by Chris Carter
Twenty-two days after John Spencer’s suicide, their pool cleaner was picked up in Utah. In his car they’d found John’s .38 caliber revolver together with some jewelry and lingerie that had belonged to Linda Spencer. Subsequent forensic tests showed that the bullet that had killed her had come from that same revolver. The pool cleaner later confessed to shooting her.
Hunter and Wilson came under severe scrutiny by the media, the Chief of Police, the Police Commissioner and the Mayor. They’d been accused of negligence and failure to conduct a proper investigation. If Captain Bolter hadn’t intervened in their favor and accepted half the blame they would’ve lost their detective badges. Hunter never stopped blaming himself for not having done more. His friendship with Wilson took a huge knock. That had been six years ago.
Seven
‘What is it? What can you see?’ Garcia asked moving towards his partner, who still hadn’t said a word. Hunter stood motionless and wide-eyed, staring at something carved onto the woman’s neck, something he’d never forget.
After tiptoeing to raise himself above Hunter’s shoulder, Garcia got a better look at the dead woman’s neck, but it still didn’t settle his confusion. He’d never seen the carved symbol before.
‘What does that mean?’ he asked, hoping for an answer from someone.
Silence.
Garcia moved closer. The symbol looked like two crosses in one, one right side up and the other upside down ‡, but the crossbars seemed quite far from each other, almost at the extremities of its vertical beam. To him it meant absolutely nothing.
‘Is this a sick joke, Captain?’ Hunter finally snapped out of his trance.
‘It’s sick alright, but no joke,’ the captain replied in a stern voice.
‘Will somebody fucking talk to me?’ Garcia’s impatience was growing.
‘Shit!’ Hunter blurted, letting the woman’s hair fall back onto her shoulders.
‘Hello!’ Garcia waved his hands in front of Hunter’s eyes. ‘I don’t remember taking my invisible pills this morning, so will somebody let me know what the hell this is all about?’ His irritation was barely disguised.
To Hunter the room had just gotten darker, the air heavier. His headache now hammering his brain made it hard for him to think. He rubbed his gritty eyes in a last hope that this had all been just a bad dream.
‘You’d better fill your partner in, Hunter,’ Captain Bolter said bringing Hunter’s senses crashing back to the room.
‘Thank you,’ Garcia said, relieved to have found an ally.
Hunter still paid Garcia no attention. ‘You know what this means, Captain?’
‘I know what it looks like, yes.’
Hunter ran his fingers through his hair. ‘The media will have a field day when they get hold of this,’ he continued.
‘For now the media won’t get hold of anything, I will take care of that,’ the captain reassured him, ‘but you better find out if this is the real deal.’
‘What real deal?’ Garcia shouted.
Doctor Winston cut in. ‘Well, whatever you have to do, could you do it outside. I need to get the boys in here so they can start processing this room. I don’t really wanna lose any more time on this.’
‘How long to process this place? How long until we know something?’ Hunter asked.
‘I’m not sure, but judging from the size of this house, most of the day, maybe even into the night.’
Hunter knew the procedure well, there was nothing he could do but wait.
‘On your way out, tell the crime lab team to come in will you?’ the doctor asked, walking towards the victim’s body.
‘Yeah, we’ll do that,’ Hunter said nodding at Garcia who was still looking like a lost kid.
‘Nobody’s told me shit yet,’ he protested.
‘C’mon, if you drop me by my car we can talk on the way there.’
Hunter had one more look at the mutilated body tied to the wooden posts. It was hard to imagine that only a few days ago that body had belonged to a woman full of life. Hunter opened the door and stepped out of the room, Garcia right on his heels.
Outside the house Hunter still looked unsettled as they approached Garcia’s car. ‘So where is your car?’ Garcia said opening the door to his Honda Civic.
‘What?’ Hunter’s thoughts seemed to be someplace else.
‘Your car? Where is it?’
‘Oh! In Santa Monica.’
‘Santa Monica! Damn that’s all the way across town.’
‘Do you have anything else to do?’
