by Chris Carter
‘And are you?’
Farloe shifted his stare from Hunter for the first time. His eyes now rested on the two-way mirror on the north wall. He knew what was happening on the other side. The anticipation inside the observation room now growing to eruption point. Captain Bolter could swear that Farloe was staring straight at him.
‘I didn’t choose that name for myself, the media did.’ His eyes had returned to Hunter. ‘But yes, I freed their souls from their life of sin.’
‘I’ll be damned . . . we’ve got a confession.’ Captain Bolter could hardly hide his excitement.
‘Hell yeah! And it only took Hunter about ten minutes to get it out of him. That’s my boy,’ Scott replied with a smile.
‘If you are the Crucifix Killer, then you did choose your name,’ Hunter continued. ‘You branded the victims. You chose your mark.’
‘They needed to repent. The symbol of our Lord freed their souls.’
‘But you are no God. You don’t have the power to free anyone. Thou shall not kill, isn’t that one of the commandments? Doesn’t killing these people make you a sinner?’
‘No sin shall be when done in the name of the divine. I was doing God’s work.’
‘Why? Did God call in sick that day? Why would God ask you to kill in his name? Isn’t God supposed to be a merciful being?’
Farloe let a smile grace his lips for the first time showing yellow cigarette-stained teeth. There was an evil air about him. Something different, something almost inhuman.
‘This guy gives me the creeps. Shouldn’t we just stop this interview, he’s already confessed, he’s done it, end of story,’ Scott said clearly irritated.
‘Not yet, give him a few more minutes,’ Doctor Martin replied.
‘Whatever . . . I’m out of here, I’ve heard enough.’ Scott opened the door and stepped into the narrow corridor on the third floor of the RHD building.
Hunter grabbed a piece of paper, wrote something on it and slid it towards Farloe over the table. ‘Do you know what this is?’
Farloe’s eyes moved down to the paper. He stared at it for about five seconds. By the movement of his eyes and imperceptible frown Hunter knew Farloe didn’t have a clue what the figure on the paper meant. Hunter got no answer.
‘OK, so let me ask you this . . .’
‘No, no more questions,’ Farloe cut in. ‘You know what I’ve done, detective. You’ve seen my work. You’ve heard what you wanted to hear. There’s no more need for questions. I’ve said my piece.’ Farloe closed his eyes, placed his hands together and began a whispered prayer.
‘Yes it’s true. I never believed he was our killer,’ Hunter finally answered Garcia’s question, snapping back from his memory flash.
Even though it was just past six in the morning the day was already warm. Hunter pressed the button on the passenger’s door and his window rolled down smoothly. The scenery had changed from the luxurious houses of Santa Clarita into noisy traffic as they drove down San Diego Freeway.
‘Do you want me to turn on the air con?’ Garcia asked fiddling with his dashboard.
Hunter’s car was an old Buick and it didn’t have any of the luxury gadgets of modern cars. No air conditioning, no sunroof, no electric windows or mirrors, but it was a Buick, pure American muscle as Hunter liked to call it.
‘No. I prefer it like this, natural polluted LA air – you just can’t beat it.’
‘So why did you think you had the wrong guy? You had all the evidence found in his car, plus the guy confessed. What else did you need?’ Garcia asked bringing the subject back to the Crucifix Killer.
Hunter tilted his head towards the open window letting the air brush through his hair. ‘Did you know we never found any evidence at any of the seven crime scenes?’
‘Again, I’ve heard rumors, but I thought that was just you guys playing your cards close to your chest.’
‘It’s true, Scott and I fine-combed every inch of those crime scenes and so did the forensic team. We never found a thing – not a fingerprint, not a strand of hair, not a fiber . . . nothing. The crime scenes were like forensic vacuums.’ Hunter paused, letting the wind hit his face once again. ‘For two years the killer never made a mistake, never left anything behind, no slip-ups . . . the killer was like a ghost. We had nothing, no leads, no direction and no idea of who the killer could be. Then, all of a sudden he gets caught with all that shit in his car? It didn’t add up. How the hell does anyone go from being probably the most thorough criminal in history to being the sloppiest one?’
‘How did you catch him?’
