‘Yeah, well, that won’t save him. Do you have an address on him?’

‘That’s the problem,’ Brian said. ‘Mr. Russo hasn’t used his real name since his release, three years ago. I’ve got nothing showing under that name. The only address under the false name of Michael Williams is the one you gave me, together with his business one, the plumbing company.’

Mr. J knew that Michael Williams, Cory Russo, whoever he was, wouldn’t be going back to either of those two addresses. He now believed that the police were after him, and the first thing that the police would do would be to stake out both of those addresses.

‘Whoever this guy is,’ Mr. J said, ‘he’s hiding somewhere, and I need you to find him, Brian. I need you to find him now.’

Eighty

‘She managed to take a photo of the killer?’ Garcia’s tone of voice matched the stunned expression on his face. ‘How?’

‘No, not a photo,’ Hunter clarified, handing his partner Erica Barnes’ cellphone. Displayed on its screen was an image of the killer’s masked face. ‘She captured a screenshot at the end of the call.’

Erica was still sitting inside Hunter’s car, just a few feet from where they were standing. Her eyes were puffy and red, with the skin around them raw from all the tears.

‘Erica is a graphic designer,’ Hunter explained. ‘She works for a company that designs and develops applications for mobile devices. Capturing cellphone screenshots is something she does tens of times a day. It’s part of her job.’

‘So her brain is conditioned to do it,’ Garcia said.

‘Exactly. It was a reflexive movement, not a conscious one. Erica didn’t even realize she had done it until she got off the phone with the emergency operator.’

Garcia’s gaze moved to Erica for a split second before returning to the grotesque mask on her cellphone screen.

From Tanya Kaitlin and Mr. J’s description, Garcia already knew what to expect. He knew what the killer’s mask looked like – the deformed, red-colored eyes, the lacerated mouth, the blood-smeared teeth, the lumpy and leathery skin, the mutilated nose . . . all of it. Their sketch artist had created a very accurate composite image of it, but still, looking at the actual mask on that screenshot sent a nauseating taste down to his stomach.

‘Is this the only image she managed to capture?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Hunter replied. The look in his eyes changed. ‘She got one more, about halfway through the call. Swipe back.’

As Garcia did, his heart seemed to shrink inside of him.

On the captured screenshot, Dr. Gwen Barnes was still alive, but the white of her eyes were already dusted with blood, with most of her face fractured and twisted out of shape. Death had already closed its ugly fingers around her. All that was left was one final squeeze.

Garcia studied the image for a very long moment.

‘You were right,’ he finally said, rubbing the skin between his eyebrows with one of his knuckles, his voice solemn. ‘The vise-like device he used looks handmade. He didn’t get this from any hardware store. He created it himself.’

‘Just like he created the mask,’ Hunter agreed as he watched another news van pull up at the top of the road.

‘So what’s happening with her?’ Garcia nodded at Erica before handing the cellphone back to Hunter.

‘We can’t get hold of her boyfriend for him to come pick her up, so I’m going to drive her home.’

‘Then what?’

‘Then I’m taking these screenshots to Dennis Baxter from the cybercrime unit. If needs be, we’ll break them down pixel by pixel.’

‘What for?’ The intrigue in Garcia’s voice was real. ‘There’s nothing to be found in them, Robert.’

Hunter looked down at the cellphone in his hands, then at Erica sitting inside his car. When he spoke again, his voice lacked confidence. ‘We don’t know that yet.’

‘Yes, we do,’ Garcia countered. ‘This killer is too clever, Robert, we both know that. He kills his victims inside their own homes, which means that there is no detail you can isolate in any of those two images that can lead us to a location, because we’re already here.’

Hunter stayed silent.

Garcia pointed at the phone in Hunter’s hand. ‘That living room . . . that dining table . . .’ he then pointed at Dr. Barnes’ house, ‘. . . is the living room in there. The dining table in there. We already know where those images originated from. This killer also creates his own mask. He creates his own murderous devices, which again means that nothing in those images can lead us to a place where he has purchased anything. And to finish it all off he uses his victims’ cellphones to make his video-calls, which means that there’s nothing to trace, Robert. Nothing to listen to.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Hunter admitted, his tone half defeated. ‘But what else am I supposed to do, Carlos?’

‘Go home, Robert. Get some rest. You’ve barely slept in four days. We’ll pick everything up again tomorrow. Even if only a few hours, you need the break. Your brain needs the break, and we all need you be sharp and on your toes. Exhausting yourself, chasing something that isn’t there, won’t help.’

Hunter looked like he was considering his options. ‘What are you going to do?’ he asked.

Garcia jerked his chin in the direction of the house. ‘I’ll stay with the scene until everything here is done. Then I’ll go home and I’ll get some rest as well.’

Hunter noticed that Erica was starting to get fidgety again.

‘Go on, Robert,’ Garcia said, ‘take her home then go home and get some rest. I’ll wrap up here.’

Hunter watched his partner zip up his coverall and make his way back to the crime scene.

Eighty-One

His wristwatch read 11:23 p.m., when Mr. J’s cellphone rang again.

‘Brian, tell me you’ve got something.’

‘I’m not really sure.’ The fatigue in Brian’s voice was evident. ‘It could be something, or absolutely nothing.’

‘Give me whatever you have.’

Mr. J heard fast keyboard clicks coming from the other end of the line.

‘OK,’ Brian began, ‘what you told me got me thinking. Cory Russo, Michael Williams, whatever name this guy is using, he’s now probably on the run, right? And in America, you can’t run without money.’

‘You flagged his credit cards.’

‘I flagged everything under both names,’ Brian confirmed. ‘Credit cards, bank transactions, money withdrawals, the lot, so unless he has some hard cash stashed away somewhere, this guy won’t be able to buy a pack of gum without my computer screen turning into a Christmas tree here.’

‘And did you get a hit?’ Mr. J asked.

Brian breathed out heavily. ‘I did, but not on any of his cards.’

Mr. J made a face at his phone. ‘What the hell does that mean?’

‘Well, I didn’t put a flag only on his credit cards and bank transactions . . .’

‘You extended it to family and known friends too,’ Mr. J said, catching up with Brian’s line of thought.

‘Well, that was the idea,’ Brian admitted. ‘But unfortunately all we’ve got on Cory Russo are two distant relatives, both living in Oregon, and no known friends, but then I thought of something else.’

‘And what was that?’

‘Three years ago, when Cory Russo was released from prison, he didn’t take the prison bus. He was picked up.’

A smile threatened to appear on Mr. J’s lips. ‘And you have the name of the person who picked him up.’

‘That I do.’ Brian’s voice sounded triumphant.