The Crucifix Killer

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 astonishing drive with heart-warming views.

‘OK, I’m all ears,’ Garcia broke the silence. ‘Enough with the bullshit. What the hell does that weird carving on the back of the victim’s neck mean? You’ve obviously seen it before, judging by your reaction.’

Hunter searched for the correct words as old images came into his mind. He was about to bring Garcia into a nightmare – one he was trying to forget.

‘Have you ever heard of the Crucifix Killer?’

Garcia cocked an eyebrow and looked inquisitively at Hunter. ‘Are you joking?’

Hunter shook his head.

‘Yeah, of course I have. Everyone in LA has heard of the Crucifix Killer. Damn, everyone in the entire USA has heard of the Crucifix Killer. I actually followed the case as closely as I could. Why?’

‘What do you know about him? What do you know about the case?’

‘Are you trying to brag now?’ he asked with an uncomfortable smile as if waiting for the obvious answer – he got none. ‘Are you serious? You want me to talk to you about the case?’

‘Humor me.’

‘OK,’ Garcia replied with a whatever head movement. ‘It was probably your biggest case. Seven horrific homicides over a two-year period. Some crazy, religious fanatic. You and your ex-partner caught the guy about a year and a half ago. He was picked up driving out of LA. If I’m not mistaken, he had a shitload of evidence inside the car with him, victim’s belongings and stuff like that. Apparently even his interrogation didn’t take that long; he confessed straight away, didn’t he?’

‘How do you know about his interrogation?’

‘I’m still a cop remember? We get some good inside information. Anyway, he got the death penalty and the lethal shot about a year ago, one of the quickest executed sentences in history. Even the president got involved right? It was all over the news.’

Hunter studied his partner for a moment. Garcia knew the story as it’d been told by the press.

‘Is that all you know? Do you know why the press called him the Crucifix Killer?’

It was now Garcia’s turn to study his partner for a quick second. ‘Have you been drinking?’

‘Not for a few hours,’ Hunter said instinctively checking his watch.

‘Yes, everyone knows why. As I’ve said he was a religious fanatic. He thought he was ridding the world of sinners or some crap like that. You know – prostitutes, drug addicts – whoever the little voices in his sick mind told him to kill. Anyway, the reason he was called the Crucifix Killer was because he branded a crucifix on the back of every victim’s left hand.’

Hunter sat in silence for a moment.

‘Wait a second! Do you think this is a copycat case? I mean – carving that strange symbol on the back of that woman’s neck. It did look like some sort of crucifix if you think about it,’ Garcia said, picking up on Hunter’s hint.

Hunter didn’t answer back. Silence took over for another two or three minutes. They’d now reached Sand Canyon Road, an exclusive neighborhood in Santa Clarita and the view had changed to large houses with impeccably treated lawns. Hunter was glad to be back in civilization again. Traffic was getting a little busier as people made their way into work. Hunter could see businessmen and women stepping out of their front doors in their nice suits ready for another day at the office. The first rays of sunlight had just graced the sky in what was already promising to be another scorching hot day.

‘Since we’re talking about the Crucifix murders, can I ask you something?’ Garcia ended the silence in the car.

‘Yeah, shoot,’ Hunter replied in a monotonous tone.

‘There were rumors going around that either you or your partner never believed that the guy you caught was the killer – despite all the evidence found in his car and despite his confession – is that true?’

Old images of Hunter’s only interrogation session with the so-called Crucifix Killer started playing in his mind.

Click…

‘Wednesday 15th of February – 10:30 a.m. Detective Robert Hunter initiating the interrogation of Mike Farloe concerning case 017632. The interviewee has declined the right to counsel,’ Hunter spoke into the old-fashioned tape recorder inside one of the eight interrogation rooms in the RHD building.

Opposite Hunter sat a thirty-four-year-old man with a strong jaw, protruding chin covered in three-day-old stubble and dark eyes as cold as black ice. His hairline was receding and the little black hair that remained was thin and combed back. His cuffed hands were placed over the broad metal table that sat between him and Hunter, palms down.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to have a lawyer present?’