‘An anonymous phone call just a few weeks after the seventh victim was found. Someone had seen a suspect car with what seemed to be blood smudges on the outside of its trunk. The caller had managed to note down the license-plate number and the car was picked up on the outskirts of LA.’
‘Mike Farloe’s?’
‘Exactly, and inside his trunk it was like Christmas time for our investigation.’
Garcia frowned. He was starting to follow Hunter’s line of thought. ‘Yeah, but several major criminals have been caught out just like that, out of a traffic violation or some minor contravention. Maybe he was thorough at the crime scene, but sloppy at home.’
‘I don’t buy that,’ Hunter replied with a shake of the head. ‘He also kept on calling me “detective” throughout the interrogation.’
‘And what’s the problem with that?’
‘The Crucifix Killer used to call me on my cell phone and let me know about the location of a new victim, that’s how we found them. I was the only one who’d had any contact with him.’
‘Why you?’
‘I never found out, but every time he called me he’d always use my first name, he’d always call me “Robert”, never “detective,”’ Hunter paused. He was about to drop an atomic bomb on Garcia’s lap. ‘But the turning point was when I asked him about the crucifix mark branded on the victims’ hands. In a way he accepted it, he said that the symbol of our Lord could free them or something like that.’
‘Yes, so he was a religious psycho – what’s your point?’
‘I showed him a drawing of the symbol used by the Crucifix Killer and I’m sure he didn’t recognize it.’
‘He didn’t recognize a crucifix?’ Garcia arched both eyebrows.
‘The Crucifix Killer never branded a crucifix on the back of the victim’s left hand. That was just a story we fed the media to avoid the copycats, the attention seekers.’
Garcia held his breath in anticipation and felt an uncomfortable shiver down his spine.
‘What the Crucifix Killer did was carve a strange symbol, something like a double-crucifix, one right side up and the other upside down on the back of the victim’s neck.’ Hunter pointed to the back of his own neck. ‘That was his real mark.’
Hunter’s words caught Garcia totally by surprise. His mind flashed back to the scene in the old wooden house. The woman’s body. Her skinless face. The carving on the back of her neck. The symbol of the Crucifix Killer. ‘What? You’ve gotta be kidding me.’ Garcia took his eyes off the road for an instant.
‘Watch the road!’ Hunter realized they were about to run a red light. Garcia’s attention switched back to the road once again and he slammed down on the brakes throwing Hunter’s body forward like a torpedo. Hunter was held by his seatbelt which brought him crashing back to his seat, his head jerking back violently and hitting the headrest.
‘Damn! That brought my headache back, thanks,’ Hunter said, rubbing his temples with both hands.
The last thing in Garcia’s mind was his partner’s headache. Hunter’s words were still echoing in his ears. ‘So what are you saying? That someone found out about the real Crucifix Killer’s signature and is using it?’
‘I doubt it. Only a handful of people knew about it. Just a few of us at the RHD and Doctor Winston. We kept all information about the killer sealed tight. The symbol we saw today, it’s identical.’
‘F
uck, are you trying to suggest that he’s back from the dead or something?’
‘What I’m trying to say is that Mike Farloe wasn’t the Crucifix Killer as I’d always suspected. The killer’s still out there.’
‘But the guy confessed. Why the hell would he do that when he knew he would get the shot?’ Garcia asked, almost shouting.
‘Maybe he just wanted the notoriety, I’m not sure. Look, I have no doubt that Mike Farloe was mentally fucked up, he was a religious psycho, just not the one we were looking for.’
‘But then, how the hell did all that evidence end up in his car?’
‘I’m not sure, framed probably.’
‘Framed? But the only one who could’ve framed him was the Crucifix Killer himself.’
‘Exactly.’
‘And why now? Why would he be back now?’
‘I’m trying to figure that out myself,’ Hunter replied.
Garcia sat immobile staring at Hunter. He needed time to take all that in. That would explain Hunter’s reaction to the symbol carved on the woman’s neck. Could it be true, the Crucifix Killer had never been caught? Was he still out there? Had the State sent an innocent man to his death? Since Mike Farloe’s conviction the killings had stopped, which indicated that he was the Crucifix Killer. Even Hunter had started to believe it.
