Текст книги "An Evil Mind"

Автор книги: Chris (2) Carter

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

About the author

Born in Brazil of Italian origin, Chris Carter studied psychology and criminal behavior at the University of Michigan. As a member of the Michigan State District Attorney’s Criminal Psychology team, he interviewed and studied many criminals, including serial and multiple homicide offenders with life-imprisonment convictions.

Having departed for Los Angeles in the early 1990s, Chris spent ten years as a guitarist for numerous rock bands before leaving the music business to write full-time. He now lives in London and is a Top Ten Sunday Times bestselling author.

Visit www.chriscarterbooks.com or find him on Facebook.

Also by Chris Carter

The Crucifix Killer

The Executioner

The Night Stalker

The Death Sculptor

One by One

First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2014

A CBS COMPANY

Copyright © Chris Carter 2014

This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

No reproduction without permission.

® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.

The right of Chris Carter to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

1st Floor

222 Gray’s Inn Road

London WC1X 8HB

www.simonandschuster.co.uk

Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney

Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

HB ISBN: 978-1-47113-219-3

TPB ISBN: 978-1-47113-220-9

EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-47113-222-3

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Typeset by Hewer Text UK Ltd, Edinburgh

Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY

This novel differs immensely from all my previous books, mainly because this is the first thriller I’ve written in which most of the plot and characters are based on real facts and people I met during my criminal-behavior-psychology days. The names have been changed for obvious reasons.

I would like to dedicate this novel to all the readers who have entered the competition that was run in the UK to become one of the victims in this thriller, and especially to the winner, Karen Simpson, who lives in South Wales and who has been a great sport. I hope you all enjoy it.

Contents

Part One: The Wrong Man

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Part Two: The Right Man

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Forty-Seven

Forty-Eight

Forty-Nine

Fifty

Fifty-One

Fifty-Two

Fifty-Three

Fifty-Four

Fifty-Five

Fifty-Six

Fifty-Seven

Fifty-Eight

Fifty-Nine

Sixty

Sixty-One

Sixty-Two

Sixty-Three

Sixty-Four

Sixty-Five

Sixty-Six

Sixty-Seven

Sixty-Eight

Sixty-Nine

Part Three: A Race Against Time

Seventy

Seventy-One

Seventy-Two

Seventy-Three

Seventy-Four

Seventy-Five

Seventy-Six

Seventy-Seven

Seventy-Eight

Seventy-Nine

Eighty

Eighty-One

Eighty-Two

Eighty-Three

Eighty-Four

Eighty-Five

Eighty-Six

Eighty-Seven

Eighty-Eight

Eighty-Nine

Ninety

Ninety-One

Ninety-Two

Ninety-Three

Ninety-Four

Ninety-Five

Ninety-Six

Ninety-Seven

Ninety-Eight

Ninety-Nine

One Hundred

One Hundred and One

One Hundred and Two

One Hundred and Three

One Hundred and Four

One Hundred and Five

One Hundred and Six

One Hundred and Seven

One Hundred and Eight

One Hundred and Nine

One Hundred and Ten

One Hundred and Eleven

One Hundred and Twelve

One Hundred and Thirteen

Part One

The Wrong Man

One

‘Morning, Sheriff. Morning, Bobby,’ the plump, brunette waitress with a small heart tattoo on her left wrist called from behind the counter. She didn’t have to check the clock hanging from the wall to her right. She knew it would be just past 6:00 a.m.

Every Wednesday, without fail, Sheriff Walton and his deputy, Bobby Dale, came into Nora’s truck-stop diner, just outside Wheatland in southeastern Wyoming, to get their sweet-pie fix. Rumor had it that Nora’s Diner baked the best pies in the whole of Wyoming. A different recipe every day of the week. Wednesday was apple-and-cinnamon-pie day, Sheriff Walton’s favorite. He was well aware that the first batch of pies always came out of the oven at 6:00 a.m. sharp, and you just couldn’t beat the taste of a freshly baked pie.

‘Morning, Beth,’ Bobby replied, dusting rainwater off his coat and trousers. ‘I’ll tell you, the floodgates from hell have opened out there,’ he added, shaking his leg as if he’d peed himself.

Summer downpours in southeastern Wyoming were a common occurrence, but this morning’s storm was the heaviest they’d seen all season.

‘Morning, Beth,’ Sheriff Walton followed, taking off his hat, drying his face and forehead with a handkerchief, and quickly looking around the diner. At that time in the morning, and with such torrential rain outside, the place was a lot less busy than usual. Only three out of its fifteen tables were taken.

A man and a woman in their mid-twenties were sitting at the table nearest to the door, having a pancake breakfast. The sheriff figured that the beat-up, silver WV Golf parked outside belonged to them.