‘The lord is my shepherd.’

‘OK then. Your name is Mike Farloe is that correct?’

The man lifted his stare from his cuffed hands and looked straight into Hunter’s eyes. ‘Yes.’

‘And your present address is number 5 Sandoval Street in Santa Fe?’

Mike was strangely calm for someone who was facing a multiple homicide charge. ‘That’s where I used to live, yes.’

‘Used to?’

‘I’m gonna live in prison now, isn’t that right detective? At least for a little while.’ His voice was dull and steady.

‘Do you wanna go to prison?’

Silence.

Hunter was the best interrogator at the RHD. His knowledge of psychology allowed him to extract extremely valuable information from suspects, sometimes even confessions. He could read a suspect’s body language and tell-tales like a billboard. Captain Bolter wanted every little piece of information he could get from Mike Farloe – Robert Hunter was his secret weapon.

‘Can you remember where you were on the night of 15th of December last year?’ Hunter was now referring to the night before the last Crucifix Killer’s victim was found.

Mike was still staring straight at him. ‘Yes I can…’

Hunter waited a few seconds for the remainder of the answer. It never came.

‘And where were you?’

‘I was working.’

‘And what is it that you do?’

‘I clean the city.’

‘You’re a garbage collector?’

‘Correct, but I also work for Our Lord Jesus Christ.’

‘Doing what?’

‘I clean the city,’ he repeated calmly. ‘I rid this city of filth – sinners.’

Hunter could feel Captain Bolter shifting in his chair inside the observation room on the other side of the two-way mirror mounted on the north wall.

Hunter massaged the back of his neck with his right hand. ‘OK, how about the…’ – he flipped through a few notes he had with him – ‘… 22nd of September, do you remember where you were on that night?’

Inside the small observation room Scott looked puzzled. ‘22nd of September? What the hell happened on that day? There was no victim found on that date, or even close to it. What the fuck is Hunter doing?’

The seven Crucifix Killer dates had been imprinted into Scott’s brain, and he was sure Hunter knew them by heart, no need to check any notes.

‘Let him do his job, he knows what he’s doing.’ The answer came from Doctor Martin, a police psychologist also observing the interrogation.

‘The same. I was doing exactly the same thing,’ Mike replied convincingly. His answer caught everyone in the observation room by surprise.

‘What?’ Scott mumbled. ‘Is there a victim we don’t know about?’

Captain Bolter’s answer was a simple shrug.

Hunter had been observing Mike Farloe’s reactions, trying to get an insight into his thoughts, trying to read his tell-tale signs. Text-book behavior psychology told Hunter to monitor Mike’s eye movement – up and to the left meant he was accessing his visual constructive cortex, trying to create an image in his mind that didn’t exist before, a clear indication of lying – up and to the right meant he was searching his memory for visually remembered images, therefore, probably telling the truth – there was no movement whatsoever, his eyes were as still as a dead man’s.

‘How about the items that were found in your car, can you tell me about them? How did you get them?’ Hunter asked, referring to the passport, the driver’s license and the social security card that had been found inside a paper bag hidden away in the spare tire compartment of Mike Farloe’s 1992 rusty Oldsmobile Custom Cruiser. Each of the items belonging to a different victim. Inside his trunk the police had also found some bloody rags. The blood on them matching the DNA on three of the victims.

‘I got them from the sinners.’

‘The sinners?’

‘Yes… don’t play dumb, detective, you know what I mean.’

‘Maybe I don’t. Why don’t you explain it to me?’

‘You know the world wasn’t meant to be this way.’ The first hint of emotion from Mike finally coming through – anger. ‘Every second of every day a new sin is committed. Every second of every day we disrespect and disregard the laws that were given to us by the highest power of all. The world can’t go on like this, disrespecting Our Lord, disregarding his message. Someone has to punish them.’

‘And that someone is you?’

Silence.

