The Crucifix Killer rh-1

by Chris Carter

  ‘Hi there, Stu,’ the bouncer said.

  The guard didn’t look up. ‘Emotional shock, six letters beginning with T, do you have any idea what it could be?’ The top of the ballpoint pen he was holding in his right hand had been completely chewed off.

  ‘Trauma.’ The answer came from Hunter.

  The guard finally lifted his eyes from the paper with a surprised look, only then realizing Tarik wasn’t alone. He put down the newspaper and straightened himself in his chair. Hunter took care of the introductions and badge-displaying ritual.

  ‘I need to clear it with the manager first,’ Stu said reaching for the phone after Hunter had explained the reason for their unannounced visit. Hunter made no objection and listened as the guard quickly explained the situation over the phone to one of his superiors.

  ‘OK, sir. We’ll wait,’ he said, putting the phone down.

  ‘So?’ Hunter asked.

  ‘He’s coming over.’

  Hunter scanned the small TV monitors in front of Stu’s desk. ‘How many cameras in total?’

  ‘One over each bar, one over the dance floor entrance, one above the fire exit, two out on the patio, one over the club entrance, one in each of the two corridors that lead to the bathrooms, three over the dance floor and two over the VIP area,’ Stu said, pointing to a different monitor with each new camera he mentioned.

  The door opened and a short man dressed in an immaculately pressed pin-striped suit walked in. He was about five-foot five and the bad acne from his youth had left his pale face pitted like a sponge. His thick bushy eyebrows made him look like a cartoon character. He introduced himself as Tevez Lopez, the security manager.

  ‘We need to see all your CCTV footage from last Friday,’ Hunter said wasting no time with frivolous explanations.

  ‘What exactly are we looking for?’

  ‘A young woman was abducted last Friday. We have reason to believe she might’ve been abducted from this club. We need to check those tapes.’

  Tevez and Stu looked worried for a moment. ‘We might have a problem here, Detective,’ Tevez said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We only keep our recordings for two, maybe three days; last Friday has been erased.’

  ‘What? Why?’ Garcia asked with frustration.

  ‘We have no need to keep it,’ Tevez offered casually. ‘If we had no problems on the night, no fights, no money’s gone missing from the tills, no drug-related incident, we see no point in holding on to the recordings. You see, Detective, everything is digital in this day and age. We have about thirteen cameras recording something like twelve to fifteen hours every night and that uses a hell of a lot of hard-drive space. Once we’re satisfied the night has gone on without a problem, we erase it to make room for the new recordings.’

  Both detectives were stunned by Tevez’s statement. Probably the only ever footage of the killer, erased to save disk space. Hunter knew an opportunity like this would never come up again. He turned and faced the monitors.

  ‘You have no hard copy?’ Garcia questioned.

  ‘No, as I’ve said, there’s no need.’

  ‘Wait, can you zoom in on this camera,’ Hunter pointed to the top left monitor.

  ‘Sure.’ Stu twisted a knob on his desk and the monitor image zoomed in to three times its original size.

  ‘Who is this?’ Hunter pointed to a long-haired man seated in the VIP area. D-King and Jerome were sitting in front of him.

  ‘That’s Pietro, one of our barmen, but he’s not supposed to be in the VIP area,’ Tevez replied.

  ‘We’ll need to talk to him.’

  ‘Sure, would you like me to call him up here now?’

  Hunter looked around the control room. It was hardly an appropriate place for an interview. ‘Do you have another room we could use?’

  ‘You could use my office, it’s just down the corridor.’

  ‘Wait until he’s finished talking to whoever it is he’s talking to and then call him up. We’ll wait in your office.’ Hunter didn’t want Tevez to know he’d already made D-King’s acquaintance.

  Tevez’s office was small but well decorated. A square mahogany desk sat towards the back of the room. To its right, a neon-illuminated fish tank gave the office a nice personal touch. An array of shelves filled with photographs and books covered the entirety of the east wall. The loud music from the dance floor was muffled but still audible, making the floor under their feet tremble slightly but constantly. They’d been waiting for about five minutes when Pietro came in to greet them.

