‘So he decided to blame every driver in the world for his family’s death?’ Anger accented her words.

‘No, not every driver,’ Hunter said. ‘Only the ones on whom he could find evidence that they had taken a selfie while driving. In his mind, because ultimately that had been the action that had caused the demise of his entire family, they were all as guilty as the driver of that blue Ford Fusion.’

‘That’s just ridiculous.’ The captain shook her head.

‘It happens every day and all around the world, Captain,’ Hunter commented. ‘Racism, sexism, homophobia . . . it’s all stereotyping. That’s what Holden was doing – stereotyping down to a very personal level.’

Captain Blake hadn’t thought about it in that way. ‘Is he talking?’ she asked. ‘Have you interviewed him yet?’

‘We’ve tried,’ Garcia confirmed, ‘but he lawyered up from the get-go. He isn’t saying a word.’

‘I would expect nothing else,’ the captain said.

‘We just got back from Holden’s house about an hour ago,’ Garcia informed her. ‘Our team is still there, searching it for more evidence, but one thing that we already know for sure is that the twelve people on his “death board” were really just the beginning. The few he had found since he started trolling social-media sites, the ones he already had everything planned for, including which questions to ask. IT forensics have just started working on the two laptops we’ve found down in his basement, so God knows what else we might find, but on paper notes alone we’ve found evidence that he was already collecting data on at least five new people. Five new victims.’

‘Ten,’ Hunter corrected him.

‘What?’ Captain Blake seemed unsure.

‘Every one of Holden’s victims counts for two,’ Hunter clarified. ‘The person he kills and the person he psychologically destroys, remember? The one who he considers his real target. The one he calls.’

‘OK,’ Captain Blake said, shattering the silence that had ruled the room for almost half a minute. ‘I can just about understand how his sick mind managed to blame all these innocent people for his family’s death. I can just about understand the reason for the video-calls, the question game, the guilt, the helplessness, all of that, but why the notes? Why the stalker MO?’

Hunter called her attention to the picture board. ‘Have a look at our investigation, Captain. Where do you think we were going with it?’

The penny finally dropped for Captain Blake. ‘Down the wrong path.’

‘His mind may be broken, but he’s not stupid,’ Garcia commented. ‘He’s a forensic agent. He has internal and detailed knowledge of how we work. He understands investigative procedures better than any criminal out there. He gives us something as real as a physical note found inside the victims’ houses and he’s got us chasing ghosts for years.’

‘Maybe forever,’ Hunter said. ‘Without Erica Barnes’ screenshot, I’m not sure how long it would’ve taken us to get to him. If we ever did. Holden didn’t make a mistake, Captain. We just got lucky.’

‘The worst of it all is,’ Garcia said, ‘I’m sure that they’re going to use the “broken mind” defense when the time comes. They’re going to say that his pain, his heartache, all of it, warped his perception of the world and of everyone around him. That he was acting with diminished mental capacity. That he was – and here’s that word we all love so much – “insane”, and with all that, he’ll probably be sent to a psychiatric institution.’

Captain Blake made her way to the door. ‘That’s up to a judge and a jury, Carlos, you know that. It’s not our concern. Our job was to catch him and stop him from killing again and we did exactly that, so congratulations on a job well done.’ She paused as she pulled the door open. ‘Once all that paperwork is done I want the both of you to take a break, do you understand? Take the next couple of days off. That’s an order. I see any of your faces in this building in the next two days and you’ll be issuing parking tickets in Compton.’

‘That’s an order that I won’t contest,’ Garcia said as the captain exited their office.

‘Neither will I,’ Hunter agreed.

‘Since we have a couple of days off, why don’t you come over for dinner tonight, Robert? Anna would love to see you.’ Garcia followed those words with a cheeky smile. ‘You can even bring your date, if you like.’

Hunter locked eyes with his partner.

‘You know, the one whose lipstick you were wearing last night.’

Hunter smiled back.

‘Who knows, maybe I will.’

Ninety-Three

One month later

A psychiatric facility in California

The corridor was long and wide, brightly lit by a single row of fluorescent lights that ran down the center of the ceiling. The scent that lingered in the air was . . . complicated. It started with a heavy antiseptic smell, as if the entire place had just been deep-cleaned by someone with a severe phobia of germs, but with every couple of steps, he would get hints of different odors – sometimes vomit, sometimes blood, sometimes something he just couldn’t identify. The smell seemed to emanate from the squeaky-clean floor and bounce against the insanely white walls before hitting his nose. Despite how repugnant it was, the smell didn’t really bother him.

He walked calmly, with neutral steps. He hadn’t been there long, but he already hated the place. The good news for him was – he would be leaving soon.

He turned the corner and pushed through a heavy set of double doors. There it was again, the smell of vomit, as if it’d been hiding behind the door, waiting for him to come through before slapping him in the face. He ignored it, turned another corner and finally stopped before a thick metal door with a small window at eye level. He didn’t look through the window. He didn’t need to. He simply unlocked the door and stepped inside.

Nicholas Holden, who was lying on his bed, flipping through a magazine, looked up.

The man placed the square box he had with him on the floor and the two of them regarded each other in silence for a moment.

‘Who the hell are you?’ Holden asked.

‘I’m the one you called,’ the man replied, closing the door behind him.

‘Wrong cell, buddy. I didn’t call anyone.’

From his pocket, Mr. J retrieved a picture of Cassandra and showed it to Holden.

‘Are you sure about that?’

Ninety-Four

The next day, 8:24 a.m.

The small, nondescript café was located in Chatsworth Street, sandwiched between an auto brokers and a Chinese restaurant. It wasn’t a large place, but the coffee was decent, the service was good and their blueberry pancakes were literally something to write home about. Mr. J had just finished the last of his three pancakes, which had been covered in maple syrup, when he sensed someone approaching from behind and pausing about two paces from his table. He twisted his neck and looked up to find Hunter standing there.

‘Detective?’ he said with a quizzical look.

‘Mr. Jenkinson,’ Hunter said in reply. ‘I’m sorry for interrupting your breakfast.’

‘Oh no, not at all. I’m all done here.’ Mr. J pushed his plate away from him. ‘Please have a seat.’ He indicated the empty chair across the table from him.

‘Thank you.’ Hunter accepted it, taking the seat.

They locked eyes for several silent seconds.

‘Could I get you a cup of coffee, Detective? The coffee here is excellent.’