The Crucifix Killer

by Chris Carter

  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?

  ‘I’m truly sorry.’ Hunter could think of nothing else to say.

  ‘Catherine,’ Garcia took over. ‘We’re not gonna pretend we know all the answers, but I give you my word that we won’t rest until we catch this guy.’

  ‘I’m sorry, this has all been too much for me, I loved him very much,’ Catherine said in-between sobs.

  ‘We understand and we won’t take any more of your time. Just one last question,’ Hunter said, walking over to her. ‘Have you ever seen this symbol?’ He showed her a sketch of the double-crucifix.

  She stared at it for a few seconds.

  ‘No . . . never . . . what is it?’

  ‘Nothing really, we found it around the park so I wondered if it meant anything to you . . . or George. Look, if you need anything, or if you just feel like talking, please don’t hesitate to call me.’ He handed her one of his cards.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

  ‘We’ll see ourselves out.’

  Thirty-Four

  Hunter poured himself another cup of coffee from the machine in his office. Garcia had brought in a special blend of Brazilian coffee imported direct from the state of Minas Gerais. It was grounded finer than most well-known blends and roasted at a lower initial temperature preventing it from over-roasting and giving it a stronger but smoother taste. Hunter had been instantly converted.

  He had a sip of the dark liquid and joined Garcia, who was facing the photograph-covered corkboard. George Slater’s picture was the last in line.

  ‘What was he hiding?’ Garcia asked, pinching his lower lip with his thumb and index finger.

  ‘One thing is for sure, there was no Tuesday-night poker game,’ Hunter commented.

  ‘Uh-huh, but what was he doing? My initial hunch was that he’d been cheating on his wife, but . . .’

  ‘But since she mentioned greyhound racing . . .’

  ‘Exactly, and that was no coincidence. The killer knew.’

  ‘I know. So was he gambling again or did the killer know about his past?’

  ‘I don’t know, but we really need to find out.’

  ‘As Lucas had said, dog racing is illegal in California, right?’ Hunter asked.

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘Can we find out which is the nearest state that allows it?’

  ‘Yes, easy, give me a minute.’ Garcia walked back to his desk and sat in front of his computer. After a few clicks and some typing he shouted out his search result. ‘Arizona.’

  Hunter chewed his lower lip in thought. ‘That’s way too far. If George had been going to a racing track, it had to be within driving distance so he could make it there and back in the same evening. Arizona is totally out of the question.’

  ‘So if he was gambling again he was doing it over the internet or over the phone.’

  ‘Which means the killer did not single him out from a dog track.’

  ‘We have to find out where he was the night he was abducted. We know Jenny was in a nightclub,’ Garcia said, getting up once again.

  ‘We’ve gotta re-interview that tall, skinny, receding hair guy we talked to at Tale & Josh – what was his name?’

  ‘Peterson, something Peterson,’ Garcia recalled. ‘Why him?’

  ‘Because he knows more than he told us.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Hunter gave Garcia a confident smile. ‘He showed all the signs of being too nervous. Avoided eye contact, sweaty palms, uneasiness with all his answers and he kept on biting his bottom lip whenever we pressed him for a straight answer. Trust me, he knows more than what he told us.’

  ‘Surprise home call then?’

  Hunter nodded with a devious smile. ‘Let’s do it tomorrow, Sunday. People always get caught off guard on Sundays.’

  Garcia’s eyes were back on the photographs. Something else had been nagging him. ‘Do you think they knew each other?’

  The question came unexpectedly and Hunter took a moment to think about it. ‘Maybe. She was a high-class hooker. If he was cheating on his wife, and that’s still a major possibility, he certainly had enough money to afford her.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I was thinking.’

  ‘So we’d better find that out as well, and I know just who to ask.’

  ‘Who? D-King won’t give us Jenny’s client list and I’m sure you’re not thinking about that mound of muscle bodyguard.’

  ‘No, we ask one of D-King’s girls.’

  Garcia hadn’t thought of that.

  ‘Anyway, what do we have on our first victim so far – did we manage to get a file on her?’ Hunter asked.