They sat in silence. Hunter could feel Garcia trying to process all the new information, trying to understand why someone would confess to a crime he didn’t commit.
‘If this is the real deal, I guess we will find out soon enough,’ Hunter said.
‘Really, how? How will we find out?’
‘Well, for starters, if this is the same killer, the forensic team will come up with nothing, another clean-as-a-whistle crime scene . . . Green light.’
‘What?’
‘The traffic light, it’s green.’
Garcia shifted his Honda Civic into gear and stepped on the gas. Neither said a word until they reached Santa Monica.
The Hideout bar is located right at the beach end of West Channel Road. Santa Monica beach itself is literally just across the road, making the Hideout bar one of the most popular nightspots in Westside Region. Garcia had only been once. Swaying curtains separated the nautically themed bar area from the main lounge, which was decorated with images of Santa Monica in the 1920s. The second floor was a loft that overlooked a low-back-chair-filled rear patio. It was a very popular place with the younger crowd and definitely not the type of bar Garcia would picture Robert Hunter hanging out.
Hunter’s car was parked just a few yards from the bar’s entrance. Garcia parked right behind it.
‘I’d like to take another look in that house after the forensic team is done, what do you say?’ Hunter asked, getting his car keys out of his pocket.
Garcia was unable to meet Hunter’s gaze.
‘Yo! Rookie, are you OK?’
‘Yeah. I’m good,’ Garcia finally replied. ‘Yeah, that’s a good idea.’
Hunter stepped out of the shiny Honda and opened the door to his old beat-up Buick. As he started his engine there was only one thought in his mind.
This shouldn’t be his first case.
Eight
D-King didn’t take too kindly to any of his girls doing a disappearing act on him. Jenny had walked out on his party at the Vanguard Club three nights ago and he hadn’t heard from her since. D-King differed from other sex dealers in Los Angeles in that he wasn’t violent with his girls. If any of them decided that they’d had enough and wanted out, he’d be fine with that, as long as they didn’t go to work for another sex dealer or run away with his money.
Finding new girls was the easiest aspect of his business. Every day hundreds of beautiful girls arrive in Los Angeles looking for the Hollywood dream. Every day hundreds of dreams are shattered by the harsh reality of the City of Angels. It’s just a matter of knowing which girls to approach. The desperate and totally broke – the ones that need to get a fix – the ones that craved the lifestyle D-King had to offer. If any of his girls wanted out, all they had to do was say it and a replacement would be just around the corner.
D-King sent his main bodyguard, Jerome, to find out what had happened to Jenny. Why hadn’t she called back? Worst of all, why hadn’t she turned up for her appointment with a client last night? D-King didn’t tolerate letting a client down. It didn’t reflect well on his business and even a crooked business depended on reliability. D-King suspected something wasn’t right. Jenny was his most reliable girl and he was sure that if she had run into any trouble, she would’ve called.
The truth was he had a soft spot for Jenny. She was a very sweet girl, always with a smile and a fantastic sense of humor – qualities that went a long way in her line of work. When Jenny first started working for D-King she told him she’d only do this job until she had enough money to stand on her own two feet. He respected her determination, but for now she was one of his most profitable girls, a very popular choice among the rich and ugly scumbags that made up his client list.
On Jerome’s return D-King was doing his morning exercise – twenty-five laps of his half-Olympic-size swimming pool.
‘Boss, I am afraid I ain’t got good news.’ Jerome was a scary looking man. African American with cropped Afro hair and a crooked nose that had been broken so many times Jerome had lost count. He was six-foot-three and weighed three hundred and thirty pounds. He had a square jaw and cotton-white teeth. Jerome had been tipped to become the next heavyweight champion of the world, but a car accident had left him almost paralyzed from the waist down. It took him four years to be able to walk properly again. By that time, his shot at the title had come and gone. He ended up working as special security for a nightclub in Hollywood. D-King offered him a job and a substantial salary raise after he saw Jerome single-handedly take care of a group of seven football players who were looking for trouble one night.
D-King stepped out of the swimming pool, grabbed a clean white bathrobe with the word ‘King’ in big golden letters on the back and sat down at the table by the side of the pool, where breakfast was waiting for him.
