The Crucifix Killer Part 29

Hunter noticed the captain's uneasiness. 'That's good but there's something bothering you.'

Captain Bolter walked over to his coffee machine. 'Coffee?'

Hunter shook his head. Only once he'd been naive enough to taste the captain's coffee and he swore never to do it again. He watched as the captain poured himself a cup and dropped four sugars in it.

'The woman that gave you this . . . are you involved with her? Are you involved with a potential witness?'

'Wait a second, Captain. Don't even go there,' Hunter replied, immediately going into defensive mode. 'We got together a couple of times, but I met her before I even knew she'd had an encounter with a possible suspect. She's just someone I met in a bar and . . . she's not a potential witness. She hasn't witnessed anything.'

'You know what I mean. Getting involved with anyone that, in one way or another, is part of an ongoing investigation is at the best of times risky, not to mention against protocol and dumb.'

'We slept together, Captain. That doesn't really qualify as being involved. Especially in LA. And she ain't part of this investigation. She's not a witness and she's not a suspect, she's a lucky break, and to tell you the truth it was about f.u.c.king time we got one.'

'Have you gone stupid all of a sudden?' The captain's voice firm and dry. 'You know how serial killers work. More to the point you know how this one works. He profiles people just as much as we're trying to profile him. He studies his selected victims, sometimes for months because he knows if he picks the wrong person his game is over. If this is our guy, I know you don't think he just happened to b.u.mp into your lady friend in a bar?'

That same thought had been playing in the back of Hunter's mind ever since Isabella told him about the man she'd met at the Venice Whaler. Hunter knew this killer was very methodical, no mistakes, no slip-ups. He stalked his victims, studying their habits, their schedules, waiting for the best time to make his move.

'Yes, Captain. I know there's a possibility that that's how the killer chooses his victims. He first approaches them with some sort of frivolous conversation just to size them up in a bar or a nightclub.'

'And that doesn't bother you?'

'Everything about this case bothers me, Captain, but this particular incident gives me some hope.'

'Hope? Have you gone mental?' the captain enquired wide-eyed.

'Their meeting was over two months ago, Captain, before he started killing again. As you remember the first killing happened just over a week ago. Maybe he did size Isabella up and he didn't like her, she didn't fit his victim's profile, so he pa.s.sed her up and looked for someone else.'

'The faceless woman?'

Hunter nodded.

Captain Bolter had a sip of his coffee and immediately made a bitter face. 'But why would that be? What made him not like her? She lives alone, doesn't she?'

'Yeah, she does.'

'That makes her an easy target. What made him discard her?' He walked back to the coffee machine and dropped two more sugars into his cup.

'I'm not sure yet, but that's one of the reasons I have to be close to her. I need to find out why she didn't fit. Maybe she's just too strong-willed. Isabella is not the kind of woman that would take c.r.a.p from anyone. Maybe the fact that she'd noticed his tattoos straight away scared him off. Maybe he realized she wasn't such an easy target after all.' Hunter paused and looked uncomfortable for a moment. 'Or maybe she's still a possible target and the killer has simply moved her further down the list.'

Captain Bolter hadn't thought of that possibility. 'Do you think?'

'With this killer anything is possible, Captain. You know it and I know it. Anyone could be his next victim,' Hunter replied skeptically. The heat inside the office was starting to make him feel uncomfortable. 'Can I open one of these windows?'

'And let the city smog into my office? h.e.l.l no.'

'Aren't you hot?'

'No, I'm fine.'

'How about one of these fans, can I turn one on?'

The captain leaned back on his chair placing both hands behind his head with his fingers interlaced. 'If you must.'

'Thank you.' Hunter set one of the fans to full speed.

'What do you think? Could this be our guy?' the captain asked.

'It's hard to say, but he's definitely a person of interest.'

'So if he's our guy you're saying he made his first mistake in three years?'

'As far as he's concerned, he made no mistake.'

Captain Bolter gave Hunter a puzzled look.

'You see, Captain, he simply approached someone at a bar, and as we've said that could be how he makes first contact with his victims.'