  ‘Mr Lopez said you’d like to talk to me,’ Pietro said after the usual introductions.

  ‘That’s right. Your conversation with Bobby Preston, what was it about?’ Hunter saw no need for beating around the bush.

  The look on Pietro’s face told them that he didn’t recognize the name.

  ‘D-King, your conversation with D-King,’ Garcia clarified.

  ‘Was it about this girl?’ Hunter showed him Jenny’s picture.

  Pietro was visibly nervous. All of a sudden he’d had D-King and the cops asking him questions about Jenny. ‘Yes, he wanted to know if I’d talked to her last Friday.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Yes, briefly.’

  ‘Can you remember what time?’

  ‘It was around two in the morning.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  Pietro felt as if he were in an episode of The Twilight Zone. D-King had just asked him exactly the same questions.

  ‘Nothing important. She looked tired so I asked her if she wanted a drink. We only chatted for about a minute. I had to get back to serving customers.’

  ‘Did she have a drink?’

  ‘Not from me, she had a glass of champagne with her already.’

  ‘Did she leave after you guys talked?’

  ‘Not straight away, she hung out by the bar for a while. She said she needed a break from the party. As I said she looked tired.’

  ‘Did you notice if she talked to anyone else?’

  Again, the same questions as D-King’s. ‘Jenny is a very attractive girl. A woman like that hanging by the bar alone on a Friday night is like a magnet for men, so guys always approach her, but there was this one guy . . .’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He looked a little different. For starters he was wearing a pretty expensive-looking suit. No one really wears suits in here, except the bosses and some of the VIP guests, especially on Friday and Saturday nights. It looked like he was trying to pick her up, but he had no joy.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Not Jenny’s style. She’ll chat and flirt with everyone, guys and girls, but she’s not the kind of girl you can simply pick up in a nightclub. He chatted to her for a few minutes and then left.’

  ‘What did this guy look like?’

  ‘I couldn’t really tell you. I just remember he was tall and very well dressed, but other than that . . .’ Pietro shook his head. ‘I’m not very good with faces.’

  ‘Did you see her talking to anyone else?’

  ‘Not that I can remember, but then again, it was Friday night, I was too busy to really notice.’

  ‘Can you remember if you’ve ever seen this tall, well-dressed man in here . . . before or since Friday?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Another shake of the head. ‘If I have, he didn’t stick out. The only reason I remember him from Friday is because I saw him chatting to Jenny.’

  ‘Do you know if they left together?’

  ‘I didn’t see. But as I’ve said before, it’s not Jenny’s style.’

  ‘Did she seem high or drunk?’

  ‘Not at all, just tired really.’

  Hunter grabbed a card from his beat-up leather wallet. ‘If you ever see the tall guy in here again, stop whatever it is that you’re doing and you call me, do you understand?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ D-King had asked for exactly the same thing.

  ‘My cell phone number is on the back.�
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  Pietro examined both sides of Hunter’s card and placed it in his back pocket. ‘She’s not OK, is she?’ he asked with tenderness in his voice.

  Hunter hesitated for a moment, but revealing the truth would probably make Pietro keener to help. ‘She’s dead.’

  Pietro closed his eyes for an instant. It was hard for him to believe that he would never again see Jenny’s smile or her warm eyes. He would never again hear her soft voice. ‘And you think this tall guy did it?’

  ‘We don’t know, but it looks like he was the last one to have talked to her.’

  Pietro nodded as if he understood what he had to do.

  Thirty-Three

  The next day started with Hunter and Garcia taking a drive up to George Slater’s house in Brentwood.

  ‘Wow, this looks nice,’ Garcia said, admiring the striking building. Even by the lofty standards of Hollywood the house was impressive. It was positioned at the end of a narrow lane, shadowed by oak trees. The carved lintels and immaculate white front made the house stand out on a street of distinguished residences. On the east side of the house, overlooking a gorgeous garden was a detached double garage.

