The Crucifix Killer rh-1

by Chris Carter

  Hunter felt his chest knot around his heart. His eyes left the room and rested on D-King’s baffled face.

  ‘Kids,’ Hunter whispered. The anger in his voice as clear as a loud shout.

  D-King’s eyes seemed glued to the room’s decoration. It took him another thirty seconds to face Hunter. ‘Kids?’ D-King’s voice trailed off. ‘Kids?’ This time a powerful cry as he stormed back into the first room. The sadness inside him had been replaced by pure rage.

  ‘This is fucked up, man,’ Jerome said, shaking his head.

  ‘You do this to kids? What kind of sick fucks are you?’ D-King demanded standing before the three bound men. His bravado met with silence, his eyes met by no one.

  Hunter’s stare rested on the three naked men. He simply didn’t care anymore.

  ‘Let me tell you something, Detective Hunter.’ D-King’s voice quivered with anger. ‘I grew up on the streets. I’ve dealt with scum my whole life. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt is that out here we have our own way of dealing with things. Most motherfuckers aren’t scared of getting caught. Prison is like holiday camp. It’s their home away from home. In there they’ve got their gangs, their drugs and their bitches. It ain’t much different from outside. But they’d shit a brick if they thought street-law was knocking on their fucking door. Out here we’re the jury, the judge and the executioner. This doesn’t concern you or your law. They’ll pay for what they’ve done to Jenny and you ain’t coming between me and them.’

  There was more to it than rage. Hunter knew he’d been right. To D-King Jenny had been a lot more than just one of the girls.

  Hunter turned to face the three men tied to the metal chairs. They stared back at him with insolent smiles, like they knew he had to take them in, it was protocol, it was what cops had to do.

  Hunter felt tired. He’d had enough. He wasn’t even supposed to be there. This had nothing to do with the Crucifix Killer. This was D-King’s problem.

  ‘Fuck protocol,’ Hunter whispered. ‘I was never here.’

  D-King gave him a quick nod and watched as Hunter holstered his weapon and silently made for the door.

  ‘Wait!’ the tattooed man shouted. ‘You can’t just walk away. You’re a fucking cop. How about our human rights?’

  Hunter didn’t stop. He didn’t even look back as he closed the door behind him.

  ‘Rights?’ D-King asked with an animated laugh. ‘We’ll give you your rights . . . your last rites.’

  ‘What do we do about this place . . . and them,’ Jerome tilted his head towards the men in the first room.

  ‘Torch the place, but we’ll take them with us. We still gotta get the name of their ringleader out of them.’

  ‘Do you think they’ll talk?’

  ‘Oh they’ll talk, I promise you. If it’s sodomizing pain they’re into, we’ll give it to them . . . over a ten-day period.’ The evil smile on D-King’s lips made even Jerome shudder.

  Back in his car Hunter stared at his shaking hands, struggling with an agonizing and uneasy feeling. He was a detective. He was supposed to uphold the law and he’d just disregarded it. His heart told him he’d done the right thing, but his conscience didn’t agree. D-King’s words still echoed in his ears. Out here we’re the jury, the judge and the executioner. Suddenly Hunter stopped breathing.

  ‘That’s it,’ he said in a trembling voice. ‘That’s where I know him from.’

  Sixty-Five

  With his heart thumping violently against his chest, Hunter made his way back to the RHD as fast as he could. He needed to check some old records.

  As he entered his office he was glad it was on a separate floor to all the other detectives. He needed to do this alone, no disturbances. He locked the door behind him and fired up his computer.

  ‘Be right . . . be right . . .’ he said to himself as he accessed the California Department of Justice databank. Hunter quickly typed in the name he wanted to search for, selected the criteria and hit the ‘search’ button. As the Department of Justice data server went to work, he sat still staring anxiously at the little dot moving back and forth on the screen. The seconds seemed like minutes.

