An Evil Mind (15 page)

A step at a time,
he thought.
Take it a step at a time, Lucien.

And step one seemed to have gone perfectly so far.

Lucien would’ve given anything to have seen Hunter’s face when he entered the basement down in the house in Murphy and finally realized that the wall frames weren’t drawings. He would’ve given anything to have seen Hunter’s face when he finally recognized Susan’s tattoo.

Yes, that would’ve been worth a small fortune.

He felt his blood warming as memories of his last night with Susan came rushing back to him. He could still remember the sweet smell of her perfume, how soft her hair felt, how smooth her skin was. He reminisced on those memories for just a while longer before pushing them aside.

Lucien wondered how long it would take the FBI search team to find the box he had hidden inside the mattress in the master bedroom.

Probably not that long, if they’re any good.

Instinctively, he started going over the contents of the box in his head, and that filled him with excitement, bringing a proud but curbed smile to his lips. He could remember every item. But that box and its contents were nothing compared to what was still to come. They were all in for a big surprise.

Lucien swallowed his smile down and finally closed his eyes.

One step at a time, Lucien. One step at a time.

Thirty-One

The next image to appear on the projection screen was a snapshot of the same wooden box they’d all seen seconds earlier, but this time the lid was open. They could all clearly see that the box had a division down its center, creating two distinct compartments. As if on cue, everyone in the room, with the exception of Adrian Kennedy, craned their necks forward and squinted at the screen at the same time.

The compartment on the right was packed full of what at first seemed like just a bunch of colorful fabrics. The compartment on the left was filled with a variety of different jewelry items.

Silence.

More squinting.

A few chairs shuffled.

‘Are those women’s underwear?’ Agent Taylor finally asked, indicating the compartment on the right.

‘Let me clear that up for you,’ Kennedy said, clicking the remote control button yet again.

The image on the screen changed one more time. It now showed all the contents from the box neatly arranged over a white surface. Taylor was right. The fabrics that were in the right compartment were all women’s underwear, panties to be more precise, in a multitude of colors, sizes and styles, but now that they were all unbundled and plainly displayed in rows, an unseen detail became clear to everyone. Many of the garments were covered with dried blood.

The jewelry items that had occupied the left box compartment were also clearly arranged in rows, divided by type – rings, earrings, necklaces, bracelets, watches, chains, and even a couple of belly button bars.

The air inside the conference room seemed to have become stale and intoxicating all of a sudden.

‘Inside the right compartment, we found fourteen pairs of women’s underwear,’ Kennedy said, standing up. ‘Out of those, eleven were covered with blood.’ He allowed the gravity of what he’d just said to sink in before continuing. ‘All the items have already been expedited to our forensics lab. The garments vary in size, from extra small, or size zero, to large – size thirty-four – which would indicate that they belonged to different people.’

‘They would have,’ Hunter said, more as an instinctive comment to himself than to the room, but Kennedy heard it.

‘Sorry, what was that, Robert?’

Hunter paused for an instant.

‘Those are tokens, Adrian, and I’m sure that everyone in this room knows that, in general, token collectors only take one token from each victim.’

Like a Mexican wave, agreement nods started with the person to Hunter’s right, and moved around the table all the way to Taylor.

Token collectors do
in general
take only one token from each victim. Usually a very intimate item. Something that will easily trigger very strong memories of the victim and the murder act, and remind them of how powerful they are. A lot of the time they go for intimate items of clothing because they’re in close contact with the victim’s skin, more precisely sexual parts, and they’ll frequently hold the victim’s smell. Some perpetrators even believe they’ll be able to smell the victim’s fear on the item for months afterward, maybe years if properly stored, heightening their exhilaration, because many of them become aroused, sexually or otherwise, by the fear they command over their prey. With that in mind, taking two or more intimate items that belonged to the same victim would become pointless because they would not increase the satisfaction perpetrators get from reliving the murder act. One is usually more than enough.

‘Detective Hunter is right,’ Doctor Lambert said. ‘There’d be very little point in taking more than one token from each victim.’

‘Jesus Christ!’ Jennifer Holden from PROFILER exclaimed. ‘So you’re saying that we now might have another fourteen “possible” victims to add to the “possible” seven we’ve already got?’

