The Crucifix Killer

‘Why are you so nervous?’

‘Who said I’m nervous?’ Garcia said defiantly.

Hunter gave Captain Bolter a confident smile. ‘The knot on your tie is too tight, but instead of loosing it up you keep on faintly rotating your neck hoping no one will notice. When you tried to shake my hand earlier, I noticed how moist your palm was. This room ain’t hot enough, so I’m guessing nervous perspiration. And since I walked into the office you keep on shifting your weight from one leg to the other. You either have a lower back problem or you’re feeling a little uncomfortable. And since you wouldn’t make detective with a back problem . . .’

Garcia frowned and shifted his stare to Captain Bolter who gave him a quirky smile.

‘A word of advice,’ Hunter continued. ‘If you’re feeling nervous it’s better to sit down instead of standing up. It’s a more comfortable position and it’s easier for you to hide your tell-tale signs.’

‘He’s good, isn’t he?’ Captain Bolter asked with a chuckle. ‘Anyway, Hunter, you know you don’t have a say in this, I’m still king of this fucking jungle and in my jungle you’ll take a partner or you’ll walk.’

Garcia finally understood the nameplate on the door. He waited a few seconds before extending his hand again.

‘As I’ve said, Carlos Garcia, it’s a pleasure.’

‘The pleasure is all yours nervous boy,’ Hunter replied, leaving Garcia’s hand hanging for a second time. ‘You’ve gotta lose that cheap suit, rookie, who do you think we are, the fashion police?’

Ten

As night fell over LA, Hunter and Garcia went back to the old wooden house. The forensic team had already left and the place was deserted. The lack of sunlight and the impenetrable surrounding vegetation meant that exploring the outside at this time was impossible, but Hunter was sure the perimeter had already been meticulously searched by a team of specialized officers. Hunter and Garcia concentrated on the house, but after a couple of hours, both were ready to call it a night.

‘There’s nothing here. If there were, the forensic guys must’ve picked it up,’ Garcia said, sounding hopeful.

Hunter could see fine, green fluorescent powder that had been applied to several surfaces around the house. The special green powder is always used in conjunction with lasers and low-powered ultraviolet lamps to allow the visualization of latent prints which would otherwise go undetected. Hunter had a feeling the forensic team hadn’t found anything either. ‘Let’s hope Doctor Winston has some good news for us in the morning,’ he said, grabbing Garcia’s attention. ‘There’s nothing else we can do here tonight.’

It was past midnight when Hunter turned his old Buick into Saturn Avenue with Templeton Street in South Los Angeles. The entire street was in desperate need of refurbishment with its ageing buildings and neglected lawns. Hunter parked in front of his six-floor apartment block and stared at it for a moment. Its once striking yellow color had now faded to unappealing pastel beige and he noticed that the light bulbs above the doorway had been broken again. Inside the small entrance hall the walls were dirty, the paint had peeled off and gang graffiti made up most of its decoration. Despite its terrible state, he felt comfortable in the building.

Hunter lived alone; no wife, no kids and no girlfriend. He’d had his share of steady relationships, but his job had a way of taking its toll on them. The dangerous RHD lifestyle wasn’t easy to cope with and girlfriends always ended up asking for more than he was prepared to give. Hunter didn’t mind so much being alone any more. It was his defense mechanism. If you have no one, they can’t be torn away from your life.

Hunter’s apartment was located on the third floor, number 313. The living room was oddly shaped and the furniture looked as if it had been donated by Goodwill. A couple of mismatched chairs and a beaten-up black leatherette sofa were placed against the far wall. To its right, a small badly scratched wooden desk with a laptop computer, a three-in-one printer and a small table lamp. Across the room a stylish glass bar looked totally out of place. It was the only piece of furniture Hunter had purchased brand new and from a trendy shop. It held several bottles of Hunter’s biggest passion – single malt Scotch whisky. The bottles were arranged in a peculiar way that only he understood.

He closed the living-room door behind him, turned on the lights and moved the dimmer switch to the ‘low’ setting. He needed a drink. After pouring himself a double dose from the twenty- year-old bottle of Talisker, he dropped a single cube of ice in the glass.

He couldn’t shake the faceless woman’s image from his mind. Every time he closed his eyes he could still see the carving on the back of her neck; he could still smell the pungent odor from that room. Could this be happening again? Could this be the same killer? And if yes, why has he started killing again? The questions kept coming and Hunter knew the answers wouldn’t follow at the same speed. He stirred the ice cube once around the glass with his index finger and brought it to his lips. The sour, peppery taste of the Talisker relaxed him.

Hunter was certain that this would be another sleepless night, but he needed to somehow rest. He turned on the lights in the bedroom and emptied his pockets onto the bedside table. Car keys, house keys, some pocket change and a small piece of paper that read Call me – Isabella. A smile played on his lips as he remembered the whole morning incident.

‘I can’t believe I suggested she was a hooker to her face,’ he thought and the smile turned to laughter. He liked her sense of humor and her wit. She had thrown his sarcasm straight back at him. She was certainly different from most of the dull women he met in bars. He checked his watch. The time was coming up to one in the morning – too late. Perhaps he’d call her some other time.

He walked to the kitchen and pinned Isabella’s note on a corkboard next to the fridge, before making his way back into the bedroom ready to fight insomnia.

From the parking lot, hiding in the shadows a dark figure avidly observed the flicker of lights coming from the third-floor apartment.

Eleven

Hunter managed to doze off a few times during the night, but that was the best he could do. By five-thirty in the morning he was up and feeling like he’d been hit by a truck. Gritty eyes, dry mouth and a nagging headache that would be with him throughout the rest of the day – all the signs of a sleep hangover. He poured himself a strong cup of coffee and considered adding a quick shot of whisky to it, but that would probably make him feel worse. By six-thirty he was dressed and ready to leave when his cell phone rang.

‘Detective Hunter speaking.’

‘Robert, it’s me, Carlos.’

‘Rookie, you gotta stop calling me so early in the goddamn morning. Do you ever sleep?’

‘Sometimes, but last night it was hard to.’

‘You can say that again. So what’s up?’

‘I just talked to Doctor Winston.’

Hunter quickly glanced at his watch. ‘This early? Did you wake him up as well?’

‘No, he’s been up most of the night. Anyway, he said his team of forensic examiners didn’t come up with anything from the wooden house either.’

Hunter ran his hand over his chin. ‘Yeah, I was half expecting that,’ he said disappointedly.

‘He also said that there’s something he wants to show us, something important.’