The Crucifix Killer (36 page)

Garcia was already typing his first search into his keyboard.

They spent the rest of the day digging into Mike Farloe’s life. His criminal record was long, but not vicious: convictions for indecent exposure, non-violent sexual assault and pedophilia. He was a scumbag, Hunter thought, but not a violent scumbag. In his last spell in prison he found God and upon his release he started wandering the streets preaching the gospel to those who’d listen and those who wouldn’t.

Mike’s medical records showed nothing out of the ordinary. A few treatments for venereal disease and broken bones from street beatings but that was all. He had no psychological history and nothing stood out. They concluded the killer couldn’t have picked Mike based on his medical or criminal record. They were still looking into any religious cults that Mike might’ve been involved with, but by eleven-thirty in the evening they still hadn’t come up with anything.

Garcia quickly checked his watch as he parked his car in front of his apartment building. ‘Past midnight once again.’ In the past two weeks not once had he managed to get home before the early hours of the morning. He knew there was nothing he could do. That’s what the job demanded and he was certainly prepared to give it. The same couldn’t be said about Anna.

He sat in the darkness of the parking lot for a while. From his car he stared at the window of his first-floor apartment. The lights were still on in his living room. Anna was still awake.

He’d told her not to worry, that the case they’d been working on was a complex one and he had to put a lot of extra hours into it, but he knew she wouldn’t listen. He knew she’d rather he’d been a lawyer or a doctor; anything really but a Homicide detective in Los Angeles.

He slowly made his way past the other cars on the lot, to the building and up to his apartment. Even though he was sure Anna wouldn’t be asleep, he opened his front door as carefully as he could. Anna was lying on the blue fabric sofa that faced the TV set on the east wall. She was wearing a thin, white nightgown and her hair was flattened on one side. Her eyes were closed, but she opened them as Garcia took his first steps into the apartment.

‘Hi there, honey,’ he said in a tired voice.

She sat up, crossing her legs underneath her. Her husband looked different. Every night when he came back home to her he looked a little older, more tired. He’d only been with the RHD less than a month, but in Anna’s eyes it seemed like years.

‘How are you, babe?’ she said softly.

‘I’m OK . . . tired though.’

‘Are you hungry? Did you eat? There’s food in the fridge. You’ve gotta eat something,’ she insisted.

Garcia didn’t feel hungry. In fact his appetite had been nonexistent since he walked into that old wooden house a few weeks ago, but he didn’t want to say no to Anna. ‘Yeah, I could eat a little.’

They both walked into the kitchen. Garcia took a seat at the small breakfast table while Anna retrieved a plate from the fridge and placed it into the microwave.

‘Do you wanna beer?’ she asked, going back to the fridge.

‘Actually, a single malt would do me better.’

‘It won’t go with the food. Have a beer now and if you still want one later . . .’

She passed him an open bottle of Bud and sat across from him. The silence was broken by the microwave bell announcing his late supper was ready.

Anna had cooked one of Garcia’s favorite dishes – rice, Brazilian beans, chicken and vegetables, but Garcia had only managed about three spoonfuls before he started rearranging the food around on the plate without ever bringing it to his mouth again.

‘Is there something wrong with the chicken?’

‘No, babe. You know I love your cooking. I’m just not as hungry as I thought I was.’

Without any warning Anna buried her head in her hands and started crying.

Garcia quickly moved towards her and kneeled in front of her chair. ‘Anna, what’s wrong?’ He tried lifting her head from her hands.

It took her a few more seconds before she finally looked at him with eyes full of tears and sadness. ‘I’m scared.’

‘Scared? Scared of what?’ he asked concerned.

‘Of what this new job of yours is doing to you . . . what it’s doing to us.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Look at you. You haven’t slept properly in weeks. On the rare occasions when you do fall asleep it’s only a matter of minutes before you wake up in a cold sweat almost screaming. You haven’t been eating. You’ve lost so much weight you look ill, and me . . . you don’t even look at me anymore, never mind talk to me.’

‘I’m sorry, babe. You know I can’t talk to you about the cases I work on.’ He tried to hug her, but she pulled away.

‘I don’t want you to tell me the details of your investigation, but you have become a ghost around here. I never see you anymore. We never do anything together anymore. Even little things like having a meal together have become a luxury. You leave before the sun is out and you only come back at this godforsaken time. Every day I watch you come through that door looking like you’ve left a little bit of your life out there. We’re becoming strangers to each other. What will happen six months or a year down the line?’ she asked, wiping the tears from her cheeks.

An overwhelming sense of protectiveness rushed through Garcia. He wanted to take her in his arms and reassure her, but the truth was he also felt scared. Not for himself, but for everyone else. There was a killer out there that took pleasure in inflicting as much pain as the victim could possibly take. A killer that made no distinction of race, religion, social class or anything else for that matter. Anyone could be the next victim, anyone including Anna. He felt helpless.

‘Please don’t cry babe, everything will be OK,’ he said, softly touching Anna’s hair. ‘We’re making progress on the investigation and with just a bit of luck we’ll be closing the case very soon.’ Garcia wasn’t sure if he believed it himself.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said still tearful. ‘But no other case you’ve worked on has affected you this way.’

Garcia didn’t know what to say.

‘I’m scared of what this job may do to you. I don’t wanna lose you.’ Tears filled her eyes once again.

‘You’re not gonna lose me, babe. I love you.’ He kissed her cheek and wiped away the rest of her tears. ‘I promise you everything will be fine.’

Anna wanted to believe him, but she saw no conviction in his eyes.

‘C’mon, let’s go to bed,’ he said helping her up.

They both stood up slowly. She hugged him and they kissed. ‘Let me get the lights in the living room,’ she said.

