The Crucifix Killer

that the world wasn’t on the road to hell.

He tried to fight the destructive guilt that had gradually crept in since the dog race, but even his experience and knowledge couldn’t keep his mind from wondering. If only I’d picked dog number two. At this point in time the killer was also winning the psychological battle.

He poured himself a double dose from the twelve-year-old bottle of Laphroaig, dropped in his usual single cube, dimmed the lights and collapsed onto his old, stiff sofa. He felt physically and mentally exhausted, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep. His mind kept playing back everything that had happened in the past few hours and it intensified his pounding headache.

‘Why couldn’t I have chosen a simple profession, why couldn’t I have been a chef or a carpenter?’ he thought out loud. The reason was simple. Cliche or not, he wanted to make a difference, and every time his investigations and hard work caught a killer, he knew he’d made that difference. It was a high unlike any other – the self gratification, the exhilaration, knowing how many lives he saved by following the evidence, staying calm and piecing together a scene that seemed lost and diluted in time. Hunter was good at what he did and he knew it.

He had another sip of his single malt and swirled it around in his mouth before swallowing it down and welcoming the burning sensation. He closed his eyes and dropped his head back, trying his best to clear his mind of all the day’s events, but they were hammering his memory with a thunderous force.

The message alert from his cell phone made him jump. He felt his pockets for it but found they were empty.

‘Shit!’

The phone was on the small glass bar. He’d left it there together with his wallet and keys.

Placing his glass on the floor Hunter slowly stood up and glanced at his watch.

‘Who the hell would be sending me a message at this godforsaken hour anyway?’ He checked the phone.

I hope you are OK. It was very nice seeing you again this afternoon, even if it was just for a few minutes – Isabella.

Hunter had forgotten all about their quick lunch in the afternoon. He grinned and at the same time felt guilty for having to run out on her for the second time. He quickly typed a reply message.

Can I call you? He pressed the ‘send’ button and went back to the sofa.

A minute later the phone vibrated and played its message alert, breaking the silence in the room.

Yes.

Hunter had another sip of his single malt and pressed the ‘call’ button.

‘Hello . . . I thought you’d be asleep by now,’ she said softly.

‘I thought the same about you. Isn’t this a little late for a researcher? Don’t you have to be in the lab early tomorrow?’ Hunter asked with a little smile.

‘I never sleep much. Usually five to six hours max every night. My brain is always busy. Research work does that to you.’

‘Five to six hours only. That really isn’t much.’

‘Look who’s talking. Why aren’t you asleep?’

‘Insomnia is part of the package. It comes with the job.’

‘You need to learn how to unwind.’

‘I know. I’m working on it,’ he lied.

‘Talking about the job – is everything OK? You looked a little distressed after that phone call this afternoon.’

Hunter paused for a minute and rubbed his tired eyes. He thought of how innocent the majority of the people were, not knowing the evil that awaits just a stone’s-throw away. Part of his job is to make sure these people stay innocent.

‘Everything is alright. It’s just the job. It always carries that sort of pressure.’

‘I’m sure . . . more pressure than I can imagine. Anyway I’m really glad you called.’

‘I’m sorry I had to leave in such a hurry again. Maybe I can make it up to you.’ He could swear he heard her smile.

‘I’d like that . . . and that’s what I was thinking about. How would you like to have dinner with me at my place on Saturday evening?’

‘A dinner date?’ Hunter teased.

‘Well, now that the check out lunch date is out of the way, I thought dinner would be nice. Are you busy this Saturday?’

‘No, no, I’m free. Saturday is fine. What time shall I come over?’

‘How about six o’clock?’

‘That sounds great. I’ll bring a bottle.’

‘Fantastic. Do you remember the address?’

‘You’d better give it to me again, just in case. I was pretty drunk that night.’

‘Don’t I know it?’

They both laughed.

Twenty-Nine

The next morning Hunter and Garcia went back to the County Department of Coroner. Doctor Winston had called them at around ten o’clock, after he’d completed the autopsy on the new victim. He wanted both detectives to be the first ones to hear the results.

George Slater’s body rested on the metal autopsy table near the far wall. A white sheet covered him from the waist down. Most of his internal organs had been remo`ved, weighed, and placed over the organ tray. Doctor Winston had buzzed the two detectives into the basement autopsy room and left them waiting by the door as he finished analyzing a small piece of human tissue.

‘Well, one thing is for certain, our killer is very inventive,’ the doctor said, lifting his eyes from the dissecting microscope. Only then Hunter realized how tired Doctor Winston looked. His thin hair was messy, his complexion heavy and his eyes exhausted.

‘So he’s a murder victim?’ Hunter asked, pointing to the ghostly white body on the table.

‘No doubt about that.’

‘From our killer?’

‘Oh yes, unless someone else knows about this,’ the doctor said walking over to the body followed by both men. He lifted the victim’s head about four inches off the autopsy table surface. Hunter and Garcia bent over at the same time, almost hitting head against head. Their eyes met the unmistakable symbol.

‘It’s the same killer alright,’ Garcia said getting back to an upright position. ‘So what was all that crap about him dying from some sort of disease?’

‘That was no crap. A disease is exactly what killed him.’ The confusion and frustration intensified in Garcia’s face. ‘Have you ever heard of streptococcus pyogenes?’

‘What?’

‘I guess not. How about staphylococcus aureus?’

‘Yes, doc, Latin is a constant part of my everyday vocabulary.’ Garcia’s sarcastic tone brought a quick smile to Hunter’s lips. ‘What the hell is it?’

‘It sounds like a bacterium,’ Hunter said.

‘And you’re right on the money, Robert. Come here, let me show you.’ Doctor Winston took a` moment to search for a slide from a small portable archive and then walked back to the microscope desk. ‘Have a look,’ he said after placing the slide over the stage.

Hunter moved closer, bent over and positioned his eyes over the eyepiece. He rotated the coarse-focus knob