The Crucifix Killer (13 page)

‘So you decided to come out of retirement?’

The laughter was more enthusiastic this time. ‘
I guess you could say that.
’

‘Why now?’

‘
Patience. All will be revealed in good time, Robert. Anyway, I’d love to chat for longer, but you know I can’t. I just wanted to make sure you knew the games have started again, but don’t worry, I’ll be calling you again soon enough.
’

Before Hunter had a chance to say anything else the line went dead. ‘Shit!’

‘What did he say?’ Garcia asked before Hunter could return his phone to his pocket.

‘Not much.’

‘So there’s no doubt anymore, it’s him, it’s the Crucifix Killer.’

With frustration in his eyes Hunter could only manage a slight nod.

‘We’d better tell the captain.’

Hunter registered a certain excitement in Garcia’s voice. ‘I’ll call him from the car; we need to go check those gyms – you drive.’

Hunter’s conversation with Captain Bolter was quick. He told him about checking out a few gyms and about the killer’s phone call. The captain had cogitated the idea of placing a listening device in Hunter’s cell phone, but they’d tried it before with no luck. The caller had used a tracer scrambler device that bounced the call through twenty locations around the globe. For now, there was nothing anyone could do.

Their visit to the gyms in Hollywood came up empty. Neither the reception nor the fitness staff had seen a woman that resembled the computer-generated portrait. They’d need a warrant and a lot of man hours to go through all the member files in the gym’s database, and that would still be a shot in the dark.

The Gold’s Gym branch in Venice Beach is arguably the most famous gym in the world. It shot to fame with the release of the film
Pumping Iron
, starring Arnold Schwarzenegger in 1977. From professional bodybuilders to movie stars and celebrities, Gold’s Gym in Venice Beach is the place to be if you want to show off your body, but their luck didn’t change. No one recognized the woman in the picture there either.

‘There’s no way we’re gonna go around LA checking all the gyms,’ Garcia said as they reached his car.

‘I know, this was a long shot anyway, but we had to try it,’ Hunter said rubbing his tired eyes. The previous sleepless night was starting to show its signs.

‘So what’s next, model and acting agencies?’

‘Not yet.’ Hunter was deep in thought for a moment. ‘Doctor Winston said he was confident our victim had money and she spent quite a lot of it on pampering herself remember?’

‘Yeah, so?’

‘If she was a struggling actress or model . . .’

‘One thing she wouldn’t have a lot of would be money,’ Garcia picked up where Hunter left off.

‘You’re getting good at this – ever thought about becoming a detective?’ Hunter said derisively.

Garcia lifted his right hand and showed Hunter his middle finger.

‘There’s someone else I’d like to visit.’

‘Who?’ Garcia asked intrigued.

‘If she was a struggling actress or model she’d still be able to make quite a lot of money by doing something else. You mentioned it before.’

Garcia frowned. After a few seconds he snapped his fingers and pointed at Hunter. ‘Hooker,’ he said triumphantly.

Hunter gave him an approving smile. ‘And I know just the guy we need to talk to.’

‘Let’s go then,’ Garcia said sounding eager.

‘Not now, he’s only around at night – are you busy tonight?’ Hunter said with a quick wink.

‘Are you asking me out on a date?’

It was Hunter’s turn to flip Garcia the middle finger.

George Slater left his office at the renowned Tale & Josh law firm at the usual time of six-thirty in the afternoon. His wife Catherine knew she wouldn’t be having dinner with him as it was Tuesday night, ‘poker night.’

George was an average-looking man. The kind that would never attract much attention in a crowd through looks alone, but no one could deny he was charming. Five foot nine with dark-brown eyes and hair to match, his impeccable dress sense had always managed to conceal his thin frame.

After leaving his office George sat listening to the radio news as he drove his luxurious M-Class off-roader Mercedes-Benz to a small rented apartment in Bell Gardens. He’d found the apartment over the internet and dealt directly with the owner avoiding the estate-agent middleman. In exchange for discretion, George had offered to pay the landlord cash – one whole year in advance.