‘Not anymore,’ Garcia replied with a foolish look. ‘Where exactly did you leave it?’
‘Do you know the Hideout bar?’
‘Yeah, I know it. What the hell were you doing there?’
‘I don’t even remember,’ Hunter replied with a slight shake of the head.
‘It’s gonna take us around two hours to make it to Santa Monica from here. At least we’ll have plenty of time to talk.’
‘Two hours?’ Hunter sounded surprised. ‘What do you have under that hood? A scooter engine?’
‘Did you notice the bumpy roads all around this place? This is a new car. I ain’t screwing my suspension up, so until we clear the lunar surface-like roads, we’ll be going real slow.’
‘Whatever.’ Hunter got into the car and buckled up. He looked around at an obsessive compulsive cleaner’s paradise. The car’s interior was spotless. No potato chip bags on the floor, no coffee spills on the carpet or seats, no donut smudges, nothing.
‘Damn rookie, do you clean this car every day?’
‘I like my car clean, it’s better than a pigsty of a car, don’t you think?’ Garcia sounded proud.
‘And what the hell is this smell? It’s like . . . tutti frutti.’
‘It’s called air freshener. You should try one inside that old beater of yours.’
‘Hey, there’s nothing wrong with my car. Old yes, but built like a fortress. Not like these cheap imports.’
‘This car wasn’t cheap.’
‘Yeah right,’ Hunter replied with a short laugh. ‘Anyway, I’m impressed. Do you clean houses as well? There is a big market out there in Beverly Hills if you ever decide to pack up the detective’s job.’
Garcia ignored Hunter’s comment, started the engine and maneuvered through the few police units that were still parked in front of the old house. He tried his best to avoid brushing his car against the dense shrubs bordering the narrow path and cursed when he heard the sound of wood scraping against metal. Garcia drove slowly at first, trying to minimize the bumpy ride. They were both silent until they reached the main road.
Hunter had driven along Little Tujunga Canyon Road many times. If you are looking to unwind it’s an astonishing drive with heart-warming views.
‘OK, I’m all ears,’ Garcia broke the silence. ‘Enough with the bullshit. What the hell does that weird carving on the back of the victim’s neck mean? You’ve obviously seen it before, judging by your reaction.’
Hunter searched for the correct words as old images came into his mind. He was about to bring Garcia into a nightmare – one he was trying to forget.
‘Have you ever heard of the Crucifix Killer?’
Garcia cocked an eyebrow and looked inquisitively at Hunter. ‘Are you joking?’
Hunter shook his head.
‘Yeah, of course I have. Everyone in LA has heard of the Crucifix Killer. Damn, everyone in the entire USA has heard of the Crucifix Killer. I actually followed the case as closely as I could. Why?’
‘What do you know about him? What do you know about the case?’
‘Are you trying to brag now?’ he asked with an uncomfortable smile as if waiting for the obvious answer – he got none. ‘Are you serious? You want me to talk to you about the case?’
‘Humor me.’
‘OK,’ Garcia replied with a whatever head movement. ‘It was probably your biggest case. Seven horrific homicides over a two-year period. Some crazy, religious fan
atic. You and your ex-partner caught the guy about a year and a half ago. He was picked up driving out of LA. If I’m not mistaken, he had a shitload of evidence inside the car with him, victim’s belongings and stuff like that. Apparently even his interrogation didn’t take that long; he confessed straight away, didn’t he?’
‘How do you know about his interrogation?’
‘I’m still a cop remember? We get some good inside information. Anyway, he got the death penalty and the lethal shot about a year ago, one of the quickest executed sentences in history. Even the president got involved right? It was all over the news.’
Hunter studied his partner for a moment. Garcia knew the story as it’d been told by the press.
‘Is that all you know? Do you know why the press called him the Crucifix Killer?’
It was now Garcia’s turn to study his partner for a quick second. ‘Have you been drinking?’
‘Not for a few hours,’ Hunter said instinctively checking his watch.
