Mr. J looked away as if he needed time on his own to go over every single word Hunter and Dr. Slater had said. His eyebrows lifted ever so slightly and that caused the light wrinkles on his forehead to deepen, forming a series of ridges that carried on halfway up his shaved head.
From the quick report Garcia had given him outside, Hunter knew that John Jenkinson was forty-eight years old, but at that particular moment, he looked at least twenty-five years older. His eyes looked tired, with dark circles and heavy bags under them. His skin, dull and yellowish, gave everyone the impression that he’d spent half of his life sitting inside a locked room under strong fluorescent lighting. And the worst of all was that from now on every year would count for two, maybe more. Hunter had seen it happen before countless times to spouses, parents, siblings, partners, children, whoever. People who had lost someone dear to them in an overly violent way tended to lose their path in life easier than most, and the years were never kind to those. People who had unfortunately witnessed that violent death for whatever reason usually suffered a great deal more, but Hunter could barely even begin to imagine the sort of physical and psychological devastation that people in Mr. Jenkinson’s shoes would have to endure for the rest of their lives. People like Tanya Kaitlin. People who were forced to watch a loved one being brutally murdered. The images they saw, Hunter was certain of it, would haunt their every living second until their last day.
Mr. J finally looked back at Hunter and Dr. Slater. Their words from just seconds back at last seemed to have their desired effect. Before guiding Hunter and Garcia into his office, his eyes glassed over and he was only able to utter two simple words, but they came out full of meaning.
‘Thank you.’
Fifty-Three
Mr. J’s house office was about twice the size of Hunter and Garcia’s back at the PAB and a lot less cluttered. Its centerpiece was undoubtedly the antique mahogany partners desk, which sat just a few feet in front of a boxed-out window. The curtains, heavy and dark, had been drawn shut. A brownish-red, winged Chesterfield armchair was positioned in front and a little to the left of the desk, while two hand-knotted Persian rugs covered most of the floor. The east wall was taken by a very large bookcase, with every shelf packed to its limit with a mixture of neatly arranged hardcovers and paperbacks.
‘Let me get you another chair,’ Mr. J said as they entered the room.
‘That’s not really necessary, Mr. Jenkinson,’ Hunter replied. ‘I can stand, it’s not a problem.’
‘Please, I insist. It will take me two seconds.’
Once Mr. J left the room, Hunter pulled down the hood of his forensic coverall, walked over to the bookcase and browsed some of the volumes. The majority of them were business and finance books, with a few scattered ones on law, accounting and architecture.
Garcia checked the opposite wall, which was adorned by framed photographs and achievement awards.
‘Here we go.’ Mr. J re-entered the room, carrying a high-back chair, which he placed by the Chesterfield, before finally taking a seat behind his desk.
‘Thank you,’ Hunter said, taking the chair. Garcia took the Chesterfield.
‘We’ll try to take as little of your time as possible, Mr. Jenkinson,’ Garcia said, reaching for his smartphone. ‘Do you mind if we record this interview?’
Mr. J shook his head. It was time to put his A-game forward.
Once Garcia hit ‘record’, Hunter began.
‘Mr. Jenkinson, I know that what you’ve been put through will be hard to revisit, and I apologize for having to ask you to do so, but could you tell us as much as you can remember about the video-call you received. The more detailed you can be, the more it will help us.’
Mr. J looked down at his sun-beaten and wrinkled hands, which were tightly clasped and resting on the desk in front of him. After several silent seconds, he finally lifted his eyes to meet Hunter and Garcia’s gaze. For the next twenty minutes, he recounted only what he wanted to recount of the video-call, but he did it all in tremendous detail. Hunter and Garcia interrupted him sporadically to clarify certain points, but for most of it they simply allowed him to tell his story in his own time. As Mr. J reached the part where the killer asked him for his wedding date, he paused and looked down at his hands again. They were shaking. Embarrassed, he moved them to his lap and went completely quiet.
Hunter and Garcia waited.
In a faltering voice, Mr. J told them that he tried, but he couldn’t remember. He just couldn’t remember. Then, without realizing it, he whispered the words, ‘I’m so sorry’.
Neither Hunter nor Garcia said anything. They both knew that those words weren’t meant for them. They were meant for Cassandra. Guilt had already settled in and spread itself on to every corner of Mr. J’s body. Whatever psychological damage that video-call would cause him, the guilt that came from not knowing the answer to that damn question would make it a lot worse.
And that was when Mr. J finally realized what he had done — seventh of March was his son’s birthday. That was why the date kept on flashing so intensely inside his head when he was asked for his wedding date.
PING.
And just like that, as if a dark veil had suddenly been lifted from his memory, his wedding date appeared before his eyes, clear as daylight.
April tenth. He and Cassandra had gotten married on April tenth.
Mr. J’s eyes closed and he threw his head back as if he’d been stabbed in the stomach by a fire dagger.
Why? He silently cursed himself, his memory, his brain, his whole existence. Why couldn’t I remember that earlier?
He finished his account without ever meeting the detectives’ gaze again. He never told them about the demon’s hysterical laugh.
‘Could I ask you how long you were in in Fresno for?’ Hunter began once Mr. J was done.
‘I left here on Thursday morning.’
‘And before that, when was the last time you were away?’
Mr. J paused before deliberately but very delicately allowing his eyes to move up and to the right. He knew that both detectives would be monitoring everything about him, especially his facial expressions and eye movements. Textbook behavior psychology preached that if the eyes went up and to the left, the subject was trying to access his/her visual constructive cortex. In other words, trying to create a mental image that wasn’t there to start with. If the eyes moved up and to the right, the subject was searching his/her memory for visually remembered images — memories that did exist.
‘About three and a half weeks ago,’ he replied truthfully, his voice tired and defeated. ‘I had to fly to Chicago for a couple of days.’
‘Business again?’
‘That’s right.’
Hunter wrote the information down in his notebook. ‘Does anyone else, other than you and your wife, have a key to this house?’
Mr. J’s reply came with a very slight lift of the shoulders. ‘My son.’
‘No one else? A cleaner perhaps?’
‘No. Cassandra did all the cleaning herself, once a week,’ Mr. J explained. ‘She said it relaxed her. We use a pool cleaning company for the pool in the backyard, but they don’t have a copy of the key.’
‘Have you, your wife, or your son lost those keys recently?’ Hunter insisted. ‘Do you know?’
‘Not that I’m aware of. I’ve never lost my keys. I don’t think Cassandra ever did either. As for Patrick, if he has, he’s never told me about it, but I can ask him when I talk to him.’