerful man on earth, he received a high commendation award, and a “thank you” letter from the president himself. A few years after that, the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime was officially established in June 1984. They needed a director, someone who was a natural leader. Adrian Kennedy was the name at the top of the list.

‘This is Special Agent Courtney Taylor,’ Kennedy said, nodding at the blonde woman.

She moved closer and shook Hunter’s hand. ‘Very nice to meet you, Detective Hunter. I’ve heard a lot about you.’

Taylor’s voice sounded incredibly seductive, combining a sort of soft, girlish tone with a level of self-assurance that was almost disarming. Despite her delicate hands, her handshake was firm and meaningful, like that of a businesswoman who had just closed a major deal.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you too,’ Hunter replied, politely. ‘And I hope that some of what you’ve heard wasn’t so bad.’

She gave him a shy, but truthful smile. ‘None of it was bad.’

Hunter turned and faced Kennedy again.

‘I’m glad we managed to catch you before you’d left for your break, Robert,’ Kennedy said.

Nothing from Hunter.

‘Going anywhere nice?

Hunter held Kennedy’s stare.

‘This has got to be bad,’ he finally said. ‘Because I know you’re not the sort to sugar-talk anyone. I also know you couldn’t care less about where I am going on my break. So how about we drop the bullshit? What’s this about, Adrian?’

Kennedy took a moment, as if he had to carefully consider his answer before finally replying.

‘You, Robert. This is about you.’

Four

Hunter’s attention wandered over to Captain Blake for a brief moment; as their eyes met, she shrugged apologetically.

‘They didn’t tell me much, Robert, but the little I know sounds like something you would want to hear.’ She went back to her desk. ‘It’s better if they explain.’

Hunter looked at Kennedy and waited.

‘Why don’t you have a seat, Robert?’ Kennedy said, offering one of the armchairs.

Hunter didn’t move.

‘I’m fine standing, thank you.’

‘Coffee?’ Kennedy asked, indicating Captain Blake’s espresso machine in the corner.

Hunter’s gaze hardened.

‘All right, fine.’ Kennedy lifted both hands in a surrender gesture, while at the same time giving Special Agent Taylor an almost imperceptible nod. ‘We’ll get on with it.’ He returned to his seat.

Taylor put down her cup of coffee and stepped forward, pausing just beside Kennedy’s chair.

‘OK,’ she began. ‘Five days ago, at around six in the morning, while driving south down US Route 87, a Mr John Garner suffered a heart attack just outside a small town called Wheatland, in southeastern Wyoming. Needless to say, he lost control of his pick-up truck.’

‘It was raining heavily that morning, and Mr Garner was the sole occupant of the truck,’ Kennedy added before signaling Taylor to carry on.

‘Maybe you already know this,’ Taylor continued. ‘But Route 87 runs all the way from Montana to southern Texas, and like most US highways, unless the stretch in question is going through what’s considered a minimum populated area or an high accident-risk one, there are no guardrails, walls, high curbstones, raised center island divisions . . .
nothing
that would keep a vehicle from leaving the highway and venturing off in a multitude of directions.’

‘The stretch that we’re talking about here doesn’t fall under the minimum populated area, or high accident-risk category,’ Kennedy commented.

‘By pure luck.’ Taylor moved on. ‘Or lack of it, depending what point of view you take, Mr Garner suffered the heart attack just as he was driving past a small truck-stop diner called Nora’s Diner. With him unconscious at the wheel, his truck veered off the road and drove across a patch of low grass, heading straight for the diner. According to witnesses, Mr Garner’s truck was in a direct line of collision with the front of the restaurant.

‘At that time in the morning, and because of the torrential rain that was falling, there were only ten people inside the diner – seven customers plus three employees. The local sheriff and one of his deputies were two of the customers.’ She paused to clear her throat. ‘Something must’ve happened right at the last second, because Mr Garner’s truck drastically changed course and missed the restaurant by just a few feet. Road accident forensics figured that the truck hit a large and deep pothole just a few yards before getting to the diner, and that caused the steering wheel to swing hard left.’

‘The truck crashed into the adjacent lavatory building,’ Kennedy said. ‘Even if his heart attack hadn’t killed Mr Garner, the collision would have.’

‘Now,’ Taylor said, lifting her right index finger. ‘This is the first twist. As Mr Garner’s truck missed the diner and headed toward the lavatory building, it clipped the back of a blue Ford Taurus that was parked just outside. The car belonged to one of the diner’s customers.’

Taylor paused and reached for her briefcase that was by Captain Blake’s desk.

‘Mr Garner’s truck hit the Taurus rear hard enough to cause the trunk door to pop open,’ Kennedy said.

‘The sheriff missed it.’ Taylor again. ‘Because as he ran outside, his main concern was to attend to the truck driver and passengers, if there had been any.’

She reached into her briefcase and retrieved an 11x8-inch colored photograph.

‘But his deputy didn’t,’ she announced. ‘As he ran outside, something inside the Taurus’ trunk caught his eye.’

Hunter waited.