‘Twenty-six “possible” new victims,’ Hunter corrected her, pointing to the jewelry pieces on the screen.

Six pairs of wide-open eyes honed in on him. Kennedy and Doctor Lambert were the only ones who showed no surprise.

‘Right again,’ Doctor Lambert confirmed, nodding at the group. ‘Following the double-token theory, if Mr Folter had already taken an underwear item from a victim, also taking a piece of jewelry from the same victim makes the second token pointless.’ He nodded at the screen. ‘We’ve got twelve pieces of jewelry. It would be safe to assume that the jewelry came from different victims, increasing the total to a possible twenty-six. Add that to what was found in his trunk and in his basement, and we might be looking at thirty-three victims so far.’

A few headshakes were followed by a couple of deflated sighs and whispers.

‘There’s something else,’ Hunter said.

The room’s attention returned to him.

‘Two of those rings, all three watches, and one of those necklaces aren’t feminine pieces of jewelry.’

All eyes moved back to the screen.

‘If these really belonged to his victims,’ Hunter moved on, ‘it doesn’t look like Lucien killed only women.’

Thirty-Two

At 7:30 a.m. sharp, the heavy metal door to the cell corridor in sublevel five of the BSU building buzzed open. The hallway beyond it was wide, well lit and about seventy-five yards long. The cinder-block wall on the right was painted a dull shade of gray. The shining resin floor carried almost the same color, just a touch darker, with two guiding yellow lines running along the edge of it. The left wall was a series of high-security cells. Ten in total. Each cell was separated by a wall as wide as the cell itself, which was about eleven feet. There were no metal bars. The cells were all fronted by very thick, shatterproof Plexiglas. On the Plexiglas, positioned in a cluster at the center of it and about five and a half feet from the floor, there were eight small conversation holes, about half an inch in diameter each. The cells were all empty, their lights turned off, with the exception of the one at the far end of the corridor.

Hunter and Taylor stepped through the door and into the echoey hallway. Despite being with the FBI for several years now, and having visited the BSU building on many occasions, this was the first time Taylor had been down in sublevel five. Hunter had never seen it either.

There was definitely something quite ominous and sinister about that long stretch of corridor, as if they had just stepped over the threshold between good and evil. The air inside it felt a touch too cold, a touch too dense, a touch less breathable.

Taylor did her best to fight the awkward shiver that sped up and down her spine as she took the first steps toward the last cell, but failed miserably. Something about that place reminded her of the Halloween haunted houses she used to be so scared of when she was a kid.

‘I don’t know about you,’ she said, steadying her body. ‘But I’d much rather do this up in the interrogation room.’

‘Unfortunately we don’t have that choice,’ Hunter replied as their shoes click-clacked against the shiny floor with every step. He suddenly stopped and faced Taylor. ‘Courtney, let me tell you something about Lucien.’ His voice was barely louder than a whisper. He didn’t want it to echo all the way to the last cell. ‘He always liked to play games – mind games – and he was very good at it. He’s probably even better now. I’m sure he’ll target you more than he will me. He’ll try to get under your skin with comments, innuendos, direct digs, whatever. Some will probably be very nasty. Just be prepared for it, OK? Don’t let it affect you. If he manages to get into your mind, he’ll rip you apart.’

Taylor made a face as if she already knew all this.

‘I’m a big girl, Robert. I know how to take care of myself.’

Hunter nodded. He hoped she was right.

Thirty-Three

Two metal fold-up chairs had already been placed side by side at the end of the corridor, directly in front of the last cell.

Lucien Folter was lying on his bed, motionless, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. He could hear the steps coming down the hallway toward him. He stood up, faced the Plexiglas and waited. He looked and felt completely relaxed. Not an ounce of any sort of emotion showing on his face. A couple of seconds later Hunter and Taylor came into his line of sight, and the blank mask vanished, like an experienced actor who’d just been given his cue for the big scene.

He gave them a warm smile.

‘Welcome to my new home,’ he said in a calm voice, looking around himself. ‘As temporary as it may be.’

The cell was a rectangular box, eleven feet wide by thirteen feet deep. Just like the corridor outside, its walls were made up of cinder blocks painted a dull shade of gray. Other than the bed, which was mounted against the left wall, there was only a latrine and a washbasin against the far wall, and a small metal table with a metal bench, both bolted to the right wall and floor.

