An Evil Mind (6 page)

‘Not that I am aware of,’ Hunter replied. ‘But I didn’t try to keep in touch with him either.’ He paused and looked away. ‘After my graduation I didn’t keep in touch with anyone.’

Eleven

The private Hawker jet touched down on Turner Field landing strip in Quantico, Virginia, almost exactly five hours after taking off from Van Nuys airport in Los Angeles.

After Hunter’s conversation with Kennedy and Taylor about what he could remember of his old best friend, they all sat in silence for the rest of the long flight. Kennedy fell asleep for a couple of hours, but Hunter and Taylor stayed awake for the duration, each one lost in their own thoughts. For some reason Taylor’s memory took her back to when she was still a child, and how she was forced to learn how to take care of herself at a very young age.

Her seemingly healthy father died of an unexpected heart attack, triggered by a coronary aneurysm, when she was fourteen years old. Taylor took his death very badly, and so did her young mother. The next couple of years became a tremendous battle, emotionally and financially, as her mother – who had been a housewife for the past fifteen years – struggled with a series of odd jobs and the pressures of being a recent widow, and consequently a single parent.

Taylor’s mother was a tender woman with a kind soul, but she was also one of those people who just couldn’t handle being by herself. What followed was a string of deadbeat boyfriends, some of them abusive. Taylor was just about to graduate from high school when her mother became pregnant again. Her mother’s boyfriend at the time told her that he just didn’t want that kind of responsibility, that he wasn’t ready to become a father and have a family, and that he had no intention of becoming a father to someone else’s daughter – a girl that he couldn’t care less for. When Taylor’s mother refused to follow through with the abortion clinic appointment he’d set up for her, he simply dumped her and left town the next day. They never heard from him again.

With her mother heavily pregnant and unable to work, Taylor gave up on the idea of going to college and started working full time at the local mall. A month later, her mother gave birth to a baby boy, Adam – but unfortunately Adam was born with an abnormality on chromosome eighteen, resulting in moderate mental retardation, muscle atrophy, craniofacial malformation, and huge difficulty in coordinating movement. Instead of bringing her joy, Adam’s birth threw Taylor’s mother into an out-of-control depression spiral. She didn’t know how to cope with it and found solace in sleeping tablets, antidepressants and alcohol. At the age of seventeen, Taylor had to become ‘big daughter’, ‘big sister’, and ‘man of the house’.

Government subsidy wasn’t nearly enough so, for the next three years, Taylor worked whatever jobs she could get and took care of her little brother and mother, but despite all the medical support, Adam’s health kept on deteriorating, and he died two months after his third birthday. Her mother’s depression worsened considerably, but without medical insurance, professional help was nearly impossible to find.

One rainy night, when Taylor came back from working a late waitress shift in a restaurant downtown, she found a note from her mother on the kitchen table:

Sorry for not being a good mother to you or Adam, honey. Sorry for all the mistakes. You’re the best daughter a mother could ever hope for. I love you with all my heart. I just hope that you can one day forgive me for being so weak, so stupid, and for all the burden I’ve put you through. Please be happy, honey. You deserve to.

Reading the note filled Taylor with a heart-stopping dread, and she rushed to her mother’s room . . . but it was way too late. On her mother’s bedside table there were three empty bottles – one of sleeping pills, one of antidepressants, and one of vodka. Taylor still has nightmares about that night.

A black GMC SUV with tinted windows, FBI-style, was already waiting for them on the runway when they landed.

Hunter stepped off the plane and stretched his six-foot frame against the early morning breeze. It felt good to be breathing clean air again, and to finally get out of such confined space. No matter how luxurious the jet’s passenger cabin was, after five hours locked inside it, it felt like a sky prison.

Hunter checked his watch – the sun wouldn’t be up for another two hours, but surprisingly, the night air in Virginia at that time of year felt just as warm as it did back in Los Angeles.

‘We all need to try to get some sleep,’ Kennedy said, coming off his cellphone again. All three of them boarded the SUV. ‘And a decent breakfast later on. Your quarters are ready,’ he addressed Hunter. ‘I hope you don’t mind staying at one of the recruit dorms at the academy.’

Hunter gave him a subtle headshake.

‘Agent Taylor will come get you at ten a.m.’ Kennedy consulted his timepiece. ‘That’ll give everyone around six hours’ break. Get some sleep.’