‘Yes, everyone knows why. As I’ve said he was a religious fanatic. He thought he was ridding the world of sinners or some crap like that. You know – prostitutes, drug addicts – whoever the little voices in his sick mind told him to kill. Anyway, the reason he was called the Crucifix Killer was because he branded a crucifix on the back of every victim’s left hand.’
Hunter sat in silence for a moment.
‘Wait a second! Do you think this is a copycat case? I mean – carving that strange symbol on the back of that woman’s neck. It did look like some sort of crucifix if you think about it,’ Garcia said, picking up on Hunter’s hint.
Hunter didn’t answer back. Silence took over for another two or three minutes. They’d now reached Sand Canyon Road, an exclusive neighborhood in Santa Clarita and the view had changed to large houses with impeccably treated lawns. Hunter was glad to be back in civilization again. Traffic was getting a little busier as people made their way into work. Hunter could see businessmen and women stepping out of their front doors in their nice suits ready for another day at the office. The first rays of sunlight had just graced the sky in what was already promising to be another scorching hot day.
‘Since we’re talking about the Crucifix murders, can I ask you something?’ Garcia ended the silence in the car.
‘Yeah, shoot,’ Hunter replied in a monotonous tone.
‘There were rumors going around that either you or your partner never believed that the guy you caught was the killer – despite all the evidence found in his car and despite his confession – is that true?’
Old images of Hunter’s only interrogation session with the so-called Crucifix Killer started playing in his mind.
Click . . .
‘Wednesday 15th of February – 10:30 a.m. Detective Robert Hunter initiating the interrogation of Mike Farloe concerning case 017632. The interviewee has declined the right to counsel,’ Hunter spoke into the old-fashioned tape recorder inside one of the eight interrogation rooms in the RHD building.
Opposite Hunter sat a thirty-four-year-old man with a strong jaw, protruding chin covered in three-day-old stubble and dark eyes as cold as black ice. His hairline was receding and the little black hair that remained was thin and combed back. His cuffed hands were placed over the broad metal table that sat between him and Hunter, palms down.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to have a lawyer present?’
‘The lord is my shepherd.’
‘OK then. Your name is Mike Farloe is that correct?’
The man lifted his stare from his cuffed hands and looked straight into Hunter’s eyes. ‘Yes.’
‘And your present address is number 5 Sandoval Street in Santa Fe?’
Mike was strangely calm for someone who was facing a multiple homicide charge. ‘That’s where I used to live, yes.’
‘Used to?’
‘I’m gonna live in prison now, isn’t that right detective? At least for a little while.’ His voice was dull and steady.
‘Do you wanna go to prison?’
Silence.
Hunter was the best interrogator at the RHD. His knowledge of psychology allowed him to extract extremely valuable information from suspects, sometimes even confessions. He could read a suspect’s body language and tell-tales like a billboard. Captain Bolter wanted every little piece of information he could get from Mike Farloe – Robert Hunter was his secret weapon.
‘Can you remember where you were on the night of 15th of December last year?’ Hunter was now referring to the night before the last Crucifix Killer’s victim was found.
Mike was still staring straight at him. ‘Yes I can . . .’
Hunter waited a few seconds for the remainder of the answer. It never came.
‘And where were you?’
‘I was working.’
‘And what is it that you do?’
‘I clean the city.’
‘You’re a garbage collector?’
‘Correct, but I also work for Our Lord Jesus Christ.’
‘Doing what?’
‘I clean the city,’ he repeated calmly. ‘I rid this city of filth – sinners.’
Hunter could feel Captain Bolter shifting in his chair inside the observation room on the other side of the two-way mirror mounted on the north wall.
Hunter massaged the back of his neck with his right hand. ‘OK, how about the . . .’ – he flipped through a few notes he had with him – ‘ . . . 22nd of September, do you remember where you were on that night?’
Inside the small observation room Scott looked puzzled. ‘22nd of September? What the hell happened on that day? There was no victim found on that date, or even close to it. What the fuck is Hunter doing?’