As if about to conduct a business meeting, Lucien pointed to the two chairs in the corridor.

‘Please have a seat.’

He waited for Hunter and Taylor to be seated before taking a seat himself at the edge of the bed.

‘Seven-thirty in the morning,’ Lucien said. ‘I love an early start. And as far as I can remember, so do you, Robert. Still can’t sleep?’

Hunter said nothing, but his insomnia wasn’t a big secret, or something he kept hidden from anyone, anyway. He had started experiencing sleepless nights at the early age of seven, just after cancer robbed him of his mother.

With no family other than his father, coping with his mother’s death proved to be a very painful and lonely task. He would lie awake at night, too sad to fall asleep, too scared to close his eyes, too proud to cry.

It was just after his mother’s funeral when he started fearing his dreams. Every time he closed his eyes he saw her face, crying, contorted with pain, begging for help, praying for death. He saw her once fit-and-healthy body so drained of life, so fragile and weak, she couldn’t even sit up on her own strength. He saw a face that had once been beautiful, that had once carried the brightest smile and the kindest eyes he’d ever seen, transformed during those last few months into something unrecognizable. But it was still a face he’d never stopped loving.

Sleep and his dreams became the prison he’d do anything to escape from. Insomnia was the logical answer his body and brain found to deal with his fear and the ghastly nightmares that came at night. A simple but effective defense mechanism.

Lucien studied Hunter and Taylor’s faces for several seconds. ‘You’re still very good at not giving anything away, Robert,’ he said, shaking his finger in Hunter’s direction. ‘Actually, I’d say you got better at it, but you, Agent Taylor.’ His finger moved to her. ‘Are close, but not quite there yet. I assume you’ve found the box.

‘See, Agent Taylor.’ A new smile found its way onto Lucien’s lips. ‘That quick glance you gave Robert just confirmed my suspicion. You still have a bit to learn.’

Taylor looked unfazed.

Lucien’s smile widened.

‘You see Agent Taylor,’ he said. ‘Keeping a steady poker face takes a lot of practice. Creating a deceptive façade takes a lot more energy though, isn’t that right, Robert?’ Lucien knew Hunter wouldn’t reply, so he moved on. ‘Even you have to admit that I’ve now got mine down to perfection, haven’t I? You thought you could always tell when I was lying, didn’t you?’ He breathed in. ‘And you could, all those years ago, but not anymore.’ Lucien paused and scratched his chin. ‘Let me see now. What was it again? Oh yes . . . this.’

Lucien looked straight into Hunter’s eyes, and suddenly his stare became a touch more focused, more determined. Then, for fraction of a second, his lower left eyelid tightened in an almost imperceptible movement. If you weren’t looking for it, you wouldn’t have seen it.

‘Did you catch that, Agent Taylor?’ Lucien followed his question with a smile. ‘Of course you didn’t, but don’t beat yourself up just yet. It’s not your fault. You had no idea what you were looking for or where to look.’ His gaze moved to Hunter. ‘Robert noticed it because he knew he had to look at my eyes, especially my left one. I’ll do it again, a little slower this time. Don’t blink or you’ll miss it, Agent Taylor.’

He repeated his eye movement, this time with so much control it was almost frightening.

‘You told me about it in college once, Robert, after a party, remember? We were both a little drunk and you thought I’d taken no notice of it, didn’t you?’

Hunter cast his mind back, and a hazy memory surfaced.

‘But it
stayed
with me,’ Lucien continued. ‘You said that it was something very subtle, not everyone would notice, but I know that you could always pick it up. You always had a great eye for that kind of stuff, Robert. I know I didn’t do it often. At least not if I was telling just a simple white lie, but if it were anything more serious . . . BANG, my eye movement always gave me away.’ Lucien used his thumb and forefinger to rub his eyes a couple of times. ‘So I practiced, and practiced, and practiced in front of a mirror until it was all gone. No more telltale signs. No more being betrayed by psychological motor reactions. It took me a while, a long while actually, but I learned to control them. In fact, I got so good at it that I can flash-create new ones any time I like, just to throw people off course. That is a terrifying thought, isn’t it?’