‘Since we’re talking about the Crucifix murders, can I ask you something?’ Garcia ended the silence in the car.
‘Yeah, shoot,’ Hunter replied in a monotonous tone.
‘There were rumors going around that either you or your partner never believed that the guy you caught was the killer – despite all the evidence found in his car and despite his confession – is that true?’
Old images of Hunter’s only interrogation session with the so-called Crucifix Killer started playing in his mind.
Click…
‘Wednesday 15th of February – 10:30 a.m. Detective Robert Hunter initiating the interrogation of Mike Farloe concerning case 017632. The interviewee has declined the right to counsel,’ Hunter spoke into the old-fashioned tape recorder inside one of the eight interrogation rooms in the RHD building.
Opposite Hunter sat a thirty-four-year-old man with a strong jaw, protruding chin covered in three-day-old stubble and dark eyes as cold as black ice. His hairline was receding and the little black hair that remained was thin and combed back. His cuffed hands were placed over the broad metal table that sat between him and Hunter, palms down.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to have a lawyer present?’
‘The lord is my shepherd.’
‘OK then. Your name is Mike Farloe is that correct?’
The man lifted his stare from his cuffed hands and looked straight into Hunter’s eyes. ‘Yes.’
‘And your present address is number 5 Sandoval Street in Santa Fe?’
Mike was strangely calm for someone who was facing a multiple homicide charge. ‘That’s where I used to live, yes.’
‘Used to?’
‘I’m gonna live in prison now, isn’t that right detective? At least for a little while.’ His voice was dull and steady.
‘Do you wanna go to prison?’
Silence.
Hunter was the best interrogator at the RHD. His knowledge of psychology allowed him to extract extremely valuable information from suspects, sometimes even confessions. He could read a suspect’s body language and tell-tales like a billboard. Captain Bolter wanted every little piece of information he could get from Mike Farloe – Robert Hunter was his secret weapon.
‘Can you remember where you were on the night of 15th of December last year?’ Hunter was now referring to the night before the last Crucifix Killer’s victim was found.
Mike was still staring straight at him. ‘Yes I can…’
Hunter waited a few seconds for the remainder of the answer. It never came.
‘And where were you?’
‘I was working.’
‘And what is it that you do?’
‘I clean the city.’
‘You’re a garbage collector?’
‘Correct, but I also work for Our Lord Jesus Christ.’
‘Doing what?’
‘I clean the city,’ he repeated calmly. ‘I rid this city of filth – sinners.’
Hunter could feel Captain Bolter shifting in his chair inside the observation room on the other side of the two-way mirror mounted on the north wall.
Hunter massaged the back of his neck with his right hand. ‘OK, how about the…’ – he flipped through a few notes he had with him – ‘… 22nd of September, do you remember where you were on that night?’
Inside the small observation room Scott looked puzzled. ‘22nd of September? What the hell happened on that day? There was no victim found on that date, or even close to it. What the fuck is Hunter doing?’
The seven Crucifix Killer dates had been imprinted into Scott’s brain, and he was sure Hunter knew them by heart, no need to check any notes.
‘Let him do his job, he knows what he’s doing.’ The answer came from Doctor Martin, a police psychologist also observing the interrogation.
‘The same. I was doing exactly the same thing,’ Mike replied convincingly. His answer caught everyone in the observation room by surprise.
‘What?’ Scott mumbled. ‘Is there a victim we don’t know about?’
Captain Bolter’s answer was a simple shrug.
Hunter had been observing Mike Farloe’s reactions, trying to get an insight into his thoughts, trying to read his tell-tale signs. Text-book behavior psychology told Hunter to monitor Mike’s eye movement – up and to the left meant he was accessing his visual constructive cortex, trying to create an image in his mind that didn’t exist before, a clear indication of lying – up and to the right meant he was searching his memory for visually remembered images, therefore, probably telling the truth – there was no movement whatsoever, his eyes were as still as a dead man’s.
‘How about the items that were found in your car, can you tell me about them? How did you get them?’ Hunter asked, referring to the passport, the driver’s license and the social security card that had been found inside a paper bag hidden away in the spare tire compartment of Mike Farloe’s 1992 rusty Oldsmobile Custom Cruiser. Each of the items belonging to a different victim. Inside his trunk the police had also found some bloody rags. The blood on them matching the DNA on three of the victims.
‘I got them from the sinners.’
‘The sinners?’
‘Yes… don’t play dumb, detective, you know what I mean.’
‘Maybe I don’t. Why don’t you explain it to me?’
‘You know the world wasn’t meant to be this way.’ The first hint of emotion from Mike finally coming through – anger. ‘Every second of every day a new sin is committed. Every second of every day we disrespect and disregard the laws that were given to us by the highest power of all. The world can’t go on like this, disrespecting Our Lord, disregarding his message. Someone has to punish them.’
‘And that someone is you?’
Silence.
‘To me all those victims were just normal people, not great sinners.’
‘That’s because your eyes have been glued the fuck shut, detective. You’ve been so blinded by the filth in this city that you can’t see straight anymore. None of you can. A prostitute selling her body for cash, spreading disease throughout the city.’ Hunter knew he was talking about the second victim. ‘A lawyer whose sole purpose in life was to defend scumbag drug dealers just so he could pay for his playboy lifestyle. A person with no morals,’ referring to the fifth victim. ‘A high city roller who fucked her way to the top, any cock would do as long as it moved her up a step…’ the sixth victim. ‘They needed to pay. They needed to learn that you can’t just walk away from the laws of God. They needed to be taught a lesson.’
‘And that’s what you were doing?’
‘Yes… I was serving Our Lord.’ The anger was gone. His voice as serene as a baby’s laughter.
‘PSYCHO.’ The comment came from Scott inside the observation room.
Hunter poured himself a glass of cold water from the aluminum jug on the table.
‘Would you like some water?’
‘No thanks, detective.’
‘Can I get you anything… coffee, a cigarette?’
His response was a simple shake of the head.
Hunter still couldn’t read Mike Farloe. There were no variations in his tone of voice, no sudden movements, no change in facial expressions. His eyes remained deadly cold, devoid of any emotion. His hands remained still. There was no increase in perspiration on his forehead or hands. Hunter needed more time.
‘Do you believe in God, detective?’ Mike asked calmly. ‘Do you pray to repent your sins?’
‘I believe in God. What I don’t believe in is murder,’ Hunter replied evenly.
Mike Farloe’s eyes were on Hunter as if the roles had reversed, as if he were the one trying to read Hunter’s reactions. Hunter was about to pop another question when Farloe spoke first. ‘Detective, why don’t we cut the bullshit and go straight to the point? Ask me what you are here to ask me. Ask and you shall be answered.’