by Chris Carter
‘This is the same autopsy room that was used during the Crucifix Killer’s investigation. As the captain said, he wants this whole thing kept under wraps. Those goddamn reporters pay informers everywhere and this place is no different. Until we make sure the nightmare hasn’t started again the captain has asked the good old doctor to use the same precautions as the original case – and that includes no access to the victim’s body by anyone except the doctor himself and us.’
As they reached the room at the end of the narrow, well-lit corridor, Hunter pressed the intercom button on the wall and smiled a silly smile at the camera mounted just above the door. Seconds later Doctor Winston’s voice cracked through the small wall speaker.
‘Robert . . . let me buzz you in.’
A loud buzz echoed through the basement corridor followed by a clicking sound. Hunter pushed the heavy metal door open and stepped inside the room with Garcia.
A gleaming stainless-steel table with a sink at one of its ends was positioned close to the far wall. A large surgical light above the table illuminated the entire room. A tray which was used for placing organs as the examiner removed them from the victim’s body sat close to the sink. The drainage tube from the organ tray was stained orange-brown. The stinging smell was stronger inside the room. Two large surgical saws and several blades of different shapes and sizes were neatly arranged over a small table up against the west wall. The faceless woman’s body lay on the steel table.
‘Come in,’ Doctor Winston said, showing them into the room.
Garcia’s gaze rested on the motionless corpse and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.
‘So, what do you have for us?’ Hunter asked quietly as if scared of waking her up.
‘Unfortunately, not much,’ Doctor Winston replied as he slipped on a brand-new pair of latex gloves. ‘My team didn’t manage to lift a single fingerprint from the house and given what we might be facing again, I’m not surprised.’
‘Yes, Carlos told me,’ Hunter said, letting out a disillusioned sigh. ‘How about fibers or something that can give us some sort of start?’
‘Sorry, Robert, the house has given us zilch.’
‘How can that be?’ Garcia asked. ‘The killer has obviously spent hours torturing that woman in that house. How come he left nothing behind?’
‘You said it before, rookie,’ Hunter explained. ‘A secluded location. The killer had all the time in the world to torture her uninterrupted. After she died the killer had all the time in the world to go over the entire house and make sure nothing was left behind. Time is on his side.’
Doctor Winston nodded.
‘How about her?’ Hunter asked tilting his head towards the body. ‘What can you tell us about her, doc?’
‘Twenty-three to twenty-five years of age, very healthy. She took very good care of herself. Her body fat was around 14.5 percent, which is athlete low. You don’t need me to tell you about her muscle tone, which means she was probably a gym rat. No operations or implants either, she still had her tonsils and appendix and her breasts were her own. Her skin still feels very smooth even after rigor mortis and the lab analysis showed a high content of humectants, emollients and lubricants.’
‘What?’ Garcia asked frowning.
‘Moisturizer,’ Hunter replied, trying to end Garcia’s confusion.
‘So she moisturized, most women do.’
‘Don’t I know it?’ Doctor Winston replied in a mocking voice. ‘Trisha spends a fortune on creams that have absolutely no effect; it’s all a big con if you ask me, but the thing about our victim is that the tests have shown a very high-quality grade of it, in other words, she used the very expensive stuff . . . just like Trisha. My confident guess is that she was well off.’
‘Why? Because she used expensive moisturizers?’ Garcia asked.
‘Do you have any idea how much they cost?’
Garcia raised his eyebrows indicating he didn’t.
‘A hell of a lot I can tell you. Also have a look at her nails, both hands and toes.’
Hunter and Garcia checked her hands and feet. Her nails looked very nicely kept.
‘I had to remove her nail varnish, standard procedure,’ the doctor continued. ‘Once again, the tests showed a very high-quality product. Her nails were professionally done, judging by the smoothness of the cut and cuticle. Now, manicure and pedicure isn’t really an expensive treatment, but it highlights how much importance the victim paid to her appearance. The hair analysis showed another high-quality-grade product and judging by its condition she probably had a hairdresser’s appointment at least once a month.’