The seven Crucifix Killer dates had been imprinted into Scott’s brain, and he was sure Hunter knew them by heart, no need to check any notes.
‘Let him do his job, he knows what he’s doing.’ The answer came from Doctor Martin, a police psychologist also observing the interrogation.
‘The same. I was doing exactly the same thing,’ Mike replied convincingly. His answer caught everyone in the observation room by surprise.
‘What?’ Scott mumbled. ‘Is there a victim we don’t know about?’
Captain Bolter’s answer was a simple shrug.
Hunter had been observing Mike Farloe’s reactions, trying to get an insight into his thoughts, trying to read his tell-tale signs. Text-book behavior psychology told Hunter to monitor Mike’s eye movement – up and to the left meant he was accessing his visual constructive cortex, trying to create an image in his mind that didn’t exist before, a clear indication of lying – up and to the right meant he was searching his memory for visually remembered images, therefore, probably telling the truth – there was no movement whatsoever, his eyes were as still as a dead man’s.
‘How about the items that were found in your car, can you tell me about them? How did you get them?’ Hunter asked, referring to the passport, the driver’s license and the social security card that had been found inside a paper bag hidden away in the spare tire compartment of Mike Farloe’s 1992 rusty Oldsmobile Custom Cruiser. Each of the items belonging to a different victim. Inside his trunk the police had also found some bloody rags. The blood on them matching the DNA on three of the victims.
‘I got them from the sinners.’
‘The sinners?’
‘Yes . . . don’t play dumb, detective, you know what I mean.’
‘Maybe I don’t. Why don’t you explain it to me?’
‘You know the world wasn’t meant to be this way.’ The first hint of emotion from Mike finally coming through – anger. ‘Every second of every day a new sin is committed. Every second of every day we disrespect and disregard the laws that were given to us by the highest power of all. The world can’t go on like this, disrespecting Our Lord, disregarding his message. Someone has to punish them.’
‘And that someone is you?’
Silence.
‘To me all those victims we
re just normal people, not great sinners.’
‘That’s because your eyes have been glued the fuck shut, detective. You’ve been so blinded by the filth in this city that you can’t see straight anymore. None of you can. A prostitute selling her body for cash, spreading disease throughout the city.’ Hunter knew he was talking about the second victim. ‘A lawyer whose sole purpose in life was to defend scumbag drug dealers just so he could pay for his playboy lifestyle. A person with no morals,’ referring to the fifth victim. ‘A high city roller who fucked her way to the top, any cock would do as long as it moved her up a step . . .’ the sixth victim. ‘They needed to pay. They needed to learn that you can’t just walk away from the laws of God. They needed to be taught a lesson.’
‘And that’s what you were doing?’
‘Yes . . . I was serving Our Lord.’ The anger was gone. His voice as serene as a baby’s laughter.
‘PSYCHO.’ The comment came from Scott inside the observation room.
Hunter poured himself a glass of cold water from the aluminum jug on the table.
‘Would you like some water?’
‘No thanks, detective.’
‘Can I get you anything . . . coffee, a cigarette?’
His response was a simple shake of the head.
Hunter still couldn’t read Mike Farloe. There were no variations in his tone of voice, no sudden movements, no change in facial expressions. His eyes remained deadly cold, devoid of any emotion. His hands remained still. There was no increase in perspiration on his forehead or hands. Hunter needed more time.
‘Do you believe in God, detective?’ Mike asked calmly. ‘Do you pray to repent your sins?’
‘I believe in God. What I don’t believe in is murder,’ Hunter replied evenly.
Mike Farloe’s eyes were on Hunter as if the roles had reversed, as if he were the one trying to read Hunter’s reactions. Hunter was about to pop another question when Farloe spoke first. ‘Detective, why don’t we cut the bullshit and go straight to the point? Ask me what you are here to ask me. Ask and you shall be answered.’
‘And what is that? What is it that I’m here to ask you?’
‘You wanna know if I committed those murders. You wanna know if I am who they call the Crucifix Killer.’