Chris Carter - The Crucifix Killer

‘Can you tell us anything about the skinning of her face?’ Garcia asked.

‘Yes, this is where the killer shows us how good he really is, it’s surgically precise – the way the skin had been cut away, the way the lean tissue and ligaments had been left intact – fantastic work. He must’ve spent a fair amount of time operating on her face. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if whoever did this was a surgeon or something along those lines. But then again, we knew that much about the Crucifix Killer.’

‘What do you mean?’ Garcia looked confused.

‘The Crucifix Killer always removed a body part from his victims – an eye, a finger, an ear – human trophies in a way,’ Hunter explained. ‘It’s one of his signatures, together with the carving on the back of the neck and the stripping of the victim. According to the doctor, the removal of the body parts was always surgically precise, and apparently they had always been done while the victims were still alive.’

‘It seems the killer’s got better at it,’ Doctor Winston concluded.

‘Why would the killer take a part of a victim’s body?’ Garcia asked.

‘To remind him of the victim,’ Hunter replied. ‘It’s quite common when it comes to serial killers. Their victims mean a lot to them. Most of the time the killer feels there’s some sort of bond between him and the victim. Some killers prefer to take a piece of clothing, usually an intimate piece of clothing. Some go for a body part.’

Garcia studied the photographs. ‘I’m assuming the original investigation checked for doctors as probable suspects.’

‘And medical students, nurses, and so on and so forth. It didn’t lead us to anyone,’ Hunter answered.

Garcia moved back towards the body. ‘You said there are no birthmarks, no tattoos. Is there anything that can help us identify the body?’

‘We can try her face.’

Garcia stared at Doctor Winston sullenly. ‘Are you kidding?’

‘This is the twenty-first century, detective,’ the doctor said, his mouth twisted in what might’ve been a trace of a smile. ‘Computers can perform miracles nowadays. They’ve already been working on it upstairs for an hour and we shall have some sort of computer image ready any minute now. If we’re lucky you can pick it up on your way out.’

‘Judging by how much effort she put into her appearance I’d say she was either a model or an aspiring actress,’ Hunter suggested.

‘Or a high-class hooker, perhaps even a porn actress. They can make a lot of money you know,’ Garcia complemented Hunter’s suggestion.

‘How do you know? Dated a porn star recently, have you?’ Hunter smiled.

‘Um… it’s common knowledge.’

‘Of course it is. So who’s your favorite star?’

‘I’m married.’

‘Oh yeah. That makes a difference, I forgot. Married men don’t watch porn. Let me guess. You probably like Briana Banks.’

‘She is hot,’ Garcia said and immediately froze.

‘You walked straight into that one,’ Doctor Winston said padding him on the back.

Both detectives regarded the body in front of them for a while. She looked different now. Her skin seemed rubbery and paler and her mutilated face looked like a mask – a well-made-up actress ready to shoot a horror scene in some Hollywood production – an image of almost pure evil.

‘We’d better go check up on that computer image, doc, or is there anything else you’d like to show us?’

‘No, Robert, I’m afraid there isn’t much else I can tell you about her.’

‘Are you keeping her in this room?’

‘As requested by your captain… yes, we have our own cooling chamber in here. Let’s just hope we don’t have to fill it up with any more bodies.’

Hunter and Garcia buzzed themselves out of the autopsy room and walked up to the computer tech lab in silence.

‘Can I ask you something?’ Garcia asked.

‘Shoot.’

‘How come no one believed you when you told them that Mike Farloe wasn’t the Crucifix Killer?’

‘I never said that. In the end Captain Bolter and my ex-partner, Scott, saw my reasoning. But with all the evidence found in Farloe’s car, coupled up with him confessing to the murders, there wasn’t much we could do. It was in the DA’s hands. And they didn’t wanna hear any reasoning.’ Hunter looked down debating if he should carry on. ‘Maybe the truth is that we all wanted it to end,’ he finally said. ‘It had gone on for too long. Deep inside I secretly wished Farloe was the real killer. And now the nightmare is back.’

For Garcia the nightmare was just starting. For Hunter this was the worst kind, a recurring one.

Excluding children’s and psychiatric, there were eight hospitals in total in the central Los Angeles area, but only four of them showed Jane Doe entries for the past few days. Posing as the boyfriend or as a work colleague, Jerome visited all four with no luck. If Jenny had been admitted into a hospital, it hadn’t been one in downtown LA.

Jerome had thought about extending his search to places like Santa Monica, San Diego, Long Beach, Santa Ana, but that would’ve taken him an entire week and he didn’t have that kind of time. He decided to get in contact with Detective Culhane.

Mark Culhane hated receiving payments from a criminal, a drug lord, but he couldn’t deny the money came in handy; it was more than twice his Narcotics Division pay. In return, he was expected to look the other way during major drug deals, slightly mislead investigations and provide inside information every now and again. It’s a corrupt world and it didn’t take much effort from D-King to find Mark Culhane.

Jerome and Culhane met at the In-N-Out Burger restaurant in Gayley Avenue, one of Jerome’s favorite burger joints. By the time Culhane arrived, Jerome had already devoured two Double-Double burgers.

Culhane was forty-nine years old, five foot six, with a receding hairline and a frightening beer belly. Jerome had always wondered what would happen if Culhane had to chase a suspect on foot.

‘Culhane… sit down,’ Jerome said, eating the last of his fries.

Culhane sat opposite Jerome in the small old-fashioned diner booth. He looked older than Jerome remembered. The bags under his eyes had gained some extra weight. Jerome had no time for pleasantries and he slid a brown-paper envelope towards the detective. Culhane grabbed it and brought it close to his chest, holding it like a hand of poker. He had a quick look at the photograph inside.

‘She’s missing,’ Jerome carried on.

‘So? Talk to missing persons, I’m Narcotics remember?’ Culhane replied, clearly irritated.

‘Was that attitude?’ Jerome asked, having another swig of his giant-size root beer.

Culhane kept silent.

‘Let’s just say D-King considers her to be a special girl.’ He slid another envelope towards the detective. ‘This is extra.’

This time Culhane didn’t have to open it to know what was inside it. He picked the envelope up and placed it in his pocket.

‘What’s her name?’ he sked, his irritation dissipating.

‘Jenny Farnborough.’

‘Did she run out on him or you think it might be something else?’

‘We’re not sure, but we don’t think she’s a runaway. She’s got nothing to run away from. On top of that all of her belongings are still in her apartment.’

‘Is she hooked? Could she just be tripping out somewhere?’

‘I don’t think so. She does coke every now and then, you know, to keep her going, but she is no junkie. She wouldn’t work for the boss if she was.’

‘Boyfriend? Family?’

‘No boyfriend – her family lives in rednecksville somewhere in Idaho or Wyoming, but she doesn’t get along with them anyway.’