‘Is her hair dyed?’ Garcia asked.
‘No, she’s a natural blond. Whatever she did for a living, I’d say her appearance played a major part in it.’
‘Rich husband maybe?’ Garcia suggested.
‘No wedding band and no signs that she’d ever worn one either,’ the doctor quickly dismissed the suggestion.
‘So she made good money on her own?’
‘It looks that way, yes.’
‘Was she raped?’ Hunter asked.
‘No, no sexual intercourse for at least forty-eight hours – no lubricant in her vagina or anus, which rules out the possibility of sex with prophylactics – the killer wasn’t after sexual pleasure.’
‘Any identifying marks?’
‘Nothing . . . she’s got no tattoos, no birthmarks, no scars.’
‘Fingerprints?’
‘I faxed them to your captain last night so you’ll have them when you get back to your precinct, but I can also access the Central Fingerprint Database from here – no match, she’s not in the system and as you know we’ve got no chance of getting an ID from her dental records.’ Doctor Winston walked over to his desk and quickly fumbled through a few loose pieces of paper. ‘As I’d suspected, she’d been drugged. I found traces of gamma hydroxy butyrate in her stomach, better known in clubs as GHB.’
‘I’ve heard of that,’ Garcia said. ‘The new date-rape drug right?’
‘Well, it’s not really a new drug. Kids use it in small doses to get high, but an overdose would produce an effect very similar to Rohypnol,’ Hunter clarified.
‘Which is like a blackout?’
‘That’s correct,’ Doctor Winston said this time. ‘Once the subject regains consciousness they can’t remember anything that has happened to them while under the effect.’
‘Can we trace it?’ Garcia asked.
Hunter shook his head. ‘I doubt it. GHB is basically degreasing solvent or floor stripper mixed with drain cleaner; anyone can make it at home, and you can get the correct mixing dosage over the internet.’
‘Kids are mixing degreasing solvent with drain cleaner and taking it as a drug?’ Garcia enquired in surprise.
‘Youth has come a long way since we were kids, detective,’ the doctor replied, patting Garcia on the back.
‘How about the cause of death?’ Hunter asked.
‘Heart, liver and kidney failure. Her body just couldn’t cope anymore. A combination of the tremendous pain she’d suffered together with dehydration and starvation. If she hadn’t been in such good physical condition she would’ve probably lasted only a few hours.’
‘How long did she last?’
‘Anywhere between ten and sixteen hours. She died sometime between 8:00 p.m. on Sunday evening and 1:00 a.m. Monday morning.’
‘She was tortured for almost sixteen hours? Jesus Christ!’ Garcia commented.
The room went quiet for a moment. Doctor Winston was the first to speak again. ‘We have also analyzed the rope that was used to tie her to the posts.’
‘And?’
‘Nothing special there either. Regular nylon rope; it could’ve been bought in any hardware store.’
‘How about the mirror on the bedroom door, it looked new; did we get anything from it?’
‘Not really. We found very old traces of chemicals consistent with mirror adhesives.’
‘So what does that mean?’ Garcia asked.
‘That the killer didn’t buy that mirror – he took it from another door somewhere. I don’t think anyone would’ve reported a stolen door mirror, so tracking it down would be almost impossible,’ Hunter said.
‘And the vinegar in the jar?’
‘Your most common type of vinegar, found in any supermarket.’
‘In other words, we’ve got absolutely nothing,’ Hunter concluded dryly.
‘Oh we’ve got something alright, but you’re not gonna like it . . . let me show you.’ Doctor Winston walked over to the east end of the room where a few photographs were scattered over a small desk, Hunter and Garcia right behind him.
‘This is the carving on our victim’s neck.’ The doctor pointed to the first picture on the left. ‘All the other pictures you see here are from the Crucifix Killer’s case. The carvings are consistent, I’d say with a fair degree of confidence that they were made by the same person, probably with the same sharp instrument.’