  ‘Not exactly.’ Garcia walked back to his desk. Hunter had never seen a better-organized desk. Three very neatly arranged piles of paper stood to the left of Garcia’s computer screen. All pencils and pens had been placed into color-coded can-like containers. The phone was precisely aligned with the fax machine and there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere. Nothing looked out of place. Everything about Hunter’s partner suggested organization and efficiency.

  ‘Farnborough isn’t a very common name, but it’s common enough to make things difficult,’ Garcia carried on. ‘D-King couldn’t tell us for certain where she was from. He mentioned Idaho and Utah, so I used that as the starting point. My initial check has returned thirty-six Farnboroughs in both states. I’m getting in touch with the sheriffs in every town I found a Farnborough, but so far, no luck.’

  ‘And if D-King was wrong about Idaho or Utah?’ Hunter asked.

  ‘Well, then we’re in for a very long search. She probably ran away from wherever she came from looking to become the newest Hollywood star.’

  ‘Don’t they all?’ Hunter said matter-of-factly.

  ‘That didn’t work out, so she ended up becoming a pro, working for our scumbag friend D-King.’

  ‘Welcome to the Hollywood dream.’

  Garcia nodded.

  ‘No easy identification via DNA then?’

  ‘Not until we locate her family.’

  ‘And we’ll obviously have no joy with dental records.’

  ‘Not after the job the killer’s done on her.’

  They spent a minute in silence. Their eyes back on the photographs. Hunter finished the rest of his coffee before glancing at his watch – 5:15 p.m. He grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and checked the pockets as always.

  ‘You’re leaving?’ Garcia asked half surprised.

  ‘I’m already late for a dinner appointment, and anyway I think we need to try and disconnect from this case even if just for a few hours. You should go home to your wife, have some dinner, take her out, get laid . . . poor woman.’

  Garcia laughed. ‘I will, I just wanna go over a few more things before I leave. Dinner plans huh? Is she nice?’

  ‘She’s pretty. Very sexy,’ Hunter said with a matter-of-fact shrug.

  ‘Well, have a good time, I’ll see you tomorrow.’ Garcia started flipping through some files. Hunter stopped by the door, turned and watched Garcia. Hunter had seen that same scene before. It was like looking back in time, the only difference was he’d be sitting in Garcia’s seat and Scott would be by the door. He sensed in Garcia the same passion for success, the same hunger for the truth that still burned inside him, the same desire that had almost driven him to the brink of madness but unlike Garcia, he’d learned to control it.

  ‘Go home, rookie, it’s not worth it, we’ll carry on tomorrow.’

  ‘Ten minutes, that’s all.’ Garcia gave Hunter a friendly wink before turning his attention back to the computer.

  Thirty-Five

  Hunter hated being late, but he knew he wouldn’t make it in time from the moment he left his RHD office. He’d never been the type to pay much attention to his clothes, but today he tried all seven of his ‘going
out’ shirts on at least twice and his indecision had cost him almost an hour. In the end he’d decided to go with a dark-blue cotton shirt, black Levi’s jeans and his new leather blazer jacket. His main problem was choosing a pair of shoes. He had three and all of them were at least ten years old. He couldn’t believe he’d spent so much time choosing what to wear. After splashing a handful of cologne on his face and neck he was ready to leave.

  On the way to Isabella’s apartment he stopped at a liquor store to pick up a bottle of wine. Hunter’s alcohol knowledge was restricted to single malt whisky, so he accepted the salesman’s advice and bought a 1992 bottle of Mas de Daumas Gassac, and hoped it would go with whatever she was cooking. For the price he paid, it’d better.

  The entrance hall to her Glendale apartment block was pleasantly decorated. Authentic oil paintings adorned the walls. A beautifully arranged bouquet of colored flowers sat on a squared glass table in the center of the room. Hunter caught a glimpse of his reflection in a full-length mirror positioned to the right of the door and made sure his hair was all in place. He rearranged his blazer collar before making his way up to the second floor via the stairs. He paused in front of number 214 and stood still for a moment. There was music coming from inside. A suave beat with strong bass lines and softly played tenor sax – contemporary jazz. She had good taste. Hunter liked that. He reached for the doorbell.