The next table along was occupied by a large, sweaty, shaved-headed man, who must’ve weighed at least 350 pounds. The amount of food sitting on the table in front of him would’ve easily been enough to feed two very hungry people, maybe three.

The last table by the window was taken by a tall, gray-haired man, with a bushy horseshoe mustache and a crooked nose. His forearms were covered in faded tattoos. He’d already finished his breakfast and was now sitting back on his chair, toying with a packet of cigarettes and looking pensive, as if he had a very difficult decision to make.

There was no doubt in Sheriff Walton’s mind that the two large trucks outside belonged to those two.

Sitting at the end of the counter, drinking a cup of black coffee and eating a chocolate-coated donut, was a pleasantly dressed man who looked to be in his forties. His hair was short and well kept, and his beard stylish and neatly trimmed. He was flipping through a copy of the morning’s newspaper. His had to be the dark-blue Ford Taurus parked by the side of the diner, Sheriff Walton concluded.

‘Just in time,’ Beth said, winking at the sheriff. ‘They’re just out of the oven.’ She gave him a tiny shrug. ‘As if you didn’t know.’

The sweet smell of freshly baked apple pie with a hint of cinnamon had already engulfed the entire place.

Sheriff Walton smiled. ‘We’ll have our usual, Beth,’ he said, taking a seat at the counter.

‘Coming right up,’ Beth replied before disappearing into the kitchen. Seconds later she returned with two steamy, extra-large slices of pie, drizzled with honey cream. They looked like perfection on a plate.

‘Umm . . .’ the man sitting at the far end of the counter said, tentatively raising a finger like a kid asking his teacher’s permission to speak. ‘Is there any more of that pie left?’

‘There sure is,’ Beth replied, smiling back at him.

‘In that case, can I also have a slice, please?’

‘Yeah, me too,’ the large truck driver called out from his table, lifting his hand. He was already licking his lips.

‘And me,’ the horseshoe-mustache man said, returning the cigarette pack to his jacket pocket. ‘That pie smells darn good.’

‘Tastes good too,’ Beth added.

‘Good doesn’t even come close,’ Sheriff Walton said, turning to face the tables. ‘Y’all just about to be taken to pie heaven.’ Suddenly his eyes widened in surprise. ‘Holy shit,’ he breathed out, jumping off his seat.

The sheriff’s reaction made Bobby Dale swing his body around fast and follow the sheriff’s stare. Through the large window just behind where the mid-twenties couple was sitting, he saw the headlights of a pick-up truck coming straight at them. The car seemed completely out of control.

‘What the hell?’ Bobby said, getting to his feet.

Everyone in the diner turned to face the window, and the shocked look on everyone’s face was uniform. The vehicle was coming toward them like a guided missile, and it was showing no signs of diverting or slowing down. They had two, maybe three seconds before impact.

‘EVERYBODY TAKE COVER!’ Sheriff Walton yelled, but he didn’t have to. Reflexively, everybody in the restaurant was already scrambling on their feet to get out of the way. At that speed, the pick-up truck would crash through the front of the diner and probably not stop until it reached the kitchen at the back, destroying everything in its path, and killing everyone in its way.

A chaotic mess of desperate screams and movement took over the restaurant floor. They all knew they just didn’t have enough time to get out of the way.

CRUUUUNCH-BOOM!

The deafening crashing noise sounded like an explosion, making the ground shake under everyone’s feet.

Sheriff Walton was the first to look up. It took him a few seconds to realize that somehow the car hadn’t crashed through the front of the building.

Frowning was followed by confusion.

‘Is everyone all right?’ the sheriff finally called out, frantically looking around.

Mumbled confirmation was returned from all corners of the room.

The sheriff and his deputy immediately got to their feet and rushed outside. Everyone else followed just a heartbeat later. The rain had gotten heavier in the past few minutes, now coming down in thick sheets, severely reducing visibility.

Out of sheer luck, the pick-up truck had hit a deep pothole on the ground just a few yards from the front of the diner, and had drastically veered left, missing the restaurant by just a couple of feet. As it detoured, it had clipped the back of the dark-blue Ford Taurus parked outside, before smashing head-first into a side building that housed two bathrooms and a storage room, completely destroying it. Thankfully, there was no one inside either of the bathrooms, or the storage room.

‘Holy shit!’ Sheriff Walton breathed out, feeling his heart race inside his chest. The collision had turned the pick-up truck into a totally mangled wreck, and the outside building into a demolition site.

Skipping over the debris, the sheriff was the first to get to the truck. The driver was its only occupant – a gray-haired man who looked to be somewhere in his late fifties, but it was hard to be sure. Sheriff Walton wasn’t able to recognize him, but he was certain he’d never seen that pick-up truck around Wheatland before. It was an old and rusty, early 1990s Chevy 1500, no airbags, and though the driver had been wearing his seatbelt, the impact had been way too violent. The front of the truck, together with its engine, had caved backward and into the driver’s cabin. The dashboard and steering wheel had crushed the driver’s chest against his seat. His face was covered in blood, torn apart by shards of glass from the windscreen. One had sliced through the man’s throat.