The small ounce of hope Hunter had of a copycat killer was crushed. The photographs brought back a hurricane of memories.
This was the first time Garcia had seen any of the forensic evidence of the original Crucifix Killer’s case. He could easily see the similarities in all the photographs.
‘Can you tell us anything about the skinning of her face?’ Garcia asked.
‘Yes, this is where the killer shows us how good he really is, it’s surgically precise – the way the skin had been cut away, the way the lean tissue and ligaments had been left intact – fantastic work. He must’ve spent a fair amount of time operating on her face. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if whoever did this was a surgeon or something along those lines. But then again, we knew that much about the Crucifix Killer.’
‘What do you mean?’ Garcia looked confused.
‘The Crucifix Killer always removed a body part from his victims – an eye, a finger, an ear – human trophies in a way,’ Hunter explained. ‘It’s one of his signatures, together with the carving on the back of the neck and the stripping of the victim. According to the doctor, the removal of the body parts was always surgically precise, and apparently they had always been done while the victims were still alive.’
‘It seems the killer’s got better at it,’ Doctor Winston concluded.
‘Why would the killer take a part of a victim’s body?’ Garcia asked.
‘To remind him of the victim,’ Hunter replied. ‘It’s quite common when it comes to serial killers. Their victims mean a lot to them. Most of the time the killer feels there’s some sort of bond between him and the victim. Some killers prefer to take a piece of clothing, usually an intimate piece of clothing. Some go for a body part.’
Garcia studied the photographs. ‘I’m assuming the original investigation checked for doctors as probable suspects.’
‘And medical students, nurses, and so on and so forth. It didn’t lead us to anyone,’ Hunter answered.
Garcia moved back towards the body. ‘You said there are no birthmarks, no tattoos. Is there anything that can help us identify the body?’
‘We can try her face.’
Garcia stared at Doctor Winston sullenly. ‘Are you kidding?’
‘This is the twenty-first century, detective,’ the doctor said, his mouth twisted in what might’ve been a trace of a smile. ‘Computers can perform miracles nowadays. They’ve already been working on it upstairs for an hour and we shall have some sort of computer image ready any minute now. If we’re lucky you can pick it up on your way out.’
‘Judging by how much effort she put into her appearance I’d say she was either a model or an aspiring actress,’ Hunter suggested.
‘Or a high-class hooker, perhaps even a porn actress. They can make a lot of money you know,’ Garcia complemented Hunter’s suggestion.
‘How do you know? Dated a porn star recently, have you?’ Hunter smiled.
‘Um . . . it’s common knowledge.’
‘Of course it is. So who’s your favorite star?’
‘I’m married.’
‘Oh yeah. That makes a difference, I forgot. Married men don’t watch porn. Let me guess. You probably like Briana Banks.’
‘She is hot,’ Garcia said and immediately froze.
‘You walked straight into that one,’ Doctor Winston said padding him on the back.
Both detectives regarded the body in front of them for a while. She looked different now. Her skin seemed rubbery and paler and her mutilated face looked like a mask – a well-made-up actress ready to shoot a horror scene in some Hollywood production – an image of almost pure evil.
‘We’d better go check up on that computer image, doc, or is there anything else you’d like to show us?’
‘No, Robert, I’m afraid there isn’t much else I can tell you about her.’
‘Are you keeping her in this room?’
‘As requested by your captain . . . yes, we have our own cooling chamber in here. Let’s just hope we don’t have to fill it up with any more bodies.’
Hunter and Garcia buzzed themselves out of the autopsy room and walked up to the computer tech lab in silence.
‘Can I ask you something?’ Garcia asked.
‘Shoot.’
‘How come no one believed you when you told them that Mike Farloe wasn’t the Crucifix Killer?’