‘To me all those victims were just normal people, not great sinners.’

‘That’s because your eyes have been glued the fuck shut, detective. You’ve been so blinded by the filth in this city that you can’t see straight anymore. None of you can. A prostitute selling her body for cash, spreading disease throughout the city.’ Hunter knew he was talking about the second victim. ‘A lawyer whose sole purpose in life was to defend scumbag drug dealers just so he could pay for his playboy lifestyle. A person with no morals,’ referring to the fifth victim. ‘A high city roller who fucked her way to the top, any cock would do as long as it moved her up a step…’ the sixth victim. ‘They needed to pay. They needed to learn that you can’t just walk away from the laws of God. They needed to be taught a lesson.’

‘And that’s what you were doing?’

‘Yes… I was serving Our Lord.’ The anger was gone. His voice as serene as a baby’s laughter.

‘PSYCHO.’ The comment came from Scott inside the observation room.

Hunter poured himself a glass of cold water from the aluminum jug on the table.

‘Would you like some water?’

‘No thanks, detective.’

‘Can I get you anything… coffee, a cigarette?’

His response was a simple shake of the head.

Hunter still couldn’t read Mike Farloe. There were no variations in his tone of voice, no sudden movements, no change in facial expressions. His eyes remained deadly cold, devoid of any emotion. His hands remained still. There was no increase in perspiration on his forehead or hands. Hunter needed more time.

‘Do you believe in God, detective?’ Mike asked calmly. ‘Do you pray to repent your sins?’

‘I believe in God. What I don’t believe in is murder,’ Hunter replied evenly.

Mike Farloe’s eyes were on Hunter as if the roles had reversed, as if he were the one trying to read Hunter’s reactions. Hunter was about to pop another question when Farloe spoke first. ‘Detective, why don’t we cut the bullshit and go straight to the point? Ask me what you are here to ask me. Ask and you shall be answered.’

‘And what is that? What is it that I’m here to ask you?’

‘You wanna know if I committed those murders. You wanna know if I am who they call the Crucifix Killer.’

‘And are you?’

Farloe shifted his stare from Hunter for the first time. His eyes now rested on the two-way mirror on the north wall. He knew what was happening on the other side. The anticipation inside the observation room now growing to eruption point. Captain Bolter could swear that Farloe was staring straight at him.

‘I didn’t choose that name for myself, the media did.’ His eyes had returned to Hunter. ‘But yes, I freed their souls from their life of sin.’

‘I’ll be damned… we’ve got a confession.’ Captain Bolter could hardly hide his excitement.

‘Hell yeah! And it only took Hunter about ten minutes to get it out of him. That’s my boy,’ Scott replied with a smile.

‘If you are the Crucifix Killer, then you did choose your name,’ Hunter continued. ‘You branded the victims. You chose your mark.’

‘They needed to repent. The symbol of our Lord freed their souls.’

‘But you are no God. You don’t have the power to free anyone. Thou shall not kill, isn’t that one of the commandments? Doesn’t killing these people make you a sinner?’

‘No sin shall be when done in the name of the divine. I was doing God’s work.’

‘Why? Did God call in sick that day? Why would God ask you to kill in his name? Isn’t God supposed to be a merciful being?’

Farloe let a smile grace his lips for the first time showing yellow cigarette-stained teeth. There was an evil air about him. Something different, something almost inhuman.

‘This guy gives me the creeps. Shouldn’t we just stop this interview, he’s already confessed, he’s done it, end of story,’ Scott said clearly irritated.

‘Not yet, give him a few more minutes,’ Doctor Martin replied.

‘Whatever… I’m out of here, I’ve heard enough.’ Scott opened the door and stepped into the narrow corridor on the third floor of the RHD building.

Hunter grabbed a piece of paper, wrote something on it and slid it towards Farloe over the table. ‘Do you know what this is?’

Farloe’s eyes moved down to the paper. He stared at it for about five seconds. By the movement of his eyes and imperceptible frown Hunter knew Farloe didn’t have a clue what the figure on the paper meant. Hunter got no answer.