Two copies of a hand-drafted agreement and a receipt for the amount paid were the only existing documentation of the transaction. No lengthy contracts, no traceable paperwork. Even the name on the contract was fictitious – Wayne Rogers. George took no chances. The property could not be traced back to him.

The apartment was located in a very quiet street just on the edge of Bell Gardens and that suited George just perfectly. It meant fewer people to witness him coming and going and the building’s underground garage offered him even more shelter from prying eyes.

The single-bedroom apartment wasn’t very spacious but it served its purpose. It certainly wasn’t luxuriously decorated. The entrance door opened straight into a small living room painted white. A three-seat black-leather sofa had been placed a little off the center of the room facing an empty wall. There was no TV set, no paintings, no rugs or carpet. In fact, apart from the sofa, the only other piece of furniture in the living room was a magazine holder. The kitchen was small and very clean. The cooker had never been used. The contents of the fridge were restricted to twelve bottles of beer, some chocolate bars and a carton of orange juice. The apartment wasn’t used for living in.

An en-suite double bedroom was located at the end of a small corridor. Inside it, an extravagant bed with a pompous iron-frame bedstead had been positioned against the wall directly opposite the door. To the left of the bed an all-mirrored-door wardrobe. The room had been fitted with a dimmer switch, or as George liked to call it – the mood switch. This was the most important room in the apartment.

George closed the door behind him, placed his briefcase on the floor next to the sofa and walked into the kitchen. After grabbing a beer from the fridge and twisting its top off he returned to the living room. The beer tasted ice-cold and it relaxed him on a desperately hot day. George drank half the bottle down before sinking himself into the sofa and grabbing his second cell phone from his briefcase. Very few people knew about his extra phone; his wife wasn’t one of them. George had one more sip of his cold beer before rereading the latest text message.

I’ll be with you around 9:15. Can’t wait to see you.

The message wasn’t signed, but there was no need. George, or Wayne as he was known, knew exactly who it was from – Rafael.

George had met the six-foot-one man of Puerto Rican descent through a male escort agency a year ago. At first their relationship was professional, but it soon developed into a forbidden affair. George knew Rafael had fallen in love with him and though his feelings for Rafael were very strong, he couldn’t call it love – at least not yet.

George checked the time – ten past eight. He had an hour before his lover was due to arrive. He finished his beer and decided to go for a shower.

As the water massaged his tired body, George fought a guilty feeling. He loved Catherine, and he loved making love to her on the few occasions he was allowed to. Maybe if they’d stayed in Alabama things would’ve been different, but LA had offered him something new. In today’s society being bisexual would be considered by some as quite normal, but certainly not by Catherine.

Catherine Slater was born Catherine Harris in Theodore, Alabama. Her upbringing by her excessively religious family had been very strict. She was an avid churchgoer, sometimes five to six times a week. Overbearing and opinionated, she firmly believed in no sex before marriage, and even then she believed sex shouldn’t be used as an instrument of carnal pleasure.

Catherine and George met during their freshman year of law school at Alabama State University. Both straight ‘A’ students, it didn’t take long for their classmate friendship to develop into an impossible, sexless romance. Blinded by his enormous desire to be with her, George asked for Catherine’s hand in marriage one month after their graduation.

Soon after their wedding George was offered a position with a very well-known law firm in Los Angeles, Tale & Josh. Catherine’s vision of Los Angeles was that of a degraded and violent city fueled by sex, drugs and greed, but after two months of discussions and promises she accepted that George’s job opportunity was too good to pass.

Catherine wasn’t bothered by the fact that her own professional future wasn’t involved in the move to Los Angeles. She’d never expected to be a career woman. Her parents had brought her up to be a good wife, to take care of her home, her children and her husband, and that was exactly what she wanted to do. She also believed George wouldn’t take to LA and after maybe a year or two he would grow tired of the ‘big city, bright lights
’
lifestyle – she was wrong.