‘Can’t we make it any earlier than that?’ Hunter asked. ‘Like now? I’m here already. I don’t see the point of delaying this any longer.’

Kennedy looked straight into Hunter’s eyes. ‘We all need some rest, Robert. It’s been a long day and a long flight. I know that you can work on very little sleep, but that doesn’t mean that your brain doesn’t get tired like everyone else’s. I need you sharp when you walk in there to talk to your old friend.’

Hunter said nothing. He simply watched the lampposts fly by as the SUV drove off.

Twelve

Special Agent Courtney Taylor knocked on Hunter’s dorm room door at exactly 10:00 a.m. She had managed five hours’ sleep, had showered, and was now wearing a businesslike but elegant black pinstripe suit. Her blonde hair had been pulled back into a very slick ponytail.

Hunter opened the door, checked his watch, and smiled.

‘Wow, I guess you timed your arrival to absolute perfection.’

Hunter’s hair was still wet from his shower. He was wearing black jeans, a dark blue T-shirt under his usual thin black leather jacket, and black boots.

Dozing on and off, he had only managed to sleep a total of two and a half hours.

‘Are you ready, Detective Hunter?’ Taylor asked.

‘Indeed,’ Hunter replied, closing the door behind him.

‘I trust that you got breakfast OK?’ she said, as they started walking down the corridor toward the staircase.

At precisely 9:00 a.m., an FBI cadet carrying a healthy breakfast tray of fruit, cereal, yogurt, scrambled eggs, coffee, milk and toast had knocked on Hunter’s door.

‘I did,’ Hunter said with a questioning smile. ‘But I didn’t know the FBI did room service.’

‘We don’t, this was a one-off. You can thank Director Kennedy for that.’

Hunter nodded once. ‘I’ll make sure I do.’

Downstairs, another black SUV was waiting to drive them across the compound to the other side. Hunter sat in silence in the back seat, while Taylor sat in front with the driver.

The FBI Academy was located on 547 acres of a Marine Corps base forty miles south of Washington, DC. Its nerve center was an interconnected conglomerate of buildings that looked a lot more like an overgrown corporation than a government training facility. Recruits in dark blue sweat suits, with the bureau’s insignia emblazoned on their chests and FBI in large golden letters across their backs, were just about everywhere. Marines with high-powered rifles stood at every intersection and at the entrance to every building. The sound of helicopter blades cutting the air seemed to be constant. There was no way of escaping the palpable sense of mission and secrecy that soaked the entire place.

After a drive that seemed to have lasted forever, the SUV finally reached the other side of the complex, and stopped at the heavily guarded gates of what could only be described as a compound within a compound, completely detached from the main network of buildings. After clearing security, the SUV moved inside and parked in front of a three-story brick building fronted by dark-tinted, bulletproof-glass windows.

Hunter and Taylor exited the car, and she escorted him past the armed Marines at the entrance and into the building. Inside they went through two sets of security doors, down a long hallway, through two more sets of security doors and into an elevator, which descended three floors down to the Behavioral Science Unit, or BSU. The elevator opened onto a long, shiny and well-lit hardwood corridor, with several portraits in gilded frames lining the walls.

A big man with a round face and a crooked nose stepped in front of the open elevator doors.

‘Detective Robert Hunter,’ he said in a harsh voice that came across as a little unfriendly. ‘I’m Agent Edwin Newman. Welcome to the FBI BSU.’

Hunter stepped out of the lift and shook Newman’s hand.

Newman was in his early fifties, with combed-back peppery hair and bright green eyes. He was wearing a black suit with a pristine white shirt and a silky red tie. He smiled, flashing gleaming white teeth.

‘I thought that we could have a quick chat in the conference room before we take you to see . . .’ Newman paused and looked at Taylor. ‘. . . your old friend, as I understand.’

Hunter simply nodded and followed Newman and Taylor to the opposite end of the hallway.

The conference room was large and air-conditioned to a very pleasant temperature. The center of the room was taken by a long, polished mahogany table. A very large monitor showing a detailed map of the United States glowed at the far wall.

Newman took a seat at the head of the table and nodded for Hunter to take the seat next to him.