'But he wasn't counting on the woman he'd approached becoming your girlfriend.' A half malicious grin had formed on the captain's lips 'She ain't my girlfriend,' Hunter replied firmly. 'But yes, he wasn't counting on us knowing each other. And we'd never have known they'd met if not for the fact that I unconsciously drew the double-crucifix on a piece of paper while waiting in the living room. That's why I said it's a lucky break.'

'We're not gonna be able to keep this out of the papers for much longer you know. If he kills again the press will pick up on it and then it'll be just a matter of time before some smarta.s.s reporter links these murders to the old crucifix killings. When that happens, we're finished.'

'I can tell we're getting closer, Captain. You have to trust me this time.'

Captain Bolter ran his hand over his mustache and stared at Hunter with a laser-sharp gaze. 'I turned a deaf ear on your opinion about a case before and it cost me dearly. It cost the entire division and I know you've never forgiven yourself for it. That big-shot record producer. John Spencer was his name, right?'

Hunter nodded in silence.

'You told me and Wilson that we had the wrong guy. That he couldn't have murdered his wife. He didn't have what it took to be a murderer. We didn't wanna hear it. You wanted to carry on with the investigation even after the case had been officially closed and I told you not to, I remember that. h.e.l.l, I almost suspended you.' Captain Bolter leaned forward placing both elbows on his desk and resting his chin on his closed fists. 'I'm not making that mistake again. Do whatever you need to do, Robert. Just catch this G.o.dd.a.m.n Crucifix Killer.'

Forty-Two.

'We've got some news from Doctor Winston,' Garcia said as Hunter walked back into the office.

'Go ahead,' Hunter said after refilling his coffee cup.

'As we expected, Catherine has identified the body of our second victim as her husband's, George Slater.' Hunter showed no reaction. Garcia continued. 'It will be about five days before we get a result on the DNA test done on the hair found inside George's car, but they've confirmed it isn't his.'

'It doesn't matter,' Hunter said. 'We don't have a suspect yet for a DNA comparison.'

'That's true.'

Hunter noticed that Garcia looked overly tired. Even his desk seemed a little messier. 'Are you OK, rookie? You look hammered.'

It took Garcia a few seconds to register Hunter's question. 'Yeah, I'm fine. Haven't had much sleep in the past few days, that's all.' He paused to rub his eyes. 'I've been studying the files on all the past victims, trying to find some sort of connection between them or with one of our two new ones.'

'And have you found anything?'

'Not yet,' Garcia replied in a half-defeated tone. 'Maybe it's not in the files. Maybe it's something that was missed during the initial investigation.'

'Missed? What was missed?'

'Some link . . . something that would connect all the victims. There's gotta be something, there always is. The killer can't just be picking them at random.' Garcia sounded annoyed.

'Why, because the books say so?' Hunter pointed to the forensic psychology books on his desk. 'Let me explain something to you about this link, this connection between the victims that you so blindly keep looking for. I searched for it just like you're doing now, like an eagle searching for food, and it ate me inside just like it's doing to you. What you have to understand is that this link may only exist in the killer's head. It doesn't have to make sense to us or to anyone else for that matter. To us it could be the most superfluous of things like . . . all the victims' last names contain three out of the five vowels, or they all sat at the same park bench on a particular day of the week. It doesn't matter what it is. To the killer it's something that enrages him. Something that makes him wanna kill. Finding the link is just a small part of what we have to do. OK, I admit it, it can help us, but I don't want you to burn out on it . . . like I did.'

Garcia detected a paternal tone in Hunter's voice.

'There's only so much we can do, rookie, and you know we're doing everything we can. Don't ever forget, we're dealing with a social psychopath who takes immense pleasure in kidnapping, torturing and killing people. The human values that to us come as second nature are completely distorted in the killer's mind.'

Garcia pinched the bridge of his nose as if trying to fight off an oncoming headache. 'Every night when I go to bed and close my eyes I see them. I see Jenny Farnborough staring at me with those unhuman eyes. She tries to say something but she's got no voice. I see George Slater tied to that steering wheel, his skin popping open like bubble wrap, coughing blood onto me. His last breath, his last cry for help and there's nothing I can do,' Garcia said, looking away from Hunter for an instant. 'I can smell the death smell from the wooden house, the putrid odor from George's car.'

