Chris Carter - The Crucifix Killer

‘As I’ve said, this is LA, the city of the fit and beautiful.’ Hunter smiled as he flexed his bicep mockingly.

‘Yeah, in your dreams.’

‘We should check out some of the bigger, more famous gyms,’ Hunter paused for a moment. ‘The doctor said she liked to use expensive stuff right? So she obviously spent money on herself.’

‘And I bet that with a body like that she liked to be noticed,’ Garcia cut in.

‘I agree.’

‘So if you wanted to show off your body, which gym would you go to? Since you are the expert.’

‘Well, Gold’s Gym is our best bet, there are two branches in Hollywood where we’ll find a lot of famous and “in” people, and then there’s the Arnold Schwarzenegger famous Gold’s Gym in Venice Beach.’

‘I think we should check them out.’

‘Grab that computer image, we’re gonna go visit the big boys.’

As Hunter reached their office door his cell phone rang. ‘Yes, Detective Hunter speaking.’

‘ Hello, Robert, did you miss me? ’ the robotic voice asked.

Garcia was still walking towards the stairs when he realized Hunter wasn’t with him. He stopped and looked back. Hunter was standing in front of their new office holding his cell phone to his right ear. By the look on his face Garcia could tell something wasn’t right.

‘Robert, what’s wrong?’

Hunter didn’t reply. He instinctively shook his head – just a slight movement, but enough for Garcia to figure out what was happening.

‘Damn!’ Garcia said under his breath and quickly moved to Hunter’s side tilting his head towards the phone trying to listen in.

‘ I trust you have seen my latest work? ’

Hunter’s mind went blank, his heart speeding like a racing bike.

‘ Aren’t you gonna answer me, Robert? ’

It had been almost two years since Hunter had heard that robotic voice. ‘What was there to miss?’ he replied with a calm voice.

Laughter – ‘ Well, maybe the thrill, the adventure. I give purpose to your job. ’

‘To tell you the truth, I was hoping you were gone.’

Another laugh. ‘ Oh, c’mon Robert! I know you didn’t really believe the guy you caught was me. ’

Hunter stepped back into his office, Garcia still with him. ‘So he was just another one of your victims?’

‘ I didn’t kill him. ’

‘You framed him, which is basically the same thing.’

‘ In truth I did you a favor. He was just another dirty sack o’ shit … a pedophile .’

Despite his hatred, Hunter knew that the longer he kept the killer talking, the more chances he had of forcing a mistake, a slip of the tongue.

‘So you decided to come out of retirement?’

The laughter was more enthusiastic this time. ‘ I guess you could say that. ’

‘Why now?’

‘ Patience. All will be revealed in good time, Robert. Anyway, I’d love to chat for longer, but you know I can’t. I just wanted to make sure you knew the games have started again, but don’t worry, I’ll be calling you again soon enough. ’

Before Hunter had a chance to say anything else the line went dead. ‘Shit!’

‘What did he say?’ Garcia asked before Hunter could return his phone to his pocket.

‘Not much.’

‘So there’s no doubt anymore, it’s him, it’s the Crucifix Killer.’

With frustration in his eyes Hunter could only manage a slight nod.

‘We’d better tell the captain.’

Hunter registered a certain excitement in Garcia’s voice. ‘I’ll call him from the car; we need to go check those gyms – you drive.’

Hunter’s conversation with Captain Bolter was quick. He told him about checking out a few gyms and about the killer’s phone call. The captain had cogitated the idea of placing a listening device in Hunter’s cell phone, but they’d tried it before with no luck. The caller had used a tracer scrambler device that bounced the call through twenty locations around the globe. For now, there was nothing anyone could do.

Their visit to the gyms in Hollywood came up empty. Neither the reception nor the fitness staff had seen a woman that resembled the computer-generated portrait. They’d need a warrant and a lot of man hours to go through all the member files in the gym’s database, and that would still be a shot in the dark.

The Gold’s Gym branch in Venice Beach is arguably the most famous gym in the world. It shot to fame with the release of the film Pumping Iron , starring Arnold Schwarzenegger in 1977. From professional bodybuilders to movie stars and celebrities, Gold’s Gym in Venice Beach is the place to be if you want to show off your body, but their luck didn’t change. No one recognized the woman in the picture there either.

‘There’s no way we’re gonna go around LA checking all the gyms,’ Garcia said as they reached his car.

‘I know, this was a long shot anyway, but we had to try it,’ Hunter said rubbing his tired eyes. The previous sleepless night was starting to show its signs.

‘So what’s next, model and acting agencies?’

‘Not yet.’ Hunter was deep in thought for a moment. ‘Doctor Winston said he was confident our victim had money and she spent quite a lot of it on pampering herself remember?’

‘Yeah, so?’

‘If she was a struggling actress or model…’

‘One thing she wouldn’t have a lot of would be money,’ Garcia picked up where Hunter left off.

‘You’re getting good at this – ever thought about becoming a detective?’ Hunter said derisively.

Garcia lifted his right hand and showed Hunter his middle finger.

‘There’s someone else I’d like to visit.’

‘Who?’ Garcia asked intrigued.

‘If she was a struggling actress or model she’d still be able to make quite a lot of money by doing something else. You mentioned it before.’

Garcia frowned. After a few seconds he snapped his fingers and pointed at Hunter. ‘Hooker,’ he said triumphantly.

Hunter gave him an approving smile. ‘And I know just the guy we need to talk to.’

‘Let’s go then,’ Garcia said sounding eager.

‘Not now, he’s only around at night – are you busy tonight?’ Hunter said with a quick wink.

‘Are you asking me out on a date?’

It was Hunter’s turn to flip Garcia the middle finger.

George Slater left his office at the renowned Tale & Josh law firm at the usual time of six-thirty in the afternoon. His wife Catherine knew she wouldn’t be having dinner with him as it was Tuesday night, ‘poker night.’

George was an average-looking man. The kind that would never attract much attention in a crowd through looks alone, but no one could deny he was charming. Five foot nine with dark-brown eyes and hair to match, his impeccable dress sense had always managed to conceal his thin frame.

After leaving his office George sat listening to the radio news as he drove his luxurious M-Class off-roader Mercedes-Benz to a small rented apartment in Bell Gardens. He’d found the apartment over the internet and dealt directly with the owner avoiding the estate-agent middleman. In exchange for discretion, George had offered to pay the landlord cash – one whole year in advance.

Two copies of a hand-drafted agreement and a receipt for the amount paid were the only existing documentation of the transaction. No lengthy contracts, no traceable paperwork. Even the name on the contract was fictitious – Wayne Rogers. George took no chances. The property could not be traced back to him.

The apartment was located in a very quiet street just on the edge of Bell Gardens and that suited George just perfectly. It meant fewer people to witness him coming and going and the building’s underground garage offered him even more shelter from prying eyes.