  ‘Being a lawyer has its advantages I guess,’ Hunter replied as he parked his car on the driveway. They made their way along the cobblestone walkway, up the small flight of stairs to the front door and pressed the ‘call’ button on the video-entry system.

  ‘Yes,’ the reply came just a few seconds later.

  Both detectives lifted their badges to the small camera on the wall and introduced themselves.

  ‘Can you give me just a minute?’ The voice was soft and feminine, but Hunter detected the slight quiver that came from having cried for hours.

  ‘Of course, ma’am.’

  They waited patiently for almost a minute before they heard the sound of approaching footsteps. The door opened to reveal a very attractive woman with golden blond hair that she had up in a slicked-back bun. Her lipstick was a pale shade of red and her make-up subtle, just not enough to disguise the dark circles under her sad hazel eyes. Hunter put her age at around thirty-two. She was wearing a light black chiffon dress that suited her body perfectly. Her grief made her looked tired and frazzled.

  ‘Hello!’ She had a stunning presence about her, with a sort of delicate superiority. Her posture was perfect.

  ‘Thank you for seeing us, Mrs Slater, I hope this is not too much of an inconvenient time.’

  Catherine forced a shy smile and stepped aside. ‘Please come in.’

  The house had a hint of scented candles, jasmine perhaps, but the air inside felt cold and impersonal. The walls were white and Hunter noticed the even whiter squares revealing where pictures had once hung.

  She showed them into what looked to have been an office. The book shelves were now empty and the sofa and armchair were covered with large white dustsheets. The room was brightly lit as the curtain that once protected it from the sunlight had been taken down. Cardboard boxes scattered around the room completed the ‘moving away’ decoration.

  ‘I’m sorry about the mess,’ she said, pulling the dustsheets from over the sofa and placing them behind the large hardwood desk that stood just a few feet from the window. ‘Please have a seat.’

  Hunter and Garcia took the sofa while Catherine sat in the armchair opposite them. She noticed the inquisitive look on Hunter’s face and offered an answer even before the question.

  ‘I’m moving back to Alabama. I’ll stay with my parents for a little while until I decide what to do. I have no business here anymore, the only reason I came to LA was so George could take a position with Tale & Josh,’ she said in a sad and fragile voice. ‘Can I get you anything to drink? Coffee, tea?’

  ‘No thank you. We’re OK.’

  Catherine tried to renew her smile but her lips simply faded into a thin line. ‘George loved a cup of tea in the afternoon,’ she whispered.

  ‘How long have you lived in LA, Mrs Slater?’

  ‘We moved here two and a half years ago, and please, call me Catherine.’

  ‘And your husband had a job with Tale & Josh from the start?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied with a slight nod.

  ‘Did he follow a common routine? I mean other than work, did he regularly go to any other places like sports clubs, bars, nightclubs?’

  ‘George never had much time for anything, he was always working. He would stay late in the office at least three times a week. He didn’t go to any sports club or gym. He’d never been a very physically active person.’ Catherine’s gaze wandered towards the window and she seemed to stare at nothing for a while. ‘The only social engagement he liked to keep was his Tuesday-night poker game.’ Her eyes started to get tearful and she reached for the box of tissues on the desk.

  Hunter and Garcia exchanged a quick, tense look. ‘Do you know who he played poker with? Was it work friends or . . .?’

  ‘Yes, other lawyers from his firm. Maybe some other people, but I can’t be sure.’

  ‘Have you ever met any of them?’

  ‘I’ve met other lawyers from Tale & Josh, yes.’

  ‘I mean, have you ever met any of your husband’s poker buddies?’

  ‘I’ve never been to any poker night if that’s what you’re asking.’

  Hunter detected a tone of arrogance in her voice. ‘Do you know where they played? Was it a club, someone’s house?’

  ‘George told me that every week they played in a different house. They took turns hosting it.’