‘OK, so let me ask you this…’

‘No, no more questions,’ Farloe cut in. ‘You know what I’ve done, detective. You’ve seen my work. You’ve heard what you wanted to hear. There’s no more need for questions. I’ve said my piece.’ Farloe closed his eyes, placed his hands together and began a whispered prayer.

‘Yes it’s true. I never believed he was our killer,’ Hunter finally answered Garcia’s question, snapping back from his memory flash.

Even though it was just past six in the morning the day was already warm. Hunter pressed the button on the passenger’s door and his window rolled down smoothly. The scenery had changed from the luxurious houses of Santa Clarita into noisy traffic as they drove down San Diego Freeway.

‘Do you want me to turn on the air con?’ Garcia asked fiddling with his dashboard.

Hunter’s car was an old Buick and it didn’t have any of the luxury gadgets of modern cars. No air conditioning, no sunroof, no electric windows or mirrors, but it was a Buick, pure American muscle as Hunter liked to call it.

‘No. I prefer it like this, natural polluted LA air – you just can’t beat it.’

‘So why did you think you had the wrong guy? You had all the evidence found in his car, plus the guy confessed. What else did you need?’ Garcia asked bringing the subject back to the Crucifix Killer.

Hunter tilted his head towards the open window letting the air brush through his hair. ‘Did you know we never found any evidence at any of the seven crime scenes?’

‘Again, I’ve heard rumors, but I thought that was just you guys playing your cards close to your chest.’

‘It’s true, Scott and I fine-combed every inch of those crime scenes and so did the forensic team. We never found a thing – not a fingerprint, not a strand of hair, not a fiber… nothing. The crime scenes were like forensic vacuums.’ Hunter paused, letting the wind hit his face once again. ‘For two years the killer never made a mistake, never left anything behind, no slip-ups… the killer was like a ghost. We had nothing, no leads, no direction and no idea of who the killer could be. Then, all of a sudden he gets caught with all that shit in his car? It didn’t add up. How the hell does anyone go from being probably the most thorough criminal in history to being the sloppiest one?’

‘How did you catch him?’

‘An anonymous phone call just a few weeks after the seventh victim was found. Someone had seen a suspect car with what seemed to be blood smudges on the outside of its trunk. The caller had managed to note down the license-plate number and the car was picked up on the outskirts of LA.’

‘Mike Farloe’s?’

‘Exactly, and inside his trunk it was like Christmas time for our investigation.’

Garcia frowned. He was starting to follow Hunter’s line of thought. ‘Yeah, but several major criminals have been caught out just like that, out of a traffic violation or some minor contravention. Maybe he was thorough at the crime scene, but sloppy at home.’

‘I don’t buy that,’ Hunter replied with a shake of the head. ‘He also kept on calling me “detective” throughout the interrogation.’

‘And what’s the problem with that?’

‘The Crucifix Killer used to call me on my cell phone and let me know about the location of a new victim, that’s how we found them. I was the only one who’d had any contact with him.’

‘Why you?’

‘I never found out, but every time he called me he’d always use my first name, he’d always call me “Robert”, never “detective,”’ Hunter paused. He was about to drop an atomic bomb on Garcia’s lap. ‘But the turning point was when I asked him about the crucifix mark branded on the victims’ hands. In a way he accepted it, he said that the symbol of our Lord could free them or something like that.’

‘Yes, so he was a religious psycho – what’s your point?’

‘I showed him a drawing of the symbol used by the Crucifix Killer and I’m sure he didn’t recognize it.’

‘He didn’t recognize a crucifix?’ Garcia arched both eyebrows.

‘The Crucifix Killer never branded a crucifix on the back of the victim’s left hand. That was just a story we fed the media to avoid the copycats, the attention seekers.’

Garcia held his breath in anticipation and felt an uncomfortable shiver down his spine.

