The Crucifix Killer (33 page)

‘Please go on.’ Garcia was starting to enjoy the exercise.

‘She’s got a diamond-encrusted W on her necklace. I’d say her name would be either Wendy or Whitney, those being the two favorite names beginning with W of rich parents in Los Angeles. She loves flirting, it boosts her ego even more, but she prefers more mature men.’

‘OK, now you’re pushing it?’

‘No I’m not. She only returns eye contact from more mature men, ignoring the flirtation of younger guys.’

‘That’s not true. She keeps on checking out the guy standing next to her and he looks quite young to me.’

‘She’s not looking at him. She’s looking at his cigarette pack in his shirt pocket. She probably gave up smoking not so long ago.’

Garcia had a peculiar grin on his face when he got up.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Check out how good you really are.’ Hunter looked on as Garcia started towards the bar.

‘Excuse me, you don’t happen to have an extra cigarette do you?’ he said, approaching the two women but directing his question to the blond one.

She gave him a charming and pleasant smile. ‘I’m sorry, but I quit smoking two months ago.’

‘Really? I’m trying to myself. It’s not easy,’ Garcia said, returning the smile. His eyes moved to the bar and onto her key ring. ‘You drive a Merc?’

‘Yeah, just got it a few weeks ago.’ Her excitement was almost contagious.

‘Very nice, is it a C-Class?’

‘SLK convertible,’ she replied proudly.

‘That’s a very good choice.’

‘I know. I love my car.’

‘By the way, I’m Carlos,’ he said, extending his hand.

‘I’m Wendy, and this is Barbara.’ She pointed to her brunette friend.

‘It’s been very nice meeting you both. Enjoy the rest of your evening,’ he said with a smile before returning to Hunter’s table.

‘OK, I’m even more impressed now than I was before,’ he commented as he sat down. ‘One thing is for sure. I ain’t never playing poker against you,’ he said, laughing.

While Garcia was testing Hunter’s profiling skills, the waitress had come back with their dinner. ‘Wow, I was hungrier than I thought,’ Garcia said after having finished his BBQ ribs together with the Caesar salad. Hunter was still munching on his burger. Garcia waited until he was done. ‘How come you decided to be a cop? I mean, you could’ve been a profiler, you know . . . gone and worked for the FBI or something like that.’

Hunter had another sip of his beer and used the napkin on his mouth. ‘And you think that working for the FBI is better than working as a Homicide detective?’

‘I didn’t say that,’ Garcia protested. ‘What I meant is that you had a choice and you picked being a Homicide detective. I know a lot of cops who’d kill for the chance to work for the feds.’

‘Would you?’

Garcia’s eyes didn’t shy away from Hunter’s. ‘Not me, I don’t really much care for the feds.’

‘And why is that?’

‘To me they’re just a whole bunch of glorified cops who think they are better than everyone else simply because they wear cheap black suits, sunglasses and earpieces.’

‘First day I met you I thought you wanted to be an FBI agent. You were wearing a cheap suit.’ A smirk on Hunter’s face.

‘Hey, that suit wasn’t cheap at all. I like that suit, it’s my only suit.’

‘Yeah, I could’ve guessed that.’ The smirk turned into a sarcastic smile. ‘At first I thought I would become a criminal profiler. That would’ve been the logical move after my PhD.’

‘Yeah. I’ve heard you were some kind of child prodigy, a genius in what you did.’

‘I moved through school faster than usual,’ Hunter said, playing it down.

‘And is it true that you’ve written a book that’s used as a study guide by the FBI?’

‘It wasn’t a book. It was my PhD thesis paper. But yes, it was made into a book and the last I heard it was still used by the FBI.’

‘Now that’s impressive,’ Garcia said, pushing his plate away. ‘So what made you choose not to become an FBI profiler?’

‘I spent all of my childhood immersed in books. That’s all I did when I was young. I read. I guess I was starting to get bored of the academic life. I needed something with a little more excitement,’ Hunter said, revealing only half the truth.

‘And the FBI wouldn’t be exciting enough?’ Garcia asked with a mocking smile.

‘FBI profilers aren’t field agents. They work behind desks and inside offices. Not the kind of excitement I was looking for. Plus I wasn’t ready to lose the little sanity I had.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t think most human brains are strong enough to go through the journey of becoming a criminal profiler in today’s society and come out on the other side unscathed. Anyone who decides to put themselves through that sort of pressure inevitably will pay the price, and that price is too high.’

Garcia looked a little confused.

‘Look, there are basically two schools, two main theories where criminal profiling is concerned. Some psychologists believe that evil is something inherent to certain individuals, they believe it’s something people are born with, like a brain dysfunction that leads them to commit obscene acts of cruelty.’

‘Meaning some believe it’s like a disease, a sickness?’ Garcia asked.

‘That’s right,’ Hunter continued. ‘Others believe that what causes a person to go from being a civilized individual to becoming a sociopath are the series of events and circumstances that have affected that person’s life so far. In other words, if you were surrounded by violence when young, if you were abused or mistreated as a child, chances are you’ll reflect that in your adult life by becoming a violent person. Are you with me so far?’

Garcia nodded, leaning back on his chair.

‘OK, so quick and dirty, the profiler’s job is to try and understand why a criminal is acting the way he is, what makes him tick, what drives him. Profilers try to think and act just like the offender would.’

‘Well, I figured that much out.’

‘OK. So if the profiler can manage to think like a criminal, then he might have a chance of predicting the criminal’s next move, but the only way he can do that is by deeply immersing himself in what he thinks the criminal’s life is like.’ He paused for a swig of his beer. ‘Disregarding the first theory because if being evil is something like a disease, there’s nothing we can do about that. There’s no way we can go back in time to reproduce an offender’s aggressive or abusive childhood either, so the only thing left is the offender’s present life, and here comes step one of profiling. We take a guess at what his life might be like. Where he’d live, places he’d go, things he’d do.’