‘Goddammit!’ Sheriff Walton said through clenched teeth, standing by the driver’s door. He didn’t have to feel for a pulse to know that the man hadn’t survived.

‘Oh, my God!’ he heard Beth exclaim in a trembling voice from just a few feet behind him. He immediately turned to face her, lifting his hands in a “stop” motion.

‘Beth, do not come here,’ he commanded in a firm voice. ‘Go back inside and stay there.’ His stare moved to the rest of the diner patrons who were moving toward the truck fast. ‘All of you go back into the diner. That’s an order. This whole area is now out of bounds, y’all hear?’

Everybody stopped moving, but no one turned back.

The sheriff’s eyes searched for his deputy, and found Bobby standing all the way at the back, by the Ford Taurus. The look on his face was a mixture of shock and fear.

‘Bobby,’ Sheriff Walton called. ‘Call for an ambulance and the fire brigade now.’

Bobby didn’t move.

‘Bobby, snap out of it, goddammit. Did you hear what I said? I need you to get on the radio and call for an ambulance and the fire brigade right now.’

Bobby stood still. He looked like he was about to be sick. Only then did the sheriff realize that Bobby wasn’t even looking at him or at the mangled pick-up truck. His eyes were locked onto the Ford Taurus. Before crashing into the bathroom building, the truck had clipped the left side of the Taurus’ rear-end hard enough to release its trunk door.

All of a sudden Bobby broke out of his trance and reached for his gun.

‘No one move,’ he yelled out. His shaky aim kept jumping from person to person. ‘Sheriff,’ he called in an unsteady voice. ‘You better come have a look at this.’

Two

Five days later.

Huntington Park, Los Angeles, California.

The petite, dark-haired checkout girl rang the last item through and looked up at the young man standing at her register.

‘That’ll be $34.62, please,’ she said, matter-of-factly.

The man finished packing his groceries into plastic bags before handing her his credit card. He couldn’t have been any older than twenty-one.

The checkout girl swiped the card through the machine, waited a few seconds, bit her bottom lip, and with doubtful eyes looked up at the man.

‘I’m sorry, sir, this card’s been declined,’ she said, offering the card back.

The man stared back at her as if she’d spoken to him in a different language.

‘What?’ His eyes moved to the card, paused, and then returned to the checkout girl. ‘There’s gotta be some sort of mistake. I’m sure I still have some credit left on that card. Could you try it again, please?’

The checkout girl gave him a tiny shrug and swiped the card through one more time.

A tense couple of seconds went by.

‘I’m sorry, sir, it’s been declined again,’ she said, handing the card back to him. ‘Would you like to try another one?’

Embarrassed, he took the card from her and faintly shook his head. ‘I don’t have another one,’ he said shyly.

‘Food coupons?’ she asked.

Another sad shake of the head.

The girl waited as the man started searching through his pockets for whatever money he could find. He managed to come up with a few dollar bills, and a bunch of quarters and dimes. After quickly adding up all his change, he paused and looked back at the checkout girl, apologetically.

‘I’m sorry. I’m about twenty-six dollars short. I’ll have to leave a few things behind.’

Most of his shopping consisted of baby stuff – diapers, a couple of pots of baby food, a can of powdered milk, a bag of baby wipes, and a small tube of diaper rash ointment. The rest was just everyday essentials – bread, milk, eggs, some vegetables, a few pieces of fruit, and a can of soup – all of it from the budget range. The man didn’t touch any of the baby stuff, but returned everything else.

‘Could you see how much that comes to now, please?’ he asked the girl.

‘It’s OK,’ the man standing behind him in the checkout line said. He was tall and athletically built, with sharp, chiseled, attractive features and kind eyes. He handed the checkout girl two twenty-dollar bills.

She looked up at him and frowned.

‘I’ll get this,’ he said, nodding at her before addressing the young man. ‘You can put your groceries back in the bags. It’s my treat.’

The young man stared back at him, confused, and unable to find any words.

‘It’s OK,’ the tall man said again, giving him a reassuring smile. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

Still stunned, the young man’s gaze moved to the checkout girl, and then back to the tall man.

‘Thank you so much, sir,’ he finally said, extending his hand, his voice catching in his throat, his eyes becoming just a little glassy.

The man shook his hand and gave him a reassuring head nod.

‘That was the kindest thing I’ve ever seen happen in here,’ the checkout girl said once the young man had collected his groceries and left. Tears had also welled up in her eyes.

The tall man simply smiled back at her.

