The Crucifix Killer Part 13

'Well, I wanted to make it convincing,' Hunter smiled.

'So what's next?'

'I guess we're going clubbing this Friday,' Hunter said reaching for his car keys.

Nineteen.

Hunter pumped the gas pedal four times, placed his key in the ignition and turned it. The engine made a coughing noise followed by a rattling sound, the dashboard lights flickered but the car didn't start. Hunter returned the key to its original position, pumped the gas a couple more times and tried it again. This time he kept the key turned for about twelve seconds pressing the gas pedal gently. The engine coughed again and made the dreaded locomotive sound.

'You ain't serious,' Garcia said, staring at the dim flicker of the dashboard lights.

'Chill out, it's OK. This engine is just temperamental,' Hunter replied, avoiding Garcia's stare.

'By temperamental you mean old, right? Anyway, the problem isn't your engine. It sounds like a dead battery to me.'

'Trust me, I know this car, it'll be OK.' Hunter tried once again and this time the engine made no sound. The dashboard lights flickered only once and then . . .

'Umm! I guess you better call your road rescue service.'

'I don't have one.'

'What? Please tell me you're joking,' Garcia said, leaning against the pa.s.senger door.

'No I'm not.'

'Are you crazy? You have a car that's . . . How old is this car?'

Hunter screwed up his face trying to remember the exact year of fabrication. 'About fourteen years old.'

'You have a fourteen-year-old car and no road rescue plan? You're either very optimistic or a mechanic, and I don't see any grease on your hands.'

'I'm telling you, I know this car. We just gotta give it some time and it'll start, it always does. So coffee or beer?'

'Sorry?'

'Well, we've gotta kill some time . . . twenty or so minutes. We could just sit in here and shoot the breeze, but since we're on Sunset Strip, we might as well grab a drink while we wait, so do you prefer coffee or beer?'

Garcia looked at Hunter in disbelief. 'I don't see how waiting any amount of time will recharge your battery, but coffee will do for me.'

'Beer it is then,' Hunter said, opening his door and slipping out of the car.

'Shall we go back to the Rainbow? Maybe you can continue your very interesting conversation with the "Rock b.i.t.c.h" blond babe,' Garcia taunted.

'It's OK, I got her phone number,' Hunter teased back.

They found a small, quiet bar on Hammond Street. It was just past one in the morning and most punters were getting ready to go home. Hunter ordered two beers and a bag with ice for his ankle before taking a table towards the rear of the bar.

'How's the foot?' Garcia asked as they sat down.

'Fine. It's just a simple twist,' he said after a quick examination. 'The ice will keep it from swelling up.' He placed the bag of ice over his foot and rested it on an empty chair to his left. 'I won't be able to run for a couple of days but that's all.'

Garcia nodded.

'I've never seen anybody run the way you did, were you in the Olympics or something?'

Garcia smiled, showing glistening white and perfectly aligned teeth. 'I used to be in my university's track and field team.'

'And you were very good at it by the looks of things.'

'I've won a few medals.' Garcia sounded more embarra.s.sed than proud. 'How about you? If you hadn't twisted your foot you would've gotten to him easily. He was half your weight.'

'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 cras.h.i.+ng noise came from the bar catching their attention. Someone had slipped from his bar stool, smas.h.i.+ng 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. h.e.l.l, 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 cla.s.sic.'

'Cla.s.sic piece of junk maybe.'

'That's a true old-fas.h.i.+oned, all-American car. None of this j.a.panese- or European-made flimsy stuff.'

'j.a.panese 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, sc.r.a.ping 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 gla.s.s in front of Hunter and sat down.

'Thanks . . . to good health,' Hunter said raising his gla.s.s. 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 gla.s.s.

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 pa.s.sion 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 ma.s.sive 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.'