‘OK, I’ll get the dishes into the dishwasher.’ Garcia cleared his plate and quickly ran it under the tap.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Anna’s cry came from the living room.

Garcia left his plate on top of the dishwasher and dashed out of the kitchen. ‘What’s wrong?’ he said, approaching Anna who was standing by the window.

‘There was somebody down there staring at me.’

‘What? Where?’ Garcia said, staring out the window at an empty street and parking lot.

‘Down there, just between those two cars,’ she pointed at two vehicles parked halfway down the street.

Garcia looked out the window again. ‘I can’t see anything, plus it’s quite dark down there. Are you sure you saw someone?’

‘Yes. I saw someone staring straight at me.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. He was looking up at me.’

‘He? It was a he?’

‘I’m not sure. I think so.’

‘Maybe it was a cat or something.’

‘It was no cat, Carlos. Someone was staring into our apartment.’ Anna’s voice was less steady now.

‘Into our apartment? Maybe the person was just looking up at the building.’

‘He was looking straight at me, I know it, I felt it, it scared me.’

‘Maybe it was just one of the neighborhood kids. You know they’re always out and about until the early hours.’

‘The neighborhood kids don’t freak me out like that.’ Her eyes became tearful once again.

‘OK, do you want me to go downstairs and have a look around?’

‘No . . . please stay with me.’

Garcia hugged her and felt her body shivering against his. ‘I’m here, babe. You’re just tired and upset, I’m sure it was nothing. C’mon, let’s go to bed.’

From the parking lot, hidden in the shadows, the stranger watched with an evil smile as they hugged and moved away from the window.

They had divided their tasks. Garcia was to go over Hunter and Scott’s initial investigation files, going back three months prior to Mike Farloe’s arrest. He was also in charge of checking with the wigmakers and physiotherapy clinics.

Hunter took over the hospital search. He thought about contacting them and requesting a list of patients who’d had an operation anywhere up to two months after Mike Farloe’s arrest. An operation that would’ve required a long recuperation period, especially physiotherapy. Through experience he knew that putting in a request, no matter how urgent it was, would still take weeks. To speed up the process he decided to check the hospitals in the downtown Los Angeles area himself and place a request for the remaining ones.

The task was laborious and slow. They first needed to narrow it down to what sort of operation would require such a lengthy recovery period and then go back almost a year and a half to find the records.

Hunter wasn’t surprised to find that the archiving of records in hospitals was bordering on comical. Part stored in drawers in some stuffy and crammed archive room. Part stored in disorganized spreadsheets and part stored in databases that very few people knew how to access. Not that far away from the archiving of files by the RHD, he thought.

He’d been at it since eight-thirty that morning. At midday the temperature hit 98 degrees and the badly ventilated rooms made Hunter’s task seem like penitence. By the end of the afternoon his shirt was drenched and he’d only managed to cover three hospitals.

‘Have you been swimming?’ Garcia asked, frowning at Hunter’s wet shirt as he got back to the office.

‘Try being locked in stuffy, pathetically small rooms in the basement of hospitals for a few hours and see how you like it,’ Hunter shot back unamused.

‘If you got rid of that jacket it would probably help. How did you get along anyway?’

Hunter waved a brown envelope at Garcia. ‘Patients’ lists for three hospitals. Not much but it’s a start.’

‘And what’s that?’ Garcia pointed to the box Hunter had under his left arm.

‘Oh, it’s just a pair of shoes,’ he said matter-of-factly.

‘Big spender, are we?’

‘That’s the thing. I saw these in the window of a shop close to one of the hospitals. They are closing down in a week so everything is at
giveaway
prices. I got them for a bargain.’

‘Really? Can I have a look?’ Garcia asked, being curious.

‘Sure.’ Hunter handed him the box.

‘Wow, they are nice,’ Garcia said, after taking both black-leather shoes from the box and looking at them from every angle. ‘And God knows you need new ones,’ he said, pointing to Hunter’s old shoes.

‘I’ve gotta wear them in though. The leather is quite stiff.’

‘With the amount of walking we’ve been doing lately you’ll have no problem.’ Garcia placed both shoes back inside the box and handed it to Hunter.

‘Anyway, how did you get on?’ Hunter brought the subject back to the investigation.

‘I’ve managed to contact Catherine Slater. She doesn’t wear wigs.’

‘Great. Any luck with the wigmakers then?’

Garcia twisted his mouth and frowned, shaking his head. ‘If we wanna get a list of clients that have ordered European hair wigs from any of the wigmakers in LA we’re gonna need a warrant.’

‘A warrant?’

‘They won’t disclose their list of clients. The excuse is always the same . . . clients’ privacy. Their clients wouldn’t appreciate the fact that they wear wigs being advertised to the world.’

‘Advertised to the world? We are conducting a murder investigation here, we’re not the press. It’s not like we’re gonna sell the information to the tabloid papers.’ Hunter snapped.

‘It doesn’t matter. If we don’t get a warrant we’ll get no clients’ list.’

Hunter dropped the envelope on his desk, placed his jacket on the back of his chair and walked over to one of the fans.

‘I can’t believe these people. We’re trying to help them, we’re trying to catch a sadistic killer whose next victim could be someone in their family or themselves, but instead of cooperation what do we get? Fucking hostility and reluctance. It’s like we’re the bad guys. As soon as we say we’re cops it’s like we just punched them in the stomach. All the doors slam shut and on come the security locks,’ Hunter said, walking back to his desk. ‘I’ll talk to Captain Bolter. We’ll get this fucking warrant and the list as soon as . . .’ Hunter detected an air of doubt about Garcia. ‘Something’s bothering you.’

‘The hair found inside George Slater’s car bothers me.’

‘Go on,’ Hunter urged him.