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
‘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
