The Crucifix Killer (16 page)

‘I’m not as fast as you, I can tell you that,’ Hunter replied with a tilt of the head.

‘Maybe one day we’ll find out,’ Garcia said with a challenging smile.

A loud crashing noise came from the bar catching their attention. Someone had slipped from his bar stool, smashing his beer bottle and plummeting to the floor.

‘Time to go home, Joe,’ a short brunette waitress said, helping the man back to his feet.

‘There’s something that bothers me about this case,’ Garcia said following Joe out of the bar with his eyes.

‘Everything bothers me about this case, but let’s hear yours,’ Hunter replied, having another sip of his beer.

‘In this day and age, how can the killer not leave anything behind? I understand that the killer also has a lot of time to clean up the place before he leaves, but we’ve got lights and chemicals and different gadgets that can reveal a speck of dust on the floor. We’ve got DNA tests; we can convict someone by his saliva. Hell, if the killer had farted in that house the forensic team would probably have some gadget that could pick it up. How can the crime scenes be so clean?’

‘Simple, the killer never works on a victim at the location where the victim is found.’

Garcia half nodded accepting Hunter’s theory.

‘Our victim for example. She wasn’t skinned at that old wooden house. The killer surely has a very secure place, a killing place, a place where he feels safe, where he can take his time with the victims, where he knows no one would ever interrupt him. So all the messy stuff, the blood, the noise, the fibers are all left somewhere else. The killer then transports the victim to the place where he wants them to be found, usually a secluded place where the risk of being seen by a member of the public is very slim. All the killer has to do is wear some sort of overall that sheds no fibers.’

‘Like a plastic suit?’

‘Or a rubber suit, diving suit, something like that. Something the killer could’ve made himself at home, impossible to trace really.’

‘How about transporting the victim?’

‘Probably a van, something common, something that wouldn’t raise any suspicions, but big enough to transport a body or two in the back.’

‘And I bet the van’s interior is completely covered in plastic sheets or something the killer can easily remove and burn, avoiding leaving any traces behind in case the van is ever found.’

Hunter nodded and had another sip of his drink. They both went silent and Hunter started playing with his car keys.

‘Have you ever thought about getting a newer car?’ Garcia asked cautiously.

‘You know, you sound just like Scott. I like that car, it’s a classic.’

‘Classic piece of junk maybe.’

‘That’s a true old-fashioned, all-American car. None of this Japanese- or European-made flimsy stuff.’

‘Japanese cars will run forever, they’ve got amazing engines.’

‘Yeah, now you’re really sounding like Scott, he used to drive a Toyota.’

‘Intelligent man.’

Garcia pressed his upper teeth against his lower lip. He wasn’t sure how Hunter would react to his next question, but he decided to go for it anyway. ‘What happened to Scott? I was never told,’ he tried to sound casual.

Hunter placed his beer back on the table and looked at his partner. He knew that sooner or later that question would come up. ‘Do you want another beer?’ he asked.

Garcia looked at his half-full bottle. It was obvious Hunter was trying to avoid the question. He decided not to push it. ‘No, I’m not really a beer guy, I prefer whisky.’

Hunter lifted his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Really?’

‘Yeah, single malt is my weakness.’

‘OK, now you’re talking.’ Hunter gave Garcia a quick nod. ‘Do you think they have any decent single malt in this joint?’

Garcia realized Hunter was about to go back to the bar. ‘Probably not, but hey, I don’t wanna get started on whisky, not at this time,’ he said quickly glancing at his watch. ‘This beer will do. I wanted coffee remember.’

Hunter gave Garcia a quick smile and finished the rest of his beer in one go. ‘Boat accident.’

‘What?’

‘Scott and his wife died in a boat accident, right after Mike Farloe was sentenced.’ Hunter’s statement caught Garcia by surprise. He wasn’t sure if he should say something or not and took another swig of his beer instead.

