The Crucifix Killer (5 page)

Hunter tried reasoning with Wilson many times.

‘OK, so he had rows with his wife, but you find me a marriage without them,’ Hunter argued. ‘In none of those rows had he ever hit or hurt Linda.’

‘Ballistics proved that the bullet that killed her came from the same stash found in John Spencer’s office desk drawer,’ Wilson shouted.

‘That doesn’t prove he pulled the trigger.’

‘All the fibers found on the victim came from the same clothes John was wearing the night we found him. Ask anyone who knew the couple. He had a foul temper on him, shouting at her all the time. You’re a psychologist. You know how these things escalate.’

‘Exactly, they escalate. Gradually. It doesn’t usually just jump from heated arguments to shooting someone in the back of the head in one single step.’

‘Look Robert, I’ve always respected your assessment of a suspect. It has guided us in the right direction many times, but I also like to follow my gut. And my gut tells me this time you’re wrong.’

‘The guy deserves a chance. We should carry on with the investigation. Maybe there’s something we missed.’

‘We can’t carry on.’ Wilson laughed. ‘It ain’t up to us to make that decision. You know better. We’ve done our part. We followed the evidence we had and we apprehended the suspect we were after. Let his attorneys deal with it now.’

Hunter knew what killers were made of and John Spencer simply didn’t fit the bill, but his opinion alone meant nothing. Wilson was right. It was out of their hands now. They were already behind on five other cases and Captain Bolter threatened Hunter with suspension if he wasted any more time in a case that was officially closed.

The jury took less than three hours to reach the verdict of guilty as charged and John Spencer was sentenced to life imprisonment. And life’s what he got. Twenty-eight days after his conviction John hung himself using his bed sheet. In his cell, next to his body a single note that read
Linda, I’ll be with you soon. No more arguments, I promise.

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.

‘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 fanatic. 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.