‘I’m serious,’ she reiterated. ‘I’ve been working at the checkout in this supermarket for almost three years. I’ve seen plenty of people come up short when it comes to paying, plenty of people having to return items, but I’ve never seen anybody do what you just did.’

‘Everybody needs a little help every now and then,’ the man replied. ‘There’s no shame in that. Today, I helped him, maybe someday he’ll help someone else.’

The girl smiled as her eyes filled with tears again. ‘It’s true that we all need a little help every once in a while, but the problem is, very few are ever willing to help. Especially when they need to reach into their pockets to do so.’

The man silently agreed with her.

‘I’ve seen you in here before,’ the checkout girl said, ringing through the few items the man had with him. It came to $9.49.

‘I live in the neighborhood,’ he said, handing her a ten-dollar bill.

She paused for a moment and locked eyes with him. ‘I’m Linda,’ she said, nodding at her nametag, and extending her hand.

‘Robert,’ the man replied, shaking it. ‘Pleasure to meet you.’

‘Listen,’ she said, returning his change. ‘I was wondering. My shift ends at six this evening. Since you live in the neighborhood, maybe we could go for a coffee somewhere?’

The man hesitated for a brief moment. ‘That would be really nice,’ he finally said. ‘But unfortunately, I’m flying out tonight. My first vacation in . . .’ He paused and narrowed his eyes at nothing for an instant. ‘I don’t even remember when I last had a vacation.’

‘I know the feeling,’ she said, sounding a little disappointed.

The man collected his groceries and looked back at the checkout girl.

‘How about if I call you when I get back, in about ten days? Maybe we can have a coffee then.’

She looked up at him and her lips stretched into a thin smile. ‘I’d like that,’ she replied, quickly jotting down her number.

As the man stepped outside the supermarket, his cellphone rang in his jacket pocket.

‘Detective Robert Hunter, Homicide Special,’ he answered it.

‘Robert, are you still in LA?’

It was the LAPD’s Robbery Homicide Division’s captain, Barbara Blake. She was the one who, just a couple of days ago, had ordered Hunter and his partner, Detective Carlos Garcia, to take a two-week break after a very demanding and exhausting serial killer investigation.

‘Right now, yes,’ Hunter replied, skeptically. ‘I’m flying out tonight, Captain. Why?’

‘I really hate to do this to you, Robert,’ the captain replied, sounding sincerely sorry. ‘But I need to see you in my office.’

‘When?’

‘Right now.’

Three

In lunchtime traffic, the 7.5-mile drive from Huntington Park to the LAPD headquarters in downtown Los Angeles took Hunter a little over forty-five minutes.

The Robbery Homicide Division (RHD), located on the fifth floor of the famous Police Administration Building on West 1st Street, was a simple, large, open-plan area crammed with detectives’ desks – no flimsy partitions to separate them or silly floor lines to delimit workspace. The place sounded and looked like a street market on a Sunday morning, alive with movement, murmurs and shouts that came from every corner.

Captain Blake’s office was at the far end of the main detectives’ floor. The door was shut – not that unusual due to the noise – but so were the blinds on the oversized internal window that faced the floor, and that was undoubtedly a bad sign.

Hunter slowly started zigzagging his way around people and desks.

‘Hey, what the hell are you doing here, Robert?’ Detective Perez asked, looking up from his computer screen as Hunter squeezed past Perez and Henderson’s desks. ‘I thought you were supposed to be on vacation?’

Hunter nodded. ‘I am. I’m flying out tonight. Just having a quick chat with the captain first.’

‘Flying?’ Perez looked surprised. ‘That sounds rich. Where are you going?’

‘Hawaii. My first time.’

Perez smiled. ‘Nice. I could do with going to Hawaii right about now too.’

‘Want me to bring you back a lei necklace or a Hawaiian shirt?’

Perez pulled a face. ‘No, but if you can manage to slip one or two of those Hawaiian dancers into your suitcase, I’ll take them. They can do the hula up on my bed every goddamn night. You know what I’m saying?’ He nodded like he meant every word.

‘A man can dream,’ Hunter replied, amused by how vigorously Perez was nodding.

‘Enjoy yourself over there, man.’

‘I’m sure I will,’ Hunter said before moving on. He paused before the captain’s door, and instinct and curiosity made him tilt his head to one side and check the window – nothing. He couldn’t see past the blinds. He knocked twice.

‘Come in.’ He heard Captain Blake call from the other side in her usual firm voice.

Hunter pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Barbara Blake’s office was spacious, brightly lit and impeccably tidy. The south wall was taken by bookshelves packed by perfectly arranged, and color-coordinated hardcovers. The north one was covered by framed photographs, commendations and achievement awards, all symmetrically positioned in relation to each other. The east wall was a floor-to-ceiling panoramic window, looking out over South Main Street. Directly in front of the captain’s twin-pedestal desk were two leather armchairs.

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.