  ‘C’mon . . .’ he urged the computer to work faster as he paced nervously in front of his desk. Two minutes later the dot stopped moving and the message No Results Found appeared on the screen.

  ‘Shit!’

  He tried again. This time going back a few more years. He knew he was right, he knew this had to be it.

  The familiar dot started moving on the screen again and Hunter went back to pacing the room. His anxiety at boiling point. He stopped in front of the picture-covered corkboard and stared at all the photographs. He knew it was there, the answer was there.

  The searching dot stopped moving and this time the screen filled up with data.

  ‘Yes . . .’ he said triumphantly, moving back to his desk and quickly scanning the information on the screen. As he found what he was looking for he frowned.

  ‘You gotta be shitting me!’

  Hunter sat in silence thinking about what to do next. ‘The family trees,’ he said. ‘The victims’ family trees.’

  On the initial investigation Hunter and Scott had tried everything they could think of to establish a link between the victims. They’d even traced the family trees for some of them. Hunter knew he had it somewhere. He started flipping through the mountain of paper on his desk that constituted the old case files.

  ‘Here it is,’ he said, as he finally came across the lists. He analyzed them for a few moments. ‘This is it.’ Hunter moved back to his computer and typed in a new name. The result came back almost instantly now that the search criteria had been narrowed down to exactly what he wanted.

  Another match . . . and then another.

  Hunter massaged his tired eyes. His whole body ached, but his new discovery had injected new life into his veins. He wasn’t able to establish links between all the victims, but he already knew why.

  ‘How could I’ve missed this before?’ he asked himself, as he knocked on his forehead with his clenched fist. But he knew exactly how. This was an old case, going back several years. A case where he’d been the arresting officer. The obscured victims’ links sometimes spanned three generations according to the family trees. Some of them not family at all. Without a hint he would’ve never found it. Without D-King he would’ve never thought of it.

  Robert started pacing the room once again and stopped in front of Garcia’s desk. A sudden overwhelming sadness brought a tight knot to his throat. His partner was lying in hospital in a semi-coma and there was nothing he could do. He remembered Anna’s sad eyes. How she sat next to her husband’s bed waiting for a sign of life. She loved him more than anything. There’s no love stronger than family love, Hunter thought and then stopped dead. The hair on the back of his neck standing on end.

  ‘Holy shit!’

  He rushed back to his computer and for the next hour he devoured every result page he came across with astounding eagerness and surprise. Slowly, everything was falling into place.

  The arrest files . . . the tattoos, he remembered. A few minutes later, after searching the RHD’s own database, he was staring at the arrest records from the old case.

  ‘This can’t be . . .’ he stuttered the words catatonically. A mixture of excitement and fear sucked the heat out of his body. Suddenly, he remembered what he’d seen just a few weeks ago and his stomach knotted. ‘How blind have I been?’ he murmured before turning to his computer for one last search. A name that could bring everything together. It took him less than a minute to find it.

  ‘I had it right in front of me,’ he whispered, staring blankly at his computer screen. ‘I had the answer right in front of me.’

  He needed one final confirmation and it had to come from the San Francisco Police Department. After speaking to Lieutenant Morris from the SFPD over the phone he waited impatiently for Morris to fax him an arrest file. When the file came through half an hour later Hun
ter stared at it soundless. His mind battling reality. It was an old photograph, but there was no doubt in his mind – he knew who that person was.

  Proof. That’s what every investigation comes down to and Hunter had none. There was no way he could link the person on that photograph to any of the Crucifix Killings and he knew it. No matter how sure he was, without proof he had nothing. He checked his watch one more time before reaching for the phone and placing one last call.

  Sixty-Six

  Hunter drove slowly, taking no notice as the other drivers sped past him shouting profanities out of their windows.

