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 were 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.’
‘And are you?’
Farloe shifted his stare from Hunter for the first time. His eyes now rested on the two-way mirror on the north wall. He knew what was happening on the other side. The anticipation inside the observation room now growing to eruption point. Captain Bolter could swear that Farloe was staring straight at him.
‘I didn’t choose that name for myself, the media did.’ His eyes had returned to Hunter. ‘But yes, I freed their souls from their life of sin.’
‘I’ll be damned . . . we’ve got a confession.’ Captain Bolter could hardly hide his excitement.
‘Hell yeah! And it only took Hunter about ten minutes to get it out of him. That’s my boy,’ Scott replied with a smile.
‘If you are the Crucifix Killer, then you did choose your name,’ Hunter continued. ‘You branded the victims. You chose your mark.’
‘They needed to repent. The symbol of our Lord freed their souls.’
‘But you are no God. You don’t have the power to free anyone. Thou shall not kill, isn’t that one of the commandments? Doesn’t killing these people make you a sinner?’
‘No sin shall be when done in the name of the divine. I was doing God’s work.’
‘Why? Did God call in sick that day? Why would God ask you to kill in his name? Isn’t God supposed to be a merciful being?’
Farloe let a smile grace his lips for the first time showing yellow cigarette-stained teeth. There was an evil air about him. Something different, something almost inhuman.
‘This guy gives me the creeps. Shouldn’t we just stop this interview, he’s already confessed, he’s done it, end of story,’ Scott said clearly irritated.
‘Not yet, give him a few more minutes,’ Doctor Martin replied.
‘Whatever . . . I’m out of here, I’ve heard enough.’ Scott opened the door and stepped into the narrow corridor on the third floor of the RHD building.
Hunter grabbed a piece of paper, wrote something on it and slid it towards Farloe over the table. ‘Do you know what this is?’
Farloe’s eyes moved down to the paper. He stared at it for about five seconds. By the movement of his eyes and imperceptible frown Hunter knew Farloe didn’t have a clue what the figure on the paper meant. Hunter got no answer.
‘OK, so let me ask you this . . .’
‘No, no more questions,’ Farloe cut in. ‘You know what I’ve done, detective. You’ve seen my work. You’ve heard what you wanted to hear. There’s no more need for questions. I’ve said my piece.’ Farloe closed his eyes, placed his hands together and began a whispered prayer.
‘Yes it’s true. I never believed he was our killer,’ Hunter finally answered Garcia’s question, snapping back from his memory flash.
Even though it was just past six in the morning the day was already warm. Hunter pressed the button on the passenger’s door and his window rolled down smoothly. The scenery had changed from the luxurious houses of Santa Clarita into noisy traffic as they drove down San Diego Freeway.
‘Do you want me to turn on the air con?’ Garcia asked fiddling with his dashboard.
Hunter’s car was an old Buick and it didn’t have any of the luxury gadgets of modern cars. No air conditioning, no sunroof, no electric windows or mirrors, but it was a Buick, pure American muscle as Hunter liked to call it.
‘No. I prefer it like this, natural polluted LA air – you just can’t beat it.’
‘So why did you think you had the wrong guy? You had all the evidence found in his car, plus the guy confessed. What else did you need?’ Garcia asked bringing the subject back to the Crucifix Killer.
Hunter tilted his head towards the open window letting the air brush through his hair. ‘Did you know we never found any evidence at any of the seven crime scenes?’
‘Again, I’ve heard rumors, but I thought that was just you guys playing your cards close to your chest.’
‘It’s true, Scott and I fine-combed every inch of those crime scenes and so did the forensic team. We never found a thing – not a fingerprint, not a strand of hair, not a fiber . . . nothing. The crime scenes were like forensic vacuums.’ Hunter paused, letting the wind hit his face once again. ‘For two years the killer never made a mistake, never left anything behind, no slip-ups . . . the killer was like a ghost. We had nothing, no leads, no direction and no idea of who the killer could be. Then, all of a sudden he gets caught with all that shit in his car? It didn’t add up.