‘We were both due a vacation,’ Hunter continued. ‘We’d been working on the case for too long. It’d taken over our lives and we were literally losing our minds. The pressure had gotten to everyone. It was affecting our logical thought process. We were doubting our abilities and depression was setting in fast. When Mike confessed to the crucifix killings we were ordered to take some time off. For our own sanity.’ Hunter toyed with his empty beer bottle, scraping off the label.

‘I think I’ll take that single malt now, do you want one?’ Garcia said making a head movement towards the bar.

‘Sure, why not, if they have any.’

A couple of minutes later Garcia came back with two single shots. ‘The best they could manage was Arran eight years, and the prices in here are a joke.’ He placed a glass in front of Hunter and sat down.

‘Thanks . . . to good health,’ Hunter said raising his glass. He had a sip of the brownish liquid and let its strong taste engulf his entire mouth. ‘Much better than beer I’d say.’

Garcia agreed with a smile.

‘I live alone, I always have, but Scott had a wife . . . Amanda. They’d been married for only three and a half years.’ Hunter’s eyes were fixed on his glass.

Garcia could tell this wasn’t easy for Hunter.

‘The case had put a lot of pressure on their marriage. Sometimes he’d go for days without going home. It was hard for Amanda. They started arguing a lot. Scott had become obsessed with the case and so had I,’ Hunter said having another sip of his single malt. ‘We were sure there had to be some sort of bond, something that would link all the victims together. We were waiting for the killer to slip up. Sooner or later they all do, no one could be that thorough.’

‘Did you check with the FBI?’

‘Yeah, we were given clearance to their database and library. We spent days . . . weeks looking for something that could help us.’ Hunter paused for a few seconds. ‘There’s always something. It doesn’t matter how evil or crazy someone is, there’s always a reason for murder. Most of the time it’s an illogical one, but a reason nevertheless. We were going crazy; we were checking the most absurd possibilities.’

‘Like what?’ Garcia asked curiously.

‘Oh, we checked things like if they all had the same childhood diseases, holiday destinations, allergies – anything really, and then . . .’

‘And then you got your break.’

‘And then we got our break – we arrested Mike Farloe. For Scott, that was a blessing.’

‘I can see why.’

‘I’m sure if the case had gone on for a few more months, Amanda would’ve walked out on him and Scott would’ve ended up in a crazy house.’

‘So what happened after the arrest?’

‘We were ordered to go on a vacation, not that we needed any persuasion,’ Hunter said with a shy smile.

‘I bet you didn’t.’

‘Scott’s big passion was this boat of his. He’d saved for years to be able to afford it.’ Another sip. ‘He needed to spend time with Amanda, you know, just the two of them to try and patch things up. A sailing vacation sounded like a great idea.’

‘It was a sailboat?’ Garcia’s interest grew.

‘Yeah, something like . . . Catarina 30.’

Garcia laughed. ‘Catalina 30, you mean.’

Hunter’s eyes met Garcia’s. ‘Yeah, that’s it, how do you know?’

‘I grew up with sailboats. My father was obsessed with them.’

‘Huh! How about that? Anyway, there was some sort of fuel leak on board. Something ignited it causing it to blow. They died in their sleep.’

‘A fuel leak?’ Garcia sounded surprised.

‘That’s right,’ Hunter replied, noticing Garcia’s skeptical look. ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

Garcia raised his eyebrows.

‘Sailboats don’t carry that much fuel. Why would they, right? They are sailboats. And it would’ve had to have been a massive leak to cause the boat to explode.’

Garcia nodded.

‘Yeah, that didn’t sit right with me either so I tried carrying out my own private investigation. I don’t believe someone as thorough as Scott would’ve overlooked any sort of problem with his most prized possession, no matter how small. Scott was a very proud man.’ Hunter had another sip of his whisky. ‘The leak didn’t come from the engine. It came from the fuel barrows.’