Hunter knew what Garcia was going through.

'I'm starting to scare Anna. I keep her up at night with my tossing and turning. Apparently I've started talking in my sleep . . . on the rare occasions that I manage to fall asleep that is.'

'Have you told her about the case?'

'No, I know better than that, but she's scared. She's very intelligent and she knows me too well. I can't get anything past her.' He gave Hunter a pale smile. 'You gotta meet her sometime, you'd like her.'

'I'm sure I would.'

'We met in high school. She broke my nose.'

'What? You're joking?'

Garcia gave Hunter a sincere smile while shaking his head. 'My gang in school . . . we were jerks, no doubt about it. Always making rude comments to all the nice girls. I even made her best friend cry once. One day, I was down at the library studying for a final exam. Anna was at the table just in front of mine. We kept swapping looks and smiles until she got up and walked to where I was. Without saying a word, she swung the heavy 500-page hardcover she had in her hands. It hit me squared in the face. Blood everywhere. After that, I was hooked. Wouldn't leave her alone until she agreed to go out with me.'

'I like her already,' Hunter laughed.

'I'll arrange dinner at my place sometime.'

Hunter could sense his partner's anguish. 'When I got to the sight of the first-ever Crucifix killing, it took me just thirty seconds to be sick,' Hunter said in a low voice. 'After so many years as a detective I thought I could handle anything this city could throw at me . . . I was wrong. The nightmares started almost immediately, and they've never stopped.'

'Not even when you thought you had the killer?'

Hunter shook his head. 'Catching the killer will soothe the pain, but it won't erase what you've seen.'

An uncomfortable silence came between them.

'On that first killing, one of the first officers to arrive at the scene was a rookie, brand new into the police force, no more than two months,' Hunter recalled. 'He didn't handle it. After months with the police psychologist he ended up quitting the force.'

'How do you handle it?' Garcia asked.

'Day by day, nightmare by nightmare. I fight a day at a time,' he replied with sad eyes.

Forty-Three.

She had to confess she was nervous. Maybe more nervous than she thought she'd be. Becky had spent most of the day with one eye on her computer screen and the other on the clock. She wasn't sure if it was apprehension or excitement, but the b.u.t.terflies in her stomach had been flying around since she'd got out of bed this morning. She'd barely been able to concentrate on her work, taking more breaks today than any other day, but today wasn't like any other day, at least not for Becky.

She'd left her office at the main branch of The Union Bank of California in South Figueroa Street at around 5:30 p.m., not her usual leaving time. As a financial adviser, her job had always demanded a lot from her. It wasn't unusual for Becky to stay behind until seven or eight in the evening. Today, even her boss had given her some advice in what she should and shouldn't do, and he was happy to see her leave a little earlier than normal.

Even with traffic as bad as it was, Becky still had enough time to drop by her apartment and grab a quick shower. She also wanted to try out the little black number she'd bought this afternoon during her lunch hour especially for tonight's occasion. As she thought about her new dress and how she should wear her hair, she found herself feeling anxious again. She turned on the radio and hoped the music would help calm her down.

How difficult could this be? She was sure things hadn't changed that much since the last time she had a date, but that had been almost five years ago. She could remember it vividly. How could she forget it? The man she'd dated that night had become her husband.

Becky met Ian Tasker through the bank. A charming six-foot-one, curly blond-haired playboy who had just inherited a considerable amount of money after the death of his property millionaire father. An only child, and with his mother having pa.s.sed away when he was only five years old, he'd become the sole beneficiary of his father's estate.

Ian had never been very good with money, and if it was up to him, he would've probably lost it all in Las Vegas or Atlantic City to the blackjack and roulette tables, but for some reason he'd decided to take his best friend's advice and invest part of the money.

Ian was completely clueless about finances. He'd never saved a penny, never mind invested it, but his best friend came to his rescue once again and suggested he had a look at The Union Bank of California's 'wealth planning service'.