  Isabella’s hair was tied back in a loose style with several strands falling over her shoulders fully exposing her face. Her light-red lipstick and subtle eye make-up perfectly contrasted with her olive tanned skin and emphasized her European features. She was wearing a tight, red charmeuse satin top, a black pair of jeans and no shoes. Hunter didn’t need X-ray vision to notice she was wearing no bra.

  ‘Hi there, you’re fashionably late,’ she said as she leant forward to give Hunter a peck on the lips.

  ‘I’m sorry about that. I had a bad hair day.’

  ‘You too?’ She laughed, pointing to her own hair. ‘Come in.’ She pulled him by the hand and led him into the living room. There was a pleasant and exotic smell in the apartment. The living room was illuminated by soft light courtesy of a table lamp in the corner next to a comfortable-looking leather armchair.

  ‘I hope this goes with dinner, I’m not a wine expert so I followed a recommendation,’ he said, handing her the wine bottle.

  Isabella held it with both hands and tilted it towards the dim light so she could read the label. ‘Ooh! Mas de Daumas Gassac . . . and a 1992 bottle, I’m impressed. I’m sure this goes well with anything. How about a small glass now?’

  ‘That sounds good to me.’

  ‘Great, the glasses are on the table and the corkscrew is just over there.’ She pointed to a small drinks cabinet next to the window. ‘Dinner will be ready soon. Make yourself comfortable.’ She turned and walked back into the kitchen leaving Hunter to do the honors.

  He took his jacket off, remembering to remove his Wildey pistol as well. He picked up the corkscrew from the drinks cabinet and opened the wine bottle, pouring the dense red liquid into two glasses on the table. Next to the drinks cabinet an elegant glass rack held a considerable number of CDs. Hunter couldn’t help browsing through them. Her jazz collection was impressive, most of it contemporary with a few old school classics thrown in. Everything immaculately arranged in alphabetical order. A handful of autographed Rock albums disrupted the remarkable jazz compilation. Hunter quickly had a look at them. So she secretly listens to rock music, he thought with a smile. My kinda woman.

  ‘Whatever it is that you’re cooking smells great,’ he said, walking into the kitchen with both glasses in hand. He handed one to Isabella who slowly swirled it around and brought it to her nose before having a small sip.

  ‘Wow, as I expected . . . delicious.’

  Hunter had no idea what difference it made but he copied Isabella’s moves, swirling, sniffing and sipping.

  ‘Yeah, not bad.’ They both laughed.

  She lifted her glass in Hunter’s direction. ‘To . . . a nice evening together. Hopefully with no phone interruptions.’

  Hunter nodded and softly touched his glass against hers.

  The evening proceeded better than Hunter could’ve hoped for. Isabella cooked veal parmesan with prosciutto and Mediterranean roasted vegetables, which came as a surprise. He was expecting some traditional Italian pasta dish. Most of the conversation over dinner revolved around her life, with Hunter revealing very little about his own.

  She grew up in New York. Her parents were first-generation Italian immigrants who had come to the United States during the early seventies. They owned a restaurant in Little Italy where she spent most of her childhood and teenage years together with her brother. She’d moved to LA only five years ago when she accepted a research job with the University of California in Los Angeles. She still flew back to New York at least three times a year to visit her folks.

  ‘Do you keep in touch with your brother?’ Hunter asked.

  Isabella took her time before pulling her stare away from her wine glass. ‘My brother passed away,’ she said with sadness in her eyes.

  ‘Oh! I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ she replied with a slight shake of the head. ‘It was a while ago.’

  ‘Were you still kids?’

  Her stare went back to her wine glass. Hunter could tell she was searching for the right words. ‘He was a Marine, sent to a war we didn’t belong. In a country most Americans can’t even spell the name of.’

