part. We followed the evidence we had and we apprehended the suspect we were after. Let his attorneys deal with it now.’
Hunter knew what killers were made of and John Spencer simply didn’t fit the bill, but his opinion alone meant nothing. Wilson was right. It was out of their hands now. They were already behind on five other cases and Captain Bolter threatened Hunter with suspension if he wasted any more time in a case that was officially closed.
The jury took less than three hours to reach the verdict of guilty as charged and John Spencer was sentenced to life imprisonment. And life’s what he got. Twenty-eight days after his conviction John hung himself using his bed sheet. In his cell, next to his body a single note that read
Twenty-two days after John Spencer’s suicide, their pool cleaner was picked up in Utah. In his car they’d found John’s .38 caliber revolver together with some jewelry and lingerie that had belonged to Linda Spencer. Subsequent forensic tests showed that the bullet that had killed her had come from that same revolver. The pool cleaner later confessed to shooting her.
Hunter and Wilson came under severe scrutiny by the media, the Chief of Police, the Police Commissioner and the Mayor. They’d been accused of negligence and failure to conduct a proper investigation. If Captain Bolter hadn’t intervened in their favor and accepted half the blame they would’ve lost their detective badges. Hunter never stopped blaming himself for not having done more. His friendship with Wilson took a huge knock. That had been six years ago.
Seven
‘What is it? What can you see?’ Garcia asked moving towards his partner, who still hadn’t said a word. Hunter stood motionless and wide-eyed, staring at something carved onto the woman’s neck, something he’d never forget.
After tiptoeing to raise himself above Hunter’s shoulder, Garcia got a better look at the dead woman’s neck, but it still didn’t settle his confusion. He’d never seen the carved symbol before.
‘What does that mean?’ he asked, hoping for an answer from someone.
Silence.
Garcia moved closer. The symbol looked like two crosses in one, one right side up and the other upside down ‡, but the crossbars seemed quite far from each other, almost at the extremities of its vertical beam. To him it meant absolutely nothing.
‘Is this a sick joke, Captain?’ Hunter finally snapped out of his trance.
‘It’s sick alright, but no joke,’ the captain replied in a stern voice.
‘Will somebody fucking talk to me?’ Garcia’s impatience was growing.
‘Shit!’ Hunter blurted, letting the woman’s hair fall back onto her shoulders.
‘Hello!’ Garcia waved his hands in front of Hunter’s eyes. ‘I don’t remember taking my invisible pills this morning, so will somebody let me know what the hell this is all about?’ His irritation was barely disguised.
To Hunter the room had just gotten darker, the air heavier. His headache now hammering his brain made it hard for him to think. He rubbed his gritty eyes in a last hope that this had all been just a bad dream.
‘You’d better fill your partner in, Hunter,’ Captain Bolter said bringing Hunter’s senses crashing back to the room.
‘Thank you,’ Garcia said, relieved to have found an ally.
Hunter still paid Garcia no attention. ‘You know what this means, Captain?’
‘I know what it looks like, yes.’
Hunter ran his fingers through his hair. ‘The media will have a field day when they get hold of this,’ he continued.
‘For now the media won’t get hold of anything, I will take care of that,’ the captain reassured him, ‘but you better find out if this is the real deal.’
‘What real deal?’ Garcia shouted.
Doctor Winston cut in. ‘Well, whatever you have to do, could you do it outside. I need to get the boys in here so they can start processing this room. I don’t really wanna lose any more time on this.’
‘How long to process this place? How long until we know something?’ Hunter asked.
‘I’m not sure, but judging from the size of this house, most of the day, maybe even into the night.’
Hunter knew the procedure well, there was nothing he could do but wait.
‘On your way out, tell the crime lab team to come in will you?’ the doctor asked, walking towards the victim’s body.
‘Yeah, we’ll do that,’ Hunter said nodding at Garcia who was still looking like a lost kid.
‘Nobody’s told me shit yet,’ he protested.
‘C’mon, if you drop me by my car we can talk on the way there.’
Hunter had one more look at the mutilated body tied to the wooden posts. It was hard to imagine that only a few days ago that body had belonged to a woman full of life. Hunter opened the door and stepped out of the room, Garcia right on his heels.
Outside the house Hunter still looked unsettled as they approached Garcia’s car. ‘So where is your car?’ Garcia said opening the door to his Honda Civic.
‘What?’ Hunter’s thoughts seemed to be someplace else.
‘Your car? Where is it?’
‘Oh! In Santa Monica.’
‘Santa Monica! Damn that’s all the way across town.’
‘Do you have anything else to do?’
‘Not anymore,’ Garcia replied with a foolish look. ‘Where exactly did you leave it?’
‘Do you know the Hideout bar?’
‘Yeah, I know it. What the hell were you doing there?’
‘I don’t even remember,’ Hunter replied with a slight shake of the head.
‘It’s gonna take us around two hours to make it to Santa Monica from here. At least we’ll have plenty of time to talk.’
‘Two hours?’ Hunter sounded surprised. ‘What do you have under that hood? A scooter engine?’
‘Did you notice the bumpy roads all around this place? This is a new car. I ain’t screwing my suspension up, so until we clear the lunar surface-like roads, we’ll be going real slow.’
‘Whatever.’ Hunter got into the car and buckled up. He looked around at an obsessive compulsive cleaner’s paradise. The car’s interior was spotless. No potato chip bags on the floor, no coffee spills on the carpet or seats, no donut smudges, nothing.
‘Damn rookie, do you clean this car every day?’
‘I like my car clean, it’s better than a pigsty of a car, don’t you think?’ Garcia sounded proud.
‘And what the hell is this smell? It’s like . . . tutti frutti.’
‘It’s called air freshener. You should try one inside that old beater of yours.’
‘Hey, there’s nothing wrong with my car. Old yes, but built like a fortress. Not like these cheap imports.’
‘This car wasn’t cheap.’
‘Yeah right,’ Hunter replied with a short laugh. ‘Anyway, I’m impressed. Do you clean houses as well? There is a big market out there in Beverly Hills if you ever decide to pack up the detective’s job.’
Garcia ignored Hunter’s comment, started the engine and maneuvered through the few police units that were still parked in front of the old house. He tried his best to avoid brushing his car against the dense shrubs bordering the narrow path and cursed when he heard the sound of wood scraping against metal. Garcia drove slowly at first, trying to minimize the bumpy ride. They were both silent until they reached the main road.
Hunter had driven along Little Tujunga Canyon Road many times. If you are looking to unwind it’s an