‘That ain’t what I want to hear, Jerome. I don’t wanna start my day with bad news.’ He poured himself a glass of orange juice. ‘Go on, nigga, spill it out.’ His voice was as calm as it’d always been. D-King was not the type of person to lose his coolness easily.
‘Well, you told me to go and check on Jenny, see why she’d disappeared for a few days.’
‘Yeah?’
‘OK, it looks like she didn’t only disappear from the club, boss, she simply disappeared.’
‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’
‘It doesn’t look like she’s been home at all in the past few days. The building concierge hasn’t seen her either.’
D-King put down his glass of orange juice and studied his bodyguard for a few seconds. ‘How about her things? Were they still in the apartment?’
‘Everything – dresses, shoes, handbags, even her make-up. Her suitcases were all stacked up in the wardrobe too. If she split, it was in a fucking hurry, boss.’
‘She has nothing to be running away from,’ D-King said as he poured himself a cup of coffee.
‘Does she have a boyfriend?’
‘Does she what?’ he asked, making an ‘I don’t believe you’ face. ‘You know better than that, nigga. None of my girls have relationships, it’s bad for business.’
‘Maybe she met someone that night at the Vanguard.’
‘And what?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe went back to his place.’
‘Hell no, Jenny doesn’t do freebies.’
‘Maybe she liked the guy.’
‘She’s a hooker, Jerome. She’d just come out of a five-night working week. The last thing she would’ve wanted was to go to bed with someone else.’
‘Private clients?’
‘Say what? All my girls know what would happen if I found out they were trying to run a little parallel busine
ss. Jenny ain’t the type, she ain’t stupid.’
‘Maybe she’s just staying with a friend,’ Jerome offered one more option.
‘Again, not like her. She’s been one of my girls for what, almost three years? She’s never given me any trouble. She’s always on time for her appointments. No, Jerome, this is messed up, something’s wrong.’
‘Do you think she might be in trouble, financially I mean, gambling or something like that?’
‘If she is she would’ve come to me, I know that. She wouldn’t just run away.’
‘What do you want me to do, boss?’
D-King had a sip of his coffee, thinking about his options. ‘First check the hospitals,’ he finally said. ‘We’ve gotta find out if something’s happened to her.’
‘Do you think someone might’ve hurt her?’
‘If someone did . . . that motherfucker is dead.’
Jerome wondered who’d be stupid enough to hurt any of D-King’s girls.
‘If the hospitals come up blank we’ll need to check with the police.’
‘Shall I call Culhane?’
Detective Mark Culhane worked for the Narcotics division of the LAPD. He was also in D-King’s dirty-cop pay list.
‘He ain’t the sharpest of minds, but I guess we’ll have to. Warn him not to go snooping around like a lost dog though. I wanna keep this on the “low low” for now.’
‘I’ve got you, boss.’
‘Check the hospitals first, if you come up empty – call him.’
Jerome nodded, leaving his boss to finish his breakfast.
D-King had a bite of his egg-white omelet, but his appetite had gone. After over ten years as a dealer he’d developed a nose for trouble and something didn’t smell right. He wasn’t only well known in Los Angeles, he was also well feared. Once someone had made the mistake of slapping one of his girls across the face. That someone was found three days later inside a suitcase – his body separated into six parts, head, torso, arms and legs.
Nine
Carlos Garcia was a young detective who’d worked his way up through the police ranks almost as quickly as Hunter. The son of a Brazilian federal agent and an American history teacher, he and his mother moved to Los Angeles when Garcia was only ten years old, after his parents’ marriage collapsed. Even though he’d lived in America most of his life, Garcia could speak Portuguese like a true Brazilian. His father was a very attractive man with smooth dark hair, brown eyes and olive skin. His mother was a natural blond with light-blue eyes and European-looking fair skin. Garcia had inherited his father’s olive-tone skin and darkish brown hair, which he let grow slightly longer than his mother would’ve liked it. His eyes weren’t as light blue as his mother’s, but they had definitely come from her side of the family. Despite being thirty-one years old, Garcia still had a boyish look. He had a slim frame, thanks to years of track and field, but his build was deceptive and he was stronger than anyone would’ve guessed.