  He parked in front of his apartment building and rested his head on the steering wheel for a moment. His headache, if anything, had worsened and he knew tablets would have no effect. Before leaving the car he checked his cell phone for missed calls or messages. A futile exercise as he was sure he didn’t have any. He’d left instructions with everyone at the hospital that he should be informed the second Garcia regained consciousness, but something told him that wouldn’t happen tonight.

  He stepped into his empty apartment and closed the door behind him, resting his throbbing body against it. The devastating solitude of his living room saddened him even further.

  With his brain half numb he slowly walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge and stared at it blankly for a few seconds. His body should be screaming for food as he hadn’t eaten anything all day, but he didn’t feel at all hungry. In reality he was dying for a shower. It would help relax his tense muscles, but that would have to come second. His primary need was for a double Scotch.

  He struggled to make a decision, staring at the bottles in his small bar for a few seconds. He smiled as he decided to go for something strong – Aberlour thirty years. He filled his glass halfway and opted for no ice this time. ‘The stronger the better,’ he told himself, collapsing into his beat-up sofa. The effect of the strong liquid as it touched his lips was invigorating. It burned against the small cuts that surrounded his mouth, but he welcomed the sensation – enjoyable pain.

  He rested his head against the sofa backrest, but forced himself not to close his eyes. He feared the images that hid behind his eyelids. He spent a couple of minutes staring at the ceiling, allowing the sturdy taste of his single malt to numb his tongue and mouth. Soon he knew it would numb his entire body.

  He got up and walked to the window. Outside, the street looked quiet. He turned to face the empty living room once again. His body was slowly relaxing. He had another sip of his whisky and checked his cell phone once again pressing a few keys to make sure it was working OK.

  In the kitchen he placed his glass on the table and sat down. Leaning back on the uncomfortable wooden chair he rubbed his face vigorously with both hands. As he did so, he heard a faint creaking sound coming from the corridor that led to his room. A shiver of fear raced through his body with extraordinary speed. Someone was there.

  Hunter jumped to his feet and immediately felt the kitchen spinning around him. His legs started losing their strength and he held on to the worktop for balance. As confusion set in, his eyes rested on the empty whisky glass on the table. Drugged.

  Before he collapsed onto the kitchen floor his unfocused eyes registered a dark figure moving towards him.

  Sixty-Seven

  Slowly he opened his eyes, but it made no difference. The darkness was unconditional. He felt dizzy and very light-headed. Whatever drug he’d taken with his whisky had knocked him out in minutes. The first thing he realized was that he was sitting down, bound to some sort of uncomfortable chair. His hands were tied behind his back, his ankles tied to the chair’s legs. He tried breaking free but his efforts were in vain. His body hurt even more now but he was sure he had no broken bones – at least not yet. He felt thirsty – very thirsty.

  Hunter had no idea how long he’d been out. Slowly and painfully his memory began to fill him in on what had happened. He tried to calm himself down and a familiar feeling came over him. He looked around in darkness and even though he couldn’t see, he knew where he was. He’d never left his apartment. He was sitting in his living room.

  He tried moving again, but his hands and legs had been bound too tight. He made an effort to scream but his voice barely made a sound. It surprised him how weak he felt. Suddenly he sensed a chilling presence behind him.

  ‘I can hear you’re awake.’

  The same robotic voice that had tormented him for over three years echoed through the room, catching him by surprise and startling him stiff. It came from behind him, some sort of speaker set up. Hunter felt a strange sensation run through him. He was finally in the presence of the killer. The Crucifix Killer.

  Hunter tried turning, rotating his neck as far as it would go, but darkness prevented him from seeing his assailant.

  ‘Don’t rush it, Robert. This is the final chapter. For you at least. It’ll all end tonight. Right here. You’re the last one.’

  The last one. Hunter’s findings in his office were now confirmed. This had all been about revenge.

  He suddenly heard the sound of metal against metal. Surgical instruments he presumed. Instinctively his body went rigid with fear, but consciously he forced himself to stay calm. Hunter understood the psychology of killers, especially serial killers. The one thing they want more than anything else is to be understood. To them their killings have meaning, they serve a purpose and they want their victims to know they aren’t dying in vain. Before the kill, there’s always the explanation.

