How the hell does anyone go from being probably the most thorough criminal in history to being the sloppiest one?’
‘How did you catch him?’
‘An anonymous phone call just a few weeks after the seventh victim was found. Someone had seen a suspect car with what seemed to be blood smudges on the outside of its trunk. The caller had managed to note down the license-plate number and the car was picked up on the outskirts of LA.’
‘Mike Farloe’s?’
‘Exactly, and inside his trunk it was like Christmas time for our investigation.’
Garcia frowned. He was starting to follow Hunter’s line of thought. ‘Yeah, but several major criminals have been caught out just like that, out of a traffic violation or some minor contravention. Maybe he was thorough at the crime scene, but sloppy at home.’
‘I don’t buy that,’ Hunter replied with a shake of the head. ‘He also kept on calling me “detective” throughout the interrogation.’
‘And what’s the problem with that?’
‘The Crucifix Killer used to call me on my cell phone and let me know about the location of a new victim, that’s how we found them. I was the only one who’d had any contact with him.’
‘Why you?’
‘I never found out, but every time he called me he’d always use my first name, he’d always call me “Robert”, never “detective,”’ Hunter paused. He was about to drop an atomic bomb on Garcia’s lap. ‘But the turning point was when I asked him about the crucifix mark branded on the victims’ hands. In a way he accepted it, he said that the symbol of our Lord could free them or something like that.’
‘Yes, so he was a religious psycho – what’s your point?’
‘I showed him a drawing of the symbol used by the Crucifix Killer and I’m sure he didn’t recognize it.’
‘He didn’t recognize a crucifix?’ Garcia arched both eyebrows.
‘The Crucifix Killer never branded a crucifix on the back of the victim’s left hand. That was just a story we fed the media to avoid the copycats, the attention seekers.’
Garcia held his breath in anticipation and felt an uncomfortable shiver down his spine.
‘What the Crucifix Killer did was carve a strange symbol, something like a double-crucifix, one right side up and the other upside down on the back of the victim’s neck.’ Hunter pointed to the back of his own neck. ‘That was his real mark.’
Hunter’s words caught Garcia totally by surprise. His mind flashed back to the scene in the old wooden house. The woman’s body. Her skinless face. The carving on the back of her neck. The symbol of the Crucifix Killer. ‘What? You’ve gotta be kidding me.’ Garcia took his eyes off the road for an instant.
‘Watch the road!’ Hunter realized they were about to run a red light. Garcia’s attention switched back to the road once again and he slammed down on the brakes throwing Hunter’s body forward like a torpedo. Hunter was held by his seatbelt which brought him crashing back to his seat, his head jerking back violently and hitting the headrest.
‘Damn! That brought my headache back, thanks,’ Hunter said, rubbing his temples with both hands.
The last thing in Garcia’s mind was his partner’s headache. Hunter’s words were still echoing in his ears. ‘So what are you saying? That someone found out about the real Crucifix Killer’s signature and is using it?’
‘I doubt it. Only a handful of people knew about it. Just a few of us at the RHD and Doctor Winston. We kept all information about the killer sealed tight. The symbol we saw today, it’s identical.’
‘Fuck, are you trying to suggest that he’s back from the dead or something?’
‘What I’m trying to say is that Mike Farloe wasn’t the Crucifix Killer as I’d always suspected. The killer’s still out there.’
‘But the guy confessed. Why the hell would he do that when he knew he would get the shot?’ Garcia asked, almost shouting.
‘Maybe he just wanted the notoriety, I’m not sure. Look, I have no doubt that Mike Farloe was mentally fucked up, he was a religious psycho, just not the one we were looking for.’
‘But then, how the hell did all that evidence end up in his car?’
‘I’m not sure, framed probably.’
‘Framed? But the only one who could’ve framed him was the Crucifix Killer himself.’
‘Exactly.’
‘And why now? Why would he be back now?’
‘I’m trying to figure that out myself,’ Hunter replied.
Garcia sat immobile staring at Hunter. He needed time to take all that in. That would explain Hunter’s reaction to the symbol carved on the woman’s neck. Could it be true, the Crucifix Killer had never been caught? Was he still out there? Had the State sent an innocent man to his death? Since Mike Farloe’s conviction the killings had stopped, which indicated that he was the Crucifix Killer. Even Hunter had started to believe it.
They sat in silence. Hunter could feel Garcia trying to process all the new information, trying to understand why someone would confess to a crime he didn’t commit.
‘If this is the real deal, I guess we will find out soon enough,’ Hunter said.
‘Really, how? How will we find out?’
‘Well, for starters, if this is the same killer, the forensic team will come up with nothing, another clean-as-a- whistle crime scene . . . Green light.’
‘What?’
‘The traffic light, it’s green.’
Garcia shifted his Honda Civic into gear and stepped on the gas. Neither said a word until they reached Santa Monica.
The Hideout bar is located right at the beach end of West Channel Road. Santa Monica beach itself is literally just across the road, making the Hideout bar one of the most popular nightspots in Westside Region. Garcia had only been once. Swaying curtains separated the nautically themed bar area from the main lounge, which was decorated with images of Santa Monica in the 1920s. The second floor was a loft that overlooked a low-back-chair- filled rear patio. It was a very popular place with the younger crowd and definitely not the type of bar Garcia would picture Robert Hunter hanging out.
Hunter’s car was parked just a few yards from the bar’s entrance. Garcia parked right behind it.
‘I’d like to take another look in that house after the forensic team is done, what do you say?’ Hunter asked, getting his car keys out of his pocket.
Garcia was unable to meet Hunter’s gaze.
‘Yo! Rookie, are you OK?’
‘Yeah. I’m good,’ Garcia finally replied. ‘Yeah, that’s a good idea.’
Hunter stepped out of the shiny Honda and opened the door to his old beat-up Buick. As he started his engine there was only one thought in his mind.
Eight
D-King didn’t take too kindly to any of his girls doing a disappearing act on him. Jenny had walked out on his party at the Vanguard Club three nights ago and he hadn’t heard from her since. D-King differed from other sex dealers in Los Angeles in that he wasn’t violent with his girls. If any of them decided that they’d had enough and wanted out, he’d be fine with that, as long as they didn’t go to work for another sex dealer or run away with his money.
Finding new girls was the easiest aspect of his business. Every day hundreds of beautiful girls arrive in Los Angeles looking for the Hollywood dream. Every day hundreds of dreams are shattered by the harsh reality of the