‘A guess?’ Garcia looked incredulous.

‘That’s all profiling is, nothing but our best guess based on the facts and evidence found at the crime scene. The problem is that when we walk in the footsteps of such deranged criminals for long enough, acting like they do, thinking like they do, immersing ourselves so deep in such dark minds, that unavoidably leaves scars . . . mental scars, and sometimes the profiler loses track of the line.’

‘What line?’

‘The line that keeps us from becoming like them.’ Hunter looked away for a moment. When he spoke again his voice was sad. ‘There have been cases . . . profilers that have worked in investigations of sadistic sexual offenders becoming obsessed with sadistic sex themselves, or going the opposite way, becoming sexually inadequate. The simple thought of sex being enough to make them sick. Others that have worked brutal murder cases have become violent and abusive. Some have gone as far as committing brutal crimes themselves. The human brain is still pretty much a mystery, and if we abuse it for long enough . . .’ Hunter didn’t need to finish the sentence. ‘So I chose to abuse my brain in a different way, by becoming a Homicide detective.’ He smiled and finished the rest of his beer.

‘Yeah, and that is some abuse.’ They both laughed.

A mile from Rusty’s Surf Ranch a well-dressed man checked his reflection against the full-size mirror in the entrance lobby of the Belvedere restaurant. He was wearing a tailored Italian suit, freshly polished shoes, and his blond wig suited him perfectly. His contact lenses gave his eyes an unusual shade of green.

From where he was standing he could see her sitting at the bar, a glass of red wine in her hand. She looked beautiful in her little black dress.

Was she nervous or excited? He couldn’t really tell.

All that time at the supermarket, all those months he’d been working her, feeding her lies, getting her to trust him. Tonight his lies would pay off. They always did.

‘Hello, sir, are you here to meet someone or will you be having dinner by yourself this evening?’

In silence he stared at the maître d’ for a few seconds.

‘Sir?’

He glanced at her once again. He knew she’d be perfect.

‘Sir?’

‘Yes, I’m meeting a friend. That lady by the bar,’ he finally replied with a pleasant smile.

‘Very well, sir, please follow me.’

Friday night at the Vanguard Club produced a lively mix of people, but tonight the place was busier than usual. Tonight the club was hosting the only Los Angeles appearance of the renowned Dutch DJ – Tiësto.

The club was full to capacity and the main show was due to start at midnight, but everyone was already having a great time. It was a perfect place for what he had in mind. The more people around, the less anyone would notice him.

He’d been growing his beard for six days, just enough to make him look different. He completed his disguise by wearing a trendy cotton baseball cap, a professional-quality wig of pitch-black hair, together with a very colorful designer shirt. His youngish-looking outfit was a far cry from his usual businessman attire with his Italian designer suit and his leather briefcase. But tonight he was no businessman.

Tonight he had only one thing in mind, he had to deliver something. He’d had it for six days and for six days he’d been debating what he should do with it. Businessmen are not best known for being honest, and God only knew he hadn’t been the most honest of businessmen, but some things are just plain wrong, even for him. He had to do something about it.

He stood in a corner on the opposite side of the VIP area observing the vibrant crowd, his eyes sailing the dance floor, searching for anyone that could recognize him – he saw no one. He placed his hand inside his trouser pocket and ran his fingers over the object inside. Immediately a cold tingle started at the base of his back and ran up through his spine all the way to the back of his neck. He quickly moved his hand away.

‘Hey, man, do you need something?’

A young, dark-haired kid, no older than twenty-three, stood in front of him. He squinted his eyes as if trying to see better. ‘What?’

‘You know, man, it’s a rave . . . are you looking for a trip?’

‘Oh no, I’m good,’ he replied, finally understanding what the kid meant.

‘You better get it now, man, before the show starts,’ the kid said, flicking his head towards the stage, his dark hair flipping around just like in a shampoo commercial.

‘No . . . really, I’m fine.’

‘If you change your mind, I’ll be around.’ The kid made a small circular movement with his finger before moving away.

He had another sip of his Jack Daniel’s and Coke and scratched his itchy beard.

The music came to a halt and the lights and lasers went into overdrive on the dance floor. Gusts of smoke coming from the high ceiling filled the place up with a colorful haze. The crowd jumped and screamed and applauded. They were ready to welcome tonight’s special guest.

This was his chance. Everyone’s attention would be on the stage, no one would notice a person dropping a small packet over at the bar. He left his drink behind and quickly squeezed his way through the thirsty customers to position himself against the wall on the far right end of the nearest bar. Even the barmen had stopped serving for a few seconds.

‘
Ladies and gentlemen, this is what you’ve been waiting for. Get your dancing shoes on and prepare to party. The Vanguard Club is proud to present, on his only appearance in Los Angeles, one of the biggest names in house music in the world . . . Tiësto.’

The crowd went berserk. The colored lasers switched their aim towards the stage.

He quickly pulled the small squared packet out of his pocket, leaned forward and dropped it. As the packet hit the floor, he rapidly moved away glad to have finally disposed of it. He was sure no one had seen him do it.

Fifteen minutes later, the second barman finally came across the package. As he rushed to one end of the bar to serve a very loud customer he felt something uneven under his feet. Looking down he noticed the square wrap. He bent over and picked it up.

‘Yo, Pietro!’ the barman called.

Pietro finished serving two attractive young girls and walked over to the other end of the bar.

‘Is this yours?’

Pietro took the small packet from Todd’s hands and stared at it with intrigued eyes. ‘Where did you get this?’

‘I found it on the floor, just there.’ He pointed to a spot at the far end of the bar.