After winning his second case for his new law firm, George’s client invited him to a private party to celebrate the victory.
Don’t bring your wife with you. You’ll have more fun on your own, if you know what I mean.

George was intrigued by the mysterious invitation. He gave Catherine the typical ‘working late
’
excuse and turned up at a luxurious mansion in Beverly Hills. What he saw changed his life forever.

George’s only porn experience had been in high school. One of his friends had managed to get his hands on an old VHS movie and some adult magazines during a weekend when his parents were away. George had never forgotten it, but this was no movie, this was no acting. In one clean swoop George was introduced to BDSM, partner swapping, gloryholes, spanking, sex slavery, golden showers – things he’d never even dreamed of. He discovered a world he’d never thought existed outside adult books and sleazy films. Free sex, free drugs – a place where all his fantasies could come true, where his darkest sexual desires could be exposed with no guilt. It was there, inside the dungeon room of the luxurious mansion that George had had his first sexual experience with another man, and he’d loved it. After that, he couldn’t get enough of his new-found underground life. He loved the parties, the people, and the secrecy of it all.

George dried himself slowly before wrapping the towel around his waist. The anticipation of seeing Rafael again turned him on. In the kitchen he grabbed another beer and checked the wall clock – 8:45, not long now. He toyed with the idea of getting dressed again, but he enjoyed the excitement of greeting his lover with nothing on but a towel.

One thing they both enjoyed doing was role-playing and George had a story all worked out for tonight. In the bedroom he slid open one of the mirrored wardrobe doors to reveal an amazing variety of BDSM props – whips, chains, ropes, gags, leather straps, handcuffs, anything his imagination could come up with.

He carefully chose the toys he needed for his scenario and placed them on the bed, his excitement starting to show through his bath towel, but was interrupted by a knock on the door. He checked his watch – 8:53. He is early, George thought, maybe he’s as eager as I am
.

George couldn’t conceal the satisfied smile that came to his lips as he opened the door.

‘Who’re you?’ His smile evaporated into a worried frown.

The answer came as a punch to the stomach, powerful and precise. George contorted in pain as the air drained from his lungs, his eyes wide open and terrified. Gasping for oxygen, he took one step back, but it wasn’t enough to avoid the second blow. This time a kick straight between his legs. As the intruder’s foot made contact with George’s genitals, he fell backwards, his bath towel dropping to the floor. George wanted to speak, to fight back, but he had no strength left.

The intruder calmly closed the apartment’s door and approached George’s contorted body on the floor. George couldn’t make any sense of what was happening. He gurgled, unable to breathe and his heart skipped a beat as he saw the syringe. With a quick arm movement the intruder plunged it into George’s neck and all of a sudden there was no more pain, no more struggle. Only darkness.

Chris Melrose had been working for the County Department of Coroner for the last three years. From a very young age Chris had been fascinated with death, with everything morbid. His initial plan was to become a forensic scientist, but his poor school grades kept him from getting a place at university.

Chris’s first job was as a jack-of-all-trades in a mortuary. His duties ranged from funeral arrangements to lining the inside of coffins and preparing bodies, but that just wasn’t enough. Chris wanted the life he’d always dreamed of. He wanted the blood-stained rags, the stainless-steel tables, the stinging and intoxicating smell of death. He wanted to work with bodies in their raw state, before they were cleaned up and made ready for the funeral. After applying for almost every lower-level position with the County Department of Coroner he was finally offered a job as a lab porter. His new duties included cleaning autopsy rooms, moving bodies to and from the cooling chambers and making sure that all equipment was clean and ready to be used. The medical examiners in the Coroner’s office had never seen anyone take so much pride in his work. Chris was in everyone’s good books. What he loved doing more than anything else was sitting in on autopsies. None of the examiners minded.