‘I never said that. In the end Captain Bolter and my ex-partner, Scott, saw my reasoning. But with all the evidence found in Farloe’s car, coupled up with him confessing to the murders, there wasn’t much we could do. It was in the DA’s hands. And they didn’t wanna hear any reasoning.’ Hunter looked down debating if he should carry on. ‘Maybe the truth is that we all wanted it to end,’ he finally said. ‘It had gone on for too long. Deep inside I secretly wished Farloe was the real killer. And now the nightmare is back.’
For Garcia the nightmare was just starting. For Hunter this was the worst kind, a recurring one.
Twelve
Excluding children’s and psychiatric, there were eight hospitals in total in the central Los Angeles area, but only four of them showed Jane Doe entries for the past few days. Posing as the boyfriend or as a work colleague, Jerome visited all four with no luck. If Jenny had been admitted into a hospital, it hadn’t been one in downtown LA.
Jerome had thought about extending his search to places like Santa Monica, San Diego, Long Beach, Santa Ana, but that would’ve taken him an entire week and he didn’t have that kind of time. He decided to get in contact with Detective Culhane.
Mark Culhane hated receiving payments from a criminal, a drug lord, but he couldn’t deny the money came in handy; it was more than twice his Narcotics Division pay. In return, he was expected to look the other way during major drug deals, slightly mislead investigations and provide inside information every now and again. It’s a corrupt world and it didn’t take much effort from D-King to find Mark Culhane.
Jerome and Culhane met at the In-N-Out Burger restaurant in Gayley Avenue, one of Jerome’s favorite burger joints. By the time Culhane arrived, Jerome had already devoured two Double-Double burgers.
Culhane was forty-nine years old, five foot six, with a receding hairline and a frightening beer belly. Jerome had always wondered what would happen if Culhane had to chase a suspect on foot.
‘Culhane . . . sit down,’ Jerome said, eating the last of his fries.
Culhane sat opposite Jerome in the small old-fashioned diner booth. He looked older than Jerome remembered. The bags under his eyes had gained some extra weight. Jerome had no time for pleasantries and he slid a brown-paper envelope towards the detective. Culhane grabbed it and brought it close to his chest, holding it like a hand of poker. He had a quick look at the photograph inside.
‘She’s missing,’ Jerome carried on.
‘So? Talk to missing persons, I’m Narcotics remember?’ Culhane replied, clearly irritated.
‘Was that attitude?’ Jerome asked, having another s
wig of his giant-size root beer.
Culhane kept silent.
‘Let’s just say D-King considers her to be a special girl.’ He slid another envelope towards the detective. ‘This is extra.’
This time Culhane didn’t have to open it to know what was inside it. He picked the envelope up and placed it in his pocket.
‘What’s her name?’ he sked, his irritation dissipating.
‘Jenny Farnborough.’
‘Did she run out on him or you think it might be something else?’
‘We’re not sure, but we don’t think she’s a runaway. She’s got nothing to run away from. On top of that all of her belongings are still in her apartment.’
‘Is she hooked? Could she just be tripping out somewhere?’
‘I don’t think so. She does coke every now and then, you know, to keep her going, but she is no junkie. She wouldn’t work for the boss if she was.’
‘Boyfriend? Family?’
‘No boyfriend – her family lives in rednecksville somewhere in Idaho or Wyoming, but she doesn’t get along with them anyway.’
‘When was the last time you saw her?’
‘Last Friday night. She was out partying with the boss and a few other girls; she went to the bathroom to retouch her makeup, and that was it.’
‘She might’ve been arrested and she’s just cooling off in a cell somewhere.’
‘She would’ve called if that was the case and I don’t know what she’d be arrested for, but I guess you better check that out too.’
‘Can I get you anything?’ The question came from a young brunette waitress who’d approached their table.
‘No, I’m OK thanks,’ Culhane said with a dismissive hand gesture and waited until the waitress was out of earshot. ‘Is there anything else I need to know?’ His attention was back on Jerome.
‘Nope, I guess that’s all.’
‘Did she steal any money or something that would’ve given her a reason to disappear?’
‘Not from us.’
‘Gambling debts?’