  Hunter wondered if he should ask any more about it, but Isabella made the decision for him. ‘You know, this ain’t fair,’ she said, clearing the table and taking the dishes into the kitchen.

  ‘What ain’t fair?’ Hunter followed her, carrying both glasses with what was left of the wine.

  ‘You. I’ve basically told you my whole life story and every time I ask you about yours you give me some evasive answer. Is that a common thing among detectives?’ She turned on the sink tap placing the plates under the running water.

  ‘We’re very good at asking questions, but not so hot at answering them.’ Hunter had another sip of his wine and watched Isabella wash the first plate and place it on the dish rack. ‘Wait. Let me do that for you.’ He placed his hand on her shoulder and gently led her away from the sink. She smiled and picked up her wine glass.

  ‘So you’ll tell me nothing of your life.’ She tried again.

  Hunter finished washing the remainder of the dishes and turned to face her. ‘I’m a detective for the Los Angeles Robbery-Homicide Division, assigned to a section called Homicide Special 1. We only deal with serial killers, high-profile and other homicide cases that require extensive time. In other words, I’m assigned mainly sick, overly brutal cases. The people I deal with on a day-to-day basis are either very evil or very dead. The things I see every day would make most people sick to the stomach. Talking about my life is, without a doubt, the biggest conversation killer anyone could come up with.’ He paused for another sip of wine. ‘Trust me, you don’t really wanna know about my days or my job.’

  ‘OK then. Don’t tell me about your job. Tell me about your childhood, your family.’

  ‘Not much to tell,’ he said shortly.

  She understood and decided not to push it. ‘OK. I like mystery.’ His boyish charm excited her. She stepped closer and took the glass from his hand placing it on the kitchen worktop. She slowly moved her face nearer until her mouth was less than an inch from Hunter’s left ear.

  ‘So what do you do to relax?’ Her sexy voice was now just a tender whisper. Her warm breath against his neck made him rigid. Hunter lent his face back just enough so they were looking into each other’s eyes.

  ‘Can I suggest something?’ At that moment their lips touched. Hunter immediately felt her soft tongue against his and they exploded into a passionate kiss. He pulled her closer and felt the stiffness of her nipples against his chest. He pushed her against the worktop and lifted her onto it. In
an instant she’d lost her blouse, Hunter’s mouth exploring every inch of her breasts. Isabella threw her head back and moaned with pleasure. Before Hunter had a chance to unbutton his shirt she grabbed it with both hands and ripped it from his body, the buttons bouncing over the worktop and floor. They embraced once again, leading to another ferocious kiss; this time Isabella plunged her long red nails into Hunter’s back, her grip tight and tender at the same time.

  They made love over the worktop, on the kitchen floor and then moved into the bedroom. By the time their sexual desires were satisfied the first rays of sunlight had started to grace the sky.

  ‘I’m exhausted,’ she said, rolling over towards Hunter and resting her hand on his chest. ‘You were good the first time we met, but boy, what an improvement.’ A smile played around at the corners of her mouth.

  ‘I really hope so.’ Hunter turned to face her and gently moved a strand of hair away from her eyes.

  She kissed him again. ‘I’m starving, how about some food? It’s almost breakfast time anyway.’

  ‘Great idea.’ They both got out of bed. Isabella searched one of her drawers for some clean clothes while Hunter went back into the kitchen where all of his were scattered around the floor.

  ‘What happened to teddy-bear underwear?’ Isabella had just walked back into the kitchen wearing nothing but a pair of white lace panties.

  ‘You better put something else on or we’re gonna go through everything we did last night all over again.’ His eyes never leaving her body.

  ‘Is that a promise?’ she said, picking Hunter’s shirt from the floor and putting it on. There were no buttons left so she simply tied a knot around her waist. ‘Is this better?’ She gave him a quick wink.

  Hunter swallowed dry. ‘It actually turns me on even more.’

  ‘Great, but let’s have breakfast first.’ She opened the fridge door and retrieved a few eggs, a carton of milk, a small bottle of orange juice and from the freezer some hash browns.

  ‘Do you need any help?’ Hunter asked.