The Crucifix Killer - Chris Carter [110]
‘There’s one more possibility,’ Garcia said, flipping through some papers on his desk.
‘And what’s that?’
‘How long between Mike Farloe’s arrest and the first victim this time around?’
‘About a year and a half?’
‘What if the killer framed Mike because he knew he’d be out of action for a certain amount of time? Like if the killer had been in prison for some other minor charge.’
Hunter sat back on his chair and crossed his arms in front of his chest. ‘The problem here is that he had to know in advance he’d be out of action for so long. Framing someone takes time and as we’ve said before, he had to find the right person first. You don’t get that much warning before being arrested. But . . .’ Hunter shook his right index finger in Garcia’s direction.
‘What?’
‘An operation,’ Hunter said cocking both eyebrows. ‘The killer could’ve had some sort of operation scheduled. He would’ve known that well in advance.’
‘But the killer was out of action for over a year. What sort of operation puts you on the sidelines for that long?’
‘That’s easy. Back operation, hip operation, any operation that would require the patient to go through physiotherapy to regain movement and strength. Our killer needs all his strength to commit these murders. He wouldn’t have struck again if he wasn’t one hundred percent fit. We’d better make a list of hospitals and physiotherapy clinics.’
Garcia was already typing his first search into his keyboard.
Forty-Nine
They spent the rest of the day digging into Mike Farloe’s life. His criminal record was long, but not vicious: convictions for indecent exposure, non-violent sexual assault and pedophilia. He was a scumbag, Hunter thought, but not a violent scumbag. In his last spell in prison he found God and upon his release he started wandering the streets preaching the gospel to those who’d listen and those who wouldn’t.
Mike’s medical records showed nothing out of the ordinary. A few treatments for venereal disease and broken bones from street beatings but that was all. He had no psychological history and nothing stood out. They concluded the killer couldn’t have picked Mike based on his medical or criminal record. They were still looking into any religious cults that Mike might’ve been involved with, but by eleven-thirty in the evening they still hadn’t come up with anything.
Garcia quickly checked his watch as he parked his car in front of his apartment building. ‘Past midnight once again.’ In the past two weeks not once had he managed to get home before the early hours of the morning. He knew there was nothing he could do. That’s what the job demanded and he was certainly prepared to give it. The same couldn’t be said about Anna.
He sat in the darkness of the parking lot for a while. From his car he stared at the window of his first-floor apartment. The lights were still on in his living room. Anna was still awake.
He’d told her not to worry, that the case they’d been working on was a complex one and he had to put a lot of extra hours into it, but he knew she wouldn’t listen. He knew she’d rather he’d been a lawyer or a doctor; anything really but a Homicide detective in Los Angeles.
He slowly made his way past the other cars on the lot, to the building and up to his apartment. Even though he was sure Anna wouldn’t be asleep, he opened his front door as carefully as he could. Anna was lying on the blue fabric sofa that faced the TV set on the east wall. She was wearing a thin, white nightgown and her hair was flattened on one side. Her eyes were closed, but she opened them as Garcia took his first steps into the apartment.
‘Hi there, honey,’ he said in a tired voice.
She sat up, crossing her legs underneath her. Her husband looked different. Every night when he came back home to her he looked a little older, more tired. He