Chris Carter - The Crucifix Killer

‘What do you think, Captain? The killer’s at it again, only this time he made me choose. If I picked the correct dog the victim would live.’

‘That last phone call, did he tell you where the new victim is?’

‘No, not yet.’

‘He’s playing games now?’

‘It sure as hell seems like it.’

Captain Bolter turned and faced the window. Fifteen long silent seconds followed before he spoke again. ‘Why? He’s never done it before. He’s never given you a chance to save a victim. Why now? Why dog racing?’

‘I couldn’t tell you why now or why he’s chosen dog racing, but the logical conclusion for why he’s playing games is that he wants to share the guilt.’

‘What? Are you for real?’ the captain asked incredulously.

‘It’s a psychological game, Captain. He wants to share the guilt with someone, in this case, me. He wants me to feel like I played a hand on the victim’s death by not picking the winner – I’m just as guilty as he is.’

Captain Bolter turned to face both detectives. ‘Are you telling me that all of a sudden this guy’s feeling too guilty? He’s feeling remorseful?’ His irritation was carrying through to his voice.

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Well, you’re the one with the big brain.’

‘It’s a possibility, who knows?’ Hunter said after a small pause. ‘In all the previous killings it was only the two of them, the killer against the victim. There was nothing anybody could do. It was the killer’s decision to kill. By making me pick a dog the killer has brought me into the equation. In the killer’s mind the decision to kill doesn’t belong to him anymore. It belongs to me.’

‘As if you had told him to do it?’ Garcia asked.

‘Yes,’ Hunter said with a nod. ‘And because he feels the decision to kill isn’t his anymore…’

‘He feels he’s not as guilty,’ Captain Bolter concluded.

‘He might also be hoping to increase the frustration and consequently slow the investigation down,’ Hunter confirmed.

‘Well, it’s definitely adding to my frustration,’ Captain Bolter shot back.

‘Or he may just be playing games for the hell of it.’

Captain Bolter shook his head. ‘He’s fucking with us, that’s what he’s doing.’

‘It looks like he’s been doing that for a while, Captain,’ Garcia said, immediately regretting his words.

The captain looked at him like a hungry Rottweiler ready to attack. ‘Have you identified the first victim yet?’

‘Not yet, Captain, but we’re meeting someone on Friday that might give us a lead.’

‘We’re not moving very fast on this, are we?’

‘We’re moving as fast as we can.’ Hunter’s turn to sound irritated.

‘Let’s hope that this lead of yours turns out to be something real. This is starting to turn into a goddamn circus, and I hate circuses.’

Hunter understood the anger in the captain’s voice – it was the same anger he had bottled up inside. They knew the killer was about to claim a new victim, but they didn’t know when, they didn’t know where and they didn’t know who. They were playing a losing game. There was nothing they could do but wait for the next phone call.

Hunter arrived at Weyburn Avenue at exactly one o’clock. The street was buzzing with university students on their lunch break looking for the cheapest meal deal they could find. Burger bars and pizza parlors seemed to be the preferred choice. It didn’t take him long to find the Pancetta restaurant tucked away between a Pizza Hut Express and a stationery store.

The restaurant entrance was pleasantly decorated with colorful flowers and plants, all in a red, green and white theme. The place was small and it resembled a typical Italian cantina. Its squared wooden tables were covered with red and white checked tablecloths. A strong but pleasant smell of provolone cheese mixed with bresaola and salami greeted customers.

Hunter waited at the restaurant entrance for a moment, observing the waiters moving in between tables. His eyes browsed the entire room. Isabella hadn’t arrived yet. The maître d’ showed him to a corner table next to an open window. As he made his way through the restaurant floor, two women, no older than twenty-five, followed him with their eyes. Hunter couldn’t help noticing it and returned the compliment with a confident smile, which in turn was met with a shy giggle and a sexy wink from the dark-haired one.

He placed his jacket over the back of his chair and sat facing the entrance door. Out of habit he checked his cell phone for any missed messages or calls – there weren’t any. He ordered a Diet Coke and had a quick look at the menu. He wondered if he’d recognize Isabella. His memory of the weekend was pretty hazy.

The events of yesterday still played in his mind. Why greyhound racing? If the killer wanted to gamble, why not horse racing or roulette or something more common? Was there some hidden meaning behind it all? And as the captain had said, why has the killer started playing games now? Guilt? Repentance? Hunter didn’t buy that. His thoughts were disrupted by the waiter who had just finished pouring his drink into an icy glass. As he had his first sip his attention was drawn to the restaurant door.

Dressed casually in a thin, white, cotton blouse tucked into tight, faded, blue jeans with black cowboy boots and belt to match, Isabella looked prettier than he remembered. Her long dark hair fell loose over her shoulders and her olive-green eyes carried an intriguing sparkle.

Hunter raised his hand to catch her attention, but Isabella had already noticed him sitting by the window. With a pleasant smile she made her way towards his table. Hunter stood up and was about to extend his hand for the conventional handshake when she leaned forward and kissed him twice, once on each cheek. Her perfume was citrusy and subtle. He held out the chair opposite his offering her a seat, a gentleman-like gesture that was very much unlike him. He waited for her to sit down before going back to his chair.

‘So you found it OK?’ she asked in a cheerful voice.

‘Yeah, no problem. It looks like a very nice restaurant,’ he said, looking around.

‘Oh it is, trust me.’ She renewed her smile. ‘The food here is very tasty .’

‘ Touché ,’ he thought. ‘I’m sorry about that. That sentence came out all wrong yesterday. Sometimes my brain works faster than my lips and words don’t come out quite as I’d like them to.’

‘It’s OK. It made me laugh.’

‘So, you work at the University?’ Hunter changed the subject.

‘Yes.’

‘Medical or biological department?’

Isabella looked baffled for an instant. ‘Biomedical research actually. Wait, how did you know? Oh God! Please tell me I don’t smell of formaldehyde.’ She subtly brought her right wrist to her nose.

Hunter laughed. ‘No, you don’t. You smell terrific to be honest.’

‘Thank you, that’s quite sweet. But tell me, how did you know?’

‘Observation really.’ Hunter played it down.

‘Observation? Please tell me more.’

‘I just pick up on silly things that most people don’t.’

‘Like what?’

‘Just above your wrist line there’s a slight depression,’ he said, tilting his head towards her hands. ‘As if you’ve been wearing tight rubber bands around both of your wrists. The white powder residue around your cuticles is consistent with cornstarch powder, which you know is used in surgical gloves. My guess is that you’ve been wearing gloves all morning.’

‘Wow. That’s quite impressive.’ She looked at her hands for a couple of seconds. ‘But the powder on my fingers could be from chalk. That means that I could be a professor at the University. And I could teach any subject, not just biomedical,’ she challenged Hunter.