  ‘Tonight you’ll pay for what you’ve done.’

  Those last words sent a judder of recognition through Hunter’s body. The voice that came from behind him was loud and clear – not robotic – not metallic – no distortion box. Hunter didn’t need to search his memory, he didn’t need to think about it. He knew that voice and he knew it well. All of a sudden the darkness disappeared. Hunter squeezed his eyes as uneven circles of light blurred his vision. His pupils contracted trying to get used to the brightness. As the blurriness dissipated a familiar shape took form in front of his eyes.

  Sixty-Eight

  The blurriness seemed to have taken forever to subside, but once his eyes regained focus he knew he’d been right. Strangely enough he didn’t want to believe it. His eyes fixed on the person standing before him.

  ‘By the look on your face I can see you’re surprised,’ she said, her voice as sweet as it’d always been.

  Hunter had hoped he’d been wrong. But now, staring at her, it all fell into place. He managed to whisper only one word. ‘Isabella.’

  She smiled at him. The same smile he’d seen so many times, but this time her smile carried something else, something it’d never carried before. A hidden evil.

  ‘I thought you’d be happy to see me.’ Her Italian accent was gone. In fact, everything about her was different. As if the Isabella he knew had vanished, replaced by a total stranger.

  Hunter’s expression remained immutable. His brain was finally piecing together the last of the puzzle.

  ‘You deserve an Oscar. Your Italian accent was perfect.’

  She bowed down acknowledging the compliment.

  ‘Very clever trick with that phone call at the restaurant too. A perfect alibi,’ Hunter said, remembering the call he’d received from the killer when he was having lunch with her for the first time. ‘A recorded message with a timer. Simple, but very effective.’

  A hint of a smile creased her lips. ‘Allow me to introduce myself . . .’ she said steadily.

  ‘Brenda . . .’ Hunter interrupted in a hoarse and weak voice. ‘Brenda Spencer . . . John Spencer’s sister. The record producer.’

  She shot him a surprised and uncomfortable look. ‘Doctor Brenda Spencer if you don’t mind,’ she corrected him.

  ‘A medical doctor,’ Hunter asserted.

  ‘If you must know . . . a surgeon.’ A new malevolent smile.

  ‘This has all been about revenge for your brother’s death?’ Hunter asked, already knowing the answe
r.

  ‘Very good, Robert,’ she said overenthusiastically clapping her hands together like a child who’d just been given another unexpected present.

  The ghostly silence that followed seemed to go on forever.

  ‘He committed suicide in his cell,’ Hunter finally offered.

  ‘He committed suicide because you failed to do your fucking job.’ The anger in her voice was undeniable. ‘To protect and to serve, what a joke. He was innocent and you knew it.’ She paused, letting her words float through the room. ‘He’d told you many times that he would’ve never hurt Linda. He loved her, the sort of love you’d never understand.’ She took a moment to collect herself again. ‘You interviewed him. You knew he was innocent and still you let them sentence him. You could’ve done something, but instead you let them sentence an innocent man to death.’

  Hunter remembered the dinner he had at Isabella’s. She’d lied about everything to do with her life, but she did mention a dead brother. That had been a mistake, a slip-up. She was fast to cover it up with the Marine story, saying her brother died serving his country. A bullshit story, but Hunter didn’t pick it up. What he saw in her eyes that night wasn’t sadness. It was rage.

  ‘It was out of my hands.’ He thought about telling her how he’d tried to convince others of his opinion about her brother’s case, but there was no point now. It wouldn’t make a difference.

  ‘If you had run the investigation how it should’ve been run you would’ve found the real killer sooner, before my brother lost his mind, before he hanged himself. But you stopped searching.’

  ‘You can’t blame the police for your brother’s suicide.’