Chris Carter - The Crucifix Killer

‘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.

D-King didn’t take too kindly to any of his girls doing a disappearing act on him. Jenny had walked out on his party at the Vanguard Club three nights ago and he hadn’t heard from her since. D-King differed from other sex dealers in Los Angeles in that he wasn’t violent with his girls. If any of them decided that they’d had enough and wanted out, he’d be fine with that, as long as they didn’t go to work for another sex dealer or run away with his money.

Finding new girls was the easiest aspect of his business. Every day hundreds of beautiful girls arrive in Los Angeles looking for the Hollywood dream. Every day hundreds of dreams are shattered by the harsh reality of the City of Angels. It’s just a matter of knowing which girls to approach. The desperate and totally broke – the ones that need to get a fix – the ones that craved the lifestyle D-King had to offer. If any of his girls wanted out, all they had to do was say it and a replacement would be just around the corner.

D-King sent his main bodyguard, Jerome, to find out what had happened to Jenny. Why hadn’t she called back? Worst of all, why hadn’t she turned up for her appointment with a client last night? D-King didn’t tolerate letting a client down. It didn’t reflect well on his business and even a crooked business depended on reliability. D-King suspected something wasn’t right. Jenny was his most reliable girl and he was sure that if she had run into any trouble, she would’ve called.

The truth was he had a soft spot for Jenny. She was a very sweet girl, always with a smile and a fantastic sense of humor – qualities that went a long way in her line of work. When Jenny first started working for D-King she told him she’d only do this job until she had enough money to stand on her own two feet. He respected her determination, but for now she was one of his most profitable girls, a very popular choice among the rich and ugly scumbags that made up his client list.

On Jerome’s return D-King was doing his morning exercise – twenty-five laps of his half-Olympic-size swimming pool.

‘Boss, I am afraid I ain’t got good news.’ Jerome was a scary looking man. African American with cropped Afro hair and a crooked nose that had been broken so many times Jerome had lost count. He was six-foot-three and weighed three hundred and thirty pounds. He had a square jaw and cotton-white teeth. Jerome had been tipped to become the next heavyweight champion of the world, but a car accident had left him almost paralyzed from the waist down. It took him four years to be able to walk properly again. By that time, his shot at the title had come and gone. He ended up working as special security for a nightclub in Hollywood. D-King offered him a job and a substantial salary raise after he saw Jerome single-handedly take care of a group of seven football players who were looking for trouble one night.