Given the amount of money he intended to invest, the bank was more than happy to a.s.sign Rebecca Morris as Ian's personal financial adviser.

Their relations.h.i.+p had begun in a strictly professional way, but Ian's financial naivety and charming light-blue eyes had struck a weak spot with Becky. The initial, somewhat subdued attraction was mutual. Ian found the sweet, five-foot-six brunette fascinating. She was funny, attractive, lively, very intelligent and her sense of humor was laser sharp. After only one week, Ian's main interest had flipped from Becky's financial expertise to Becky herself. He'd be on the phone to her daily, asking for market tips, financial suggestions, anything really, just for the pleasure of hearing her voice.

Despite Ian Tasker being an undeniable playboy and a self-proclaimed ladies' man, his arrogance and self-confidence would disappear when Becky was around. She was different from all the other blood-sucking women he'd met. Her interest in his money seemed to be purely professional. It had taken him almost two weeks to gather enough courage to ask her out on their first date.

Becky had been asked out by bank clients many times before, most of them married men, and politely she'd rejected all their invitations. Even though Ian's playboy ways were far from what she'd envisaged as dating material, she decided to break her own rule 'never date a client'.

That night had been as close to perfect as anyone could've dreamed of. Ian had chosen a small restaurant by the sea in Venice Beach, and, at first, Becky was unsure what to make of the fact that he'd hired out the entire place for the night. Was that just a trick to impress her or was it a sincere attempt at romanticism? As the night progressed she found herself sucked in, first by his boyish and lively personality, then by the surprising pleasure of his company. There was no doubt Ian loved himself, but he was also very witty, kind and entertaining.

Their first romantic night consequently ignited a string of new ones, and their relations.h.i.+p flourished with every new date. His irreverent manner swept her off her feet and when Ian popped the question live on national television during the interval of a Lakers game, Becky became the happiest woman in Los Angeles.

Against his will, she'd insisted on a prenuptial agreement saying she was in love with him, not his money.

Their marriage picked up from where their dating left off. Everything seemed perfect. Ian was a very attentive and caring husband and to Becky it all felt like a fairy-tale story. For two years Becky did live a dream. The dream of being happy, the dream of being with someone who cares, the dream of being loved. But things were about to take a drastic turn.

Just over two and a half years ago, by sheer bad luck, Ian had found himself in the proverbial wrong place at the wrong time. On his way home from his usual Friday afternoon golf game, Becky had called and asked him to drop by a liquor store to pick up a bottle of red wine.

As he looked through the unimpressive selection he failed to notice the two new customers that had just come in wearing ice-hockey masks. The store he was in had been burgled several times twice in the last month alone. Its owner had had enough of what he called 'police incompetence' and if the police couldn't protect his store, then he would. and if the police couldn't protect his store, then he would.

Ian had finally chosen a bottle of Australian s.h.i.+raz when he heard loud shouts coming from the front of the store. At first he discarded it as a complaining customer having an argument with the store owner, but the argument heated up faster than usual. Sneakily he peeked around the aisle. The scene he saw was comically tragic. Both masked men were standing in front of the counter, guns drawn and aimed at the store owner who in turn had his double-barreled shotgun in hand and his aim moving back and forth from one masked man to another.

Instinctively Ian stepped backwards, trying to hide behind a brandy and whisky stand. Not able to contain his nervousness he stepped back too quickly, tripping, colliding with the stand and sending two bottles cras.h.i.+ng to the floor. The unexpected noise caught everyone by surprise, spooking the two masked men who opened fire in Ian's direction.

With both masked men's attention diverted for a split second, the store owner saw his opportunity and quickly discharged his first shot at the man standing closer to the door. The powerful blast from the shotgun propelled its victim into the air, his head obliterated. Shards of gla.s.s from the now-demolished front door flew up like hailstones. Panic took over the second masked man as he saw the decapitated body of his partner hit the floor. Before the store owner had a chance to turn his weapon towards the second masked man, the man squeezed two quick shots in succession, both hitting their target in the stomach.