‘Fuel barrows?’

‘For some reason that I’ll never find out, Scott took more fuel onboard than usual. A few barrows.’

‘Was he planning a longer trip?’

‘I don’t know, and as I’ve said, I’ll never find out.’

Garcia looked pensive for a long minute and watched Hunter drink the rest of his whisky in silence. ‘Did Scott smoke?’

‘Both of them did, but I don’t buy it. That’s what the official report tried to blame it on.’ Hunter shook his head. ‘There’s no way I’ll ever believe that some sort of cigarette accident caused the boat to blow. Not with Scott on board. He wouldn’t make that sort of mistake.’

They stared at each other without saying a word.

‘I was only told about it two weeks after it’d happened, when I got back to the RHD.’

Garcia could sense real pain in his partner. ‘I take it that the case’s been closed.’

Hunter nodded. ‘They saw no reason to investigate it any further.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘If I’d lost a partner to the job, then maybe . . .’ Hunter paused, moving his index finger around the rim of his now empty glass. ‘But that just felt wrong – a freak accident and suddenly I’d lost two very important people in my life.’

‘Two?’

Hunter rubbed his eyes, taking his time to respond. ‘Amanda was my only cousin. I had introduced them to each other.’ His voice was sad. It was obvious Hunter was battling with his emotions. This was the first time he’d talked about what had happened to anyone, and in a way, it made him feel better. Hunter noticed that Garcia looked like he wanted to say something. Maybe something to try and comfort him, but he knew that in situations like these words would make no difference.

Garcia bit his lip and said nothing.

It took Hunter a few more seconds to gather himself again. ‘We better get going,’ he finally said then got up.

‘Yeah, sure.’ Garcia finished his whisky in one big gulp.

Outside the warm air felt a little uncomfortable.

‘Maybe we should just call police rescue,’ Garcia said as they reached Hunter’s car once again.

‘No need.’ Hunter turned the key in the ignition and the engine started straight away.

‘I’ll be damned!’

‘I told you, great car, just a little temperamental.’ Hunter had a proud smile on his lips as he drove away.

Hunter’s shirt was drenched in sweat when he woke up from another vivid and disturbing dream at five in the morning.

He sat in bed, breathing heavily, his forehead wet with perspiration, his whole body shaking. When would these dreams leave him? Since Scott’s death they’d become a constant part of his nights. He knew he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep now. He walked into the bathroom and splashed some icy-cold water on his face. His breathing had slowed down but his hands were still shaking. The reflection in the mirror disturbed him. The bags under his eyes seemed heavier, his complexion too pale.

He moved to the kitchen and sat in the dark for a few minutes nursing his anxiety. His eyes grazed the kitchen’s noticeboard and he saw the note he’d pinned up a few days ago – Isabella.

Hunter had forgotten about her. He unpinned the note from the board and read it. A pleasing grin found its way to his lips without him even noticing it. For a quick second he forgot all about the Crucifix Killer’s case and remembered how she made him smile. He remembered how he had to fight the urge to jump back in bed with her after her invitation.

Hunter retrieved his cell phone from his jacket pocket, keyed in her number and created an alarm entry to remind him at 12:30 p.m.

*

Hunter arrived at the RHD building at eight o’clock to find Garcia already sitting at his desk. They spent the morning faxing photos to model and acting agencies and trying to gather all the information they could about D-King. Hunter knew from experience never to interrogate anyone unprepared, especially if that someone was a self-proclaimed crime lord.

‘Yeah, it looks like we’re gonna be dealing with one tough sonofabitch here,’ Garcia said, holding the fax he’d just received.

‘I knew that, but what do you have?’

‘As you’ve said before it seems like our guy deals in just about anything you’d like, drugs, guns, prostitution, stolen goods . . .’ Garcia made a movement with his hand indicating that the list went on and on. ‘And you were right when you said he was very slick. He’s been taken to court a few times . . .’