‘I know you’ve been made completely aware of the delicate situation we have here,’ Newman began, once Hunter took his seat.

Hunter agreed with a head gesture.

Newman flipped open the folder on the table in front of him. ‘According to what you told Director Kennedy and Agent Taylor, the real name of the man we have in our custody is Lucien Folter, and not Liam Shaw, as it was stated in his driver’s license.’

‘That’s the name I knew him by,’ Hunter confirmed.

Newman nodded his understanding. ‘So you think that Lucien Folter could also be a made-up name?’

‘That’s not what I said,’ Hunter replied calmly.

Newman waited.

‘I see no reason why he would use a false name back in college,’ Hunter said, trying to clear things up. ‘You also have to remember that we’re talking about Stanford University here, and someone who was just nineteen at the time.’

Newman gave Hunter a very subtle frown, not quite following the detective’s line of thought.

Hunter read it and explained. ‘That means that this nineteen-year-old kid would’ve had to have expertly falsified several records to be accepted into a very prestigious university, in an era when personal computers did not exist.’ He shook his head. ‘Not an easy task.’

‘Not easy,’ Newman agreed. ‘But it was doable.’

Hunter said nothing.

‘The only reason I ask is because of the hidden meaning in his name,’ Newman said.

‘Hidden meaning?’ Hunter looked at the agent curiously.

Newman nodded. ‘Did you know that the word Folter means
torture
in German?’

Hunter agreed with a head gesture. ‘Yes, Lucien told me.’

Newman carried on staring at him.

Hunter didn’t look too impressed. ‘Is that what you mean by hidden meaning?’ He glanced at Taylor, then back at Newman. ‘Did you also know that the name Lucien comes from the French language and it means “light, illumination”? It’s also a village in Poland, and the name of a Christian saint. Most names have a history behind them, Special Agent Newman. My family name means “he who hunts”; nevertheless, my father was never a hunter in any shape or form. A great number of American family names will, by coincidence, mean something in a different language. That doesn’t actually constitute a hidden meaning.’

Newman said nothing back.

Hunter took a moment, and then allowed his gaze to move to the folder on the table.

Newman got the hint and began reading. ‘OK. Lucien Folter, born October 25, 1966, in Monte Vista, Colorado. His parents – Charles Folter and Mary-Ann Folter, are both deceased. He graduated from Monte Vista High School in 1985, with very good grades. No youth record whatsoever. Never got into any trouble with the police. After graduating from high school, he was quickly accepted into Stanford University.’ Newman paused and looked up at Hunter. ‘I guess you know everything that happened during the next few years.’

Hunter remained silent.

‘After obtaining his psychology degree from Stanford,’ Newman continued, ‘Lucien Folter applied to Yale University in Connecticut for a PhD in Criminal Psychology. He was accepted, did three years of his degree, and then simply disappeared. He never completed his PhD.’

Hunter kept his eyes on Newman. He didn’t know that his old friend hadn’t completed his doctorate.

‘And when I say disappeared,’ Newman said. ‘I mean
disappeared
. There’s nothing else out there on a Lucien Folter after his third year at Yale. No job records, no passport, no credit cards, no listed address, no bills . . . no anything. It’s like Lucien Folter ceased to exist.’ Newman closed the folder. ‘That’s all we have on him.’

‘Maybe that was when he decided to take up a new identity,’ Taylor offered. She was sitting across the table from Hunter. ‘Maybe that was when he got tired of being Lucien Folter and became someone else. Maybe Liam Shaw, or maybe even someone completely different that we don’t know about.’

Silence took over the room for the next few seconds, before Newman broke it again.

‘The truth is that whoever this guy really is, he’s a living, breathing, walking mystery. Somebody who might’ve lied to everyone throughout his whole life.’

Hunter chewed on that thought for a moment.

‘I wanted you to understand this before you go talk to him,’ Newman added, ‘because I know that things can get a little emotional when we’re dealing with people from our past. I’m not trying to tell you what to do. I’ve read your file, and I’ve read your thesis on “An Advanced Psychological Study in Criminal Conduct”. Everybody in BSU has, it’s mandatory reading, and so I know that you know what you’re doing better than most. But you’re still human, and as such you have emotions. No matter how clued-up a person is, emotions can and will cloud best judgments and opinions. Keep that in mind when you walk in there.’