Taylor stepped forward and handed him the photograph.

‘This is what he saw inside the trunk.’

Five

FBI National Training Academy, Quantico, Virginia.

2,632 miles away.

For the past ten minutes Special Agent Edwin Newman had been standing inside the holding cells control room in the basement of one of the several buildings that made up the nerve center of the FBI Academy. Despite the many CCTV monitors mounted on the east wall, all of his attention was set on a single and very specific one.

Newman wasn’t one of the academy’s trainees. In fact, he was a very experienced and accomplished agent with the Behavioral Analysis Unit, who had completed his training over twenty years ago. Newman was based in Washington DC, and had specially made the journey to Virginia four days ago just to interview the new prisoner.

‘Has he moved at all in the past hour?’ Newman asked the room operator, who was sitting at the large controls console that faced the monitors’ wall.

The operator shook his head.

‘Nope, and he won’t move until lights off. Like I told you before, this guy is like a machine. I’ve never seen anything like it. Since they brought him in four nights ago, he hasn’t broken his routine. He sleeps on his back, facing the ceiling, hands locked together and resting on his stomach – like a cadaver in a coffin. Once he closes his eyes, he doesn’t move – no twitching, no turning, no restlessness, no scratching, no snoring, no waking up in the middle of the night to go pee, no nothing. Sure, at times he looks scared, as if he has no fucking idea why he’s here, but most of the time he sleeps like a man with absolutely no worries in life, crashed out in the most comfortable bed money can buy. And I can tell you this –’ he pointed at the screen – ‘that bed ain’t it. That is one goddamn uncomfortable piece of wood with a paper-thin mattress on top.’

Newman scratched his crooked nose but said nothing.

The operator continued.

‘That guy’s internal clock is tuned to Swiss precision. I shit you not. You can set your watch by it.’

‘What do you mean?’ Newman asked.

The operator let out a nasal chuckle. ‘Every morning, at exactly 5:45 a.m., he opens his eyes. No alarm, no noise, no lights on, no call from us, and no agent bursting into his cell to wake him up. He just does it by himself. 5:45, on the dot –
bing
– he’s awake.’

Newman knew that the prisoner had been stripped of all personal possessions. He had no watch or any other kind of timekeeper with him.

‘As he opens his eyes,’ the operator continued, ‘he stares at the ceiling for exactly ninety-five seconds. Not a second more, not a second less. You can watch the recording from the past three days and time it if you like.’

No reaction from Newman.

‘After ninety-five seconds,’ the operator said, ‘he gets out of bed, does his business at the latrine, and then hits the floor and starts doing push-ups, followed by sit-ups – ten reps of each in each set. If he isn’t interrupted, he’ll do fifty sets with the minimum of rest in between sets – no grunting, no puffing, and no face-pulling either, just pure determination. Breakfast is brought to him sometime between 6:30 and 7:00 a.m. If he hasn’t yet finished his sets, he’ll carry on until he’s done, only then will he sit down and calmly eat his food. And he eats all of it without complaining. No matter what tasteless shit we put on that tray. After that, he’s taken in for interrogation.’ He turned to look at Newman. ‘I’m assuming
you
are the interrogator.’

Newman didn’t reply, didn’t nod, and didn’t shake his head either. He simply carried on staring at the monitor.

The operator shrugged and carried on with his account.

‘When he’s brought back to his cell, whatever time that might be, he goes back to a second battery of his exercise routine – another fifty sets of push-ups and sit-ups.’ He chuckled. ‘If you lost count, that’s one thousand of each every day. When he’s done, if he isn’t taken away for further interrogation, he does exactly what you can see on the screen right now – he sits on his bed, crosses his legs, stares at the blank wall in front of him, and I guess he meditates, or prays, or whatever. But he never closes his eyes. And let me tell you, it’s fucking freaky the way he just stares at that wall.’

‘For how long?’ Newman asked.

‘Depends,’ the operator replied. ‘He’s allowed one visit to the shower every day, but prisoners’ shower times change from day to day. You know the drill. If we come get him while he’s wall-staring, he’ll simply snap out of his trance, step off the bed, get shackled and go to the shower – no moaning, no resisting, no fighting. When he comes back, he goes straight back to the bed-sitting, wall-staring thing again. If he isn’t interrupted at all, he’ll carry on staring at that wall until lights off at 9:30.’

Newman nodded.

‘But yesterday,’ the operator added. ‘Just out of curiosity, they kept the lights on for an extra five minutes.’

‘Let me guess,’ Newman said. ‘It made no difference. At exactly 9:30, he lay down, went back to his “body in a coffin” position, and went to sleep, lights off or not.’

‘You got it,’ the operator agreed. ‘Like I said, he’s like a machine, with a Swiss precision internal clock.’ He paused and turned to face Newman. ‘I’m no expert here, but from what I’ve seen in the past four nights and four days, mentally, this guy is a fucking fortress.’

Newman said nothing.

‘I don’t want to overstep my mark here, but . . . has he talked at all during any of the interrogation sessions?’

Newman considered the question for a long moment.