  ‘Really? How about here? Did you ever host it?’

  ‘No. I wouldn’t let him.’

  ‘And why is that?’ Garcia asked surprised.

  Catherine’s eyes still showed the signs of fought-back tears. She looked dazed and still in shock. ‘I’m a Christian, Detective Garcia, and I don’t approve of gambling. Even though George had sworn there was no money involved, I just wouldn’t have it in my house.’

  ‘No money?’

  ‘No. He said they did it for the social aspect of it.’ She pulled a new tissue from the box and softly brought it to the corner of her eyes. ‘He hasn’t gambled for many years.’

  Garcia raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Did he used to gamble?’ he asked.

  ‘Years ago. But he gave it up after we met. I asked him to.’

  ‘Casinos?’

  She hesitated for a moment as if what she was about to say embarrassed her. ‘No, dog-racing . . . greyhounds.’

  Hunter swallowed dry. ‘Greyhounds? Are you sure?’ The surprise in his voice more than evident.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

  Garcia shivered.

  ‘And are you sure he’d given it up? I mean, are you sure he hadn’t been to any greyhound tracks lately?’

  Catherine looked staggered by the question. ‘Yes, I’m sure. He promised me. Why would he break his promise?’ Her voice full of conviction.

  ‘Maybe he was betting over the internet instead of going to this poker game,’ Garcia suggested, and immediately bit his lower lip realizing the sort of accusation he’d just made.

  ‘What? Why would he do that?’ Catherine sounded deeply offended by Garcia’s insinuation.

  ‘Catherine . . .’ This time there was real concern in Hunter’s voice. ‘We spent most of yesterday at Tale & Josh, talking to everyone who had ever met George. From the partners themselves to the mail boy. No one knows anything about a Tuesday-night poker game.’

  ‘What? Of course they do, they must . . .’ The tremor in her voice gave away how shocked she was by Hunter’s statement.

  ‘Can you think of a name? Someone you think would be part of his poker group of friends?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, visibly shaking.

  ‘According to everyone we talked to, no one has ever played poker with your husband and they never even knew he played on Tuesday evenings.’

  ‘They’re lying, they must be.’ She buried her face in her hands unable to fight the tears. When Catherine lo
oked up again, her mascara had just started to run giving her a Gothic look. ‘Why would he lie?’

  ‘As Garcia said, he could’ve been gambling again and he was too embarrassed to admit it.’

  ‘No, I know he wouldn’t do that. He wasn’t gambling. That’s all in the past.’ Catherine was adamant.

  Hunter scratched his head, uncomfortable with what he was about to ask. ‘How was your relationship with George? Could he be seeing someone?’

  The shock of Hunter’s allusion made Catherine gag. ‘What are you saying? That George was having an affair? That he was lying to me so he could spend Tuesday nights with another woman?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but we have to look at every possibility, Catherine, and affairs are a very common thing in LA.’

  ‘But George wasn’t from LA. He was a good man, a good husband. He respected me. We had a good marriage.’ She had to pause for another tissue as the tears were now streaming down her face. ‘Why are you doing this to me? You should be out there looking for the monster who did that to my husband, not accusing him of being unfaithful.’

  ‘I’m . . . I’m really sorry,’ Hunter said, feeling terrible for what he’d just said. ‘I assure you, we’re doing everything we can.’

  ‘And then some . . .’ Garcia complemented Hunter’s assertion. They both sat in silence staring at Catherine. Her pain so contagious it made the room feel small and dark.

  ‘They told me he was murdered, that someone did that to him, but how can it be?’ she said with a hysterical edge to her voice. ‘George wasn’t shot, he wasn’t stabbed, he was infected with a deadly virus. Who kills someone like that? And why?’ Catherine broke down. Her head was back in-between her hands, her body shaking.

  Hunter wished there was something he could say that would bring her some comfort. How could he tell her that he’d been after this killer for over two years and yet he had come no closer to catching him?