‘What the Crucifix Killer did was carve a strange symbol, something like a double-crucifix, one right side up and the other upside down on the back of the victim’s neck.’ Hunter pointed to the back of his own neck. ‘That was his real mark.’

Hunter’s words caught Garcia totally by surprise. His mind flashed back to the scene in the old wooden house. The woman’s body. Her skinless face. The carving on the back of her neck. The symbol of the Crucifix Killer. ‘What? You’ve gotta be kidding me.’ Garcia took his eyes off the road for an instant.

‘Watch the road!’ Hunter realized they were about to run a red light. Garcia’s attention switched back to the road once again and he slammed down on the brakes throwing Hunter’s body forward like a torpedo. Hunter was held by his seatbelt which brought him crashing back to his seat, his head jerking back violently and hitting the headrest.

‘Damn! That brought my headache back, thanks,’ Hunter said, rubbing his temples with both hands.

The last thing in Garcia’s mind was his partner’s headache. Hunter’s words were still echoing in his ears. ‘So what are you saying? That someone found out about the real Crucifix Killer’s signature and is using it?’

‘I doubt it. Only a handful of people knew about it. Just a few of us at the RHD and Doctor Winston. We kept all information about the killer sealed tight. The symbol we saw today, it’s identical.’

‘Fuck, are you trying to suggest that he’s back from the dead or something?’

‘What I’m trying to say is that Mike Farloe wasn’t the Crucifix Killer as I’d always suspected. The killer’s still out there.’

‘But the guy confessed. Why the hell would he do that when he knew he would get the shot?’ Garcia asked, almost shouting.

‘Maybe he just wanted the notoriety, I’m not sure. Look, I have no doubt that Mike Farloe was mentally fucked up, he was a religious psycho, just not the one we were looking for.’

‘But then, how the hell did all that evidence end up in his car?’

‘I’m not sure, framed probably.’

‘Framed? But the only one who could’ve framed him was the Crucifix Killer himself.’

‘Exactly.’

‘And why now? Why would he be back now?’

‘I’m trying to figure that out myself,’ Hunter replied.

Garcia sat immobile staring at Hunter. He needed time to take all that in. That would explain Hunter’s reaction to the symbol carved on the woman’s neck. Could it be true, the Crucifix Killer had never been caught? Was he still out there? Had the State sent an innocent man to his death? Since Mike Farloe’s conviction the killings had stopped, which indicated that he was the Crucifix Killer. Even Hunter had started to believe it.

They sat in silence. Hunter could feel Garcia trying to process all the new information, trying to understand why someone would confess to a crime he didn’t commit.

‘If this is the real deal, I guess we will find out soon enough,’ Hunter said.

‘Really, how? How will we find out?’

‘Well, for starters, if this is the same killer, the forensic team will come up with nothing, another clean-as-a-whistle crime scene… Green light.’

‘What?’

‘The traffic light, it’s green.’

Garcia shifted his Honda Civic into gear and stepped on the gas. Neither said a word until they reached Santa Monica.

The Hideout bar is located right at the beach end of West Channel Road. Santa Monica beach itself is literally just across the road, making the Hideout bar one of the most popular nightspots in Westside Region. Garcia had only been once. Swaying curtains separated the nautically themed bar area from the main lounge, which was decorated with images of Santa Monica in the 1920s. The second floor was a loft that overlooked a low-back-chair-filled rear patio. It was a very popular place with the younger crowd and definitely not the type of bar Garcia would picture Robert Hunter hanging out.

Hunter’s car was parked just a few yards from the bar’s entrance. Garcia parked right behind it.

‘I’d like to take another look in that house after the forensic team is done, what do you say?’ Hunter asked, getting his car keys out of his pocket.

Garcia was unable to meet Hunter’s gaze.

‘Yo! Rookie, are you OK?’

‘Yeah. I’m good,’ Garcia finally replied. ‘Yeah, that’s a good idea.’

Hunter stepped out of the shiny Honda and opened the door to his old beat-up Buick. As he started his engine there was only one thought in his mind.

This shouldn’t be his first case.