The next day started like most days, with a progress meeting at the UVC Unit’s office, but before Captain Blake arrived, Hunter and Garcia made a few changes to the picture board. Now, a portion at the far right corner of the board showed three new photographs – Janet Lang, Troy Foster, and Josie Griffith – all connected by a single red line.
Captain Blake listened in total silence for twenty minutes, as both detectives updated her on everything that they’d come across in the last twenty-four hours. Once they were done, the captain took a step back from the board, her eyes moving from photo to photo, as if she was trying to navigate a complex labyrinth… one where she couldn’t yet see the exit.
‘And there’s a new message from the killer,’ she said, her whole body already assuming a defensive posture. ‘A new video?’
‘That’s right,’ Hunter replied, indicating his computer monitor. He had already transferred the video from his cellphone to his hard drive.
‘I’m going to go grab a soda,’ Garcia said, as Captain Blake approached Hunter’s desk. ‘I’m not watching that again.’ He paused by the door. ‘Anybody want anything?’
Both Hunter and Captain Blake shook their heads.
As Garcia closed the door behind him, Hunter took a deep breath. ‘This is… deeply disturbing,’ he warned the captain.
‘Judging by what we’ve had so far,’ Captain Blake replied, looking at the board, ‘I wouldn’t expect anything less.’
Hunter selected the clip and pressed ‘play’.
This time, the video clip was a little – twenty five seconds. It started with a fade-in – a close-up shot of Oliver Griffith’s face. His eyes were so lost… so full of sadness… so lacking in hope… that it was easy to overlook how red, and puffy they were. Tears ran down his cheeks until they dripped off his chin. Every breath he took seemed shallow, as if the air around him was too thin to breathe.
The shot lasted about eight seconds and it ended with his trembling lips moving, but no sound was heard.
None was needed.
Even a child could’ve read his lips: Please… don’t.
The next shot had clearly been filmed several minutes after the first one. It too started with a fade-in on a close-up of Oliver’s face. His eyes were still red, and puffy, and wet, and lost, but there was a new overwhelming quality in them – total and utter terror.
A leather-strap ball-gag now kept Oliver from screaming… from begging… from saying a word.
The shot then zoomed out to show Oliver’s entire body firmly strapped to the Saint Andrew’s cross in his basement. He was naked, but still untouched. The two lobsters were nowhere to be seen.
All of a sudden, Oliver went completely rigid, every muscle in his body tensing almost to the point of cramping. His head recoiled back in a jerk, at the same time that his eyes widened with so much fear it nearly paralyzed him. The ball-gag did a great job at muffling the raw scream that had erupted from his throat.
Oliver tried to fight. He tried to kick. He tried to wiggle his body free, but the straps were too tight… too strong for him. All he was able to do was shiver in place.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Captain Blake said, cringing with anticipation.
Hunter’s eyes moved away from his monitor. He already knew what was coming and, like Garcia, he didn’t want to watch it again.
On the screen, the clip faded-out then in again. The new shot, just like the previous two, was another close-up, but not of Oliver’s face. This was a close-up of his groin region.
Suddenly, coming in from the right side of the screen, a pair of long-blade garden shears appeared.
‘Oh fuck!’ Captain Blake’s hands palmed her entire face, but her fingers spread out just enough for her to be able to still see the screen.
Hunter simply closed his eyes and waited for the sound that he knew was coming.
It happened fast. The blades opened then closed with a sickening shluck sound that made Captain Blake stop breathing for a second. The precision of the cut had been impeccable, severing Oliver’s penis clean off at its base.
‘Fuck!’
This time, the captain did squeeze her eyes firmly shut, burying her face in her hands.
On the screen, blood could be seen gushing out of the freshly open wound, like water flowing out of an open faucet.
Oliver’s body was shaking as if he had been electrocuted, and despite the tight ball gag in his mouth, the most feral of screams managed to find its way through it.
If the sound of the blades had made Captain Blake stop breathing, Oliver’s scream made her sick to her stomach.
The Mentor barely waited a second before the blades were back on the job.
Shluck.
Cut number two was as precise as the first one, severing Oliver’s scrotum with tremendous ease.
His body convulsed once… twice… three times before a final awkward jerk. His muscles finally relaxed. Then nothing. No more movement. Oliver had passed out from pure pain.
Captain Blake’s hands came up to cup her mouth. Her gaze moved to Hunter for a split second before going back to the screen.
The sequence faded-out again, only to fade back in for the last segment – a full shot of Oliver on the ‘X’ cross. Blood had cascaded down his legs, forming a viscous and sticky crimson pool on the floor. His groin region was a mess of raw flesh and blood. His body was limp, held in place only by the leather straps around his wrists and waist. His head was down, as if its weight had become too much for his neck muscles.
The shot zoomed in onto his face one last time. His eyelids were semi-open and the camera was angled in such a way that allowed the viewer to see his eyes. They were moving erratically – left, right, left right – not exactly as fast as REM, but almost.
Oliver was clearly in a state of delirium, induced by pain, shock, and the loss of blood.
Suddenly he coughed, his whole head lurching up then down with the effort.
As a consequence of the ball-gag blocking his mouth, his cheeks puffed out like a blowfish, but at the same time, something spurted through the edges of his mouth… something more than just saliva. Oliver had vomited, and the vomit had nowhere to go.
‘Oh screw this,’ Captain Blake said, vigorously shaking her head and turning away from the screen. ‘I’m done here,’ she told Hunter. ‘Turn it off.’
Hunter paused the clip. ‘There isn’t any more,’ he said. ‘That’s where it ends, except that the killer has added the words “CLACK, CLACK, CLACK” across the bottom of the screen.’
The captain’s attention returned to the monitor on Hunter’s desk. ‘ “Clack, clack, clack”? What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Probably a sound reference to a lobster’s pincer opening and closing,’ Hunter replied.
The effort of watching that twenty-five-second video seemed to have completely exhausted Captain Blake. She straightened and breathed deeply, her ribcage rising then falling as she tried to collect herself. She crossed her arms across her chest in a new protective posture, one she didn’t even notice that she was doing.
‘Is it over?’ Garcia asked, as he pulled the door open and paused by it, a can of Dr. Pepper in his right hand.
Hunter nodded, but Captain Blake just shook her head.
‘I need a minute,’ she said, her voice trembling, something that Hunter and Garcia had only heard once or twice before. ‘Just give me a minute,’ she said again, as she walked past Garcia, heading toward the bathroom.