The Crucifix Killer(69)

‘What? Why would he do that?’ Catherine sounded deeply offended by Garcia’s insinuation.

‘Catherine . . .’ This time there was real concern in Hunter’s voice. ‘We spent most of yesterday at Tale & Josh, talking to everyone who had ever met George. From the partners themselves to the mail boy. No one knows anything about a Tuesday-night poker game.’

‘What? Of course they do, they must . . .’ The tremor in her voice gave away how shocked she was by Hunter’s statement.

‘Can you think of a name? Someone you think would be part of his poker group of friends?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said, visibly shaking.

‘According to everyone we talked to, no one has ever played poker with your husband and they never even knew he played on Tuesday evenings.’

‘They’re lying, they must be.’ She buried her face in her hands unable to fight the tears. When Catherine looked up again, her mascara had just started to run giving her a Gothic look. ‘Why would he lie?’

‘As Garcia said, he could’ve been gambling again and he was too embarrassed to admit it.’

‘No, I know he wouldn’t do that. He wasn’t gambling. That’s all in the past.’ Catherine was adamant.

Hunter scratched his head, uncomfortable with what he was about to ask. ‘How was your relationship with George? Could he be seeing someone?’

The shock of Hunter’s allusion made Catherine gag. ‘What are you saying? That George was having an affair? That he was lying to me so he could spend Tuesday nights with another woman?’

‘I’m sorry, but we have to look at every possibility, Catherine, and affairs are a very common thing in LA.’

‘But George wasn’t from LA. He was a good man, a good husband. He respected me. We had a good marriage.’ She had to pause for another tissue as the tears were now streaming down her face. ‘Why are you doing this to me? You should be out there looking for the monster who did that to my husband, not accusing him of being unfaithful.’

‘I’m . . . I’m really sorry,’ Hunter said, feeling terrible for what he’d just said. ‘I assure you, we’re doing everything we can.’

‘And then some . . .’ Garcia complemented Hunter’s assertion. They both sat in silence staring at Catherine. Her pain so contagious it made the room feel small and dark.

‘They told me he was murdered, that someone did that to him, but how can it be?’ she said with a hysterical edge to her voice. ‘George wasn’t shot, he wasn’t stabbed, he was infected with a deadly virus. Who kills someone like that? And why?’ Catherine broke down. Her head was back in-between her hands, her body shaking.

Hunter wished there was something he could say that would bring her some comfort. How could he tell her that he’d been after this killer for over two years and yet he had come no closer to catching him?

‘I’m truly sorry.’ Hunter could think of nothing else to say.

‘Catherine,’ Garcia took over. ‘We’re not gonna pretend we know all the answers, but I give you my word that we won’t rest until we catch this guy.’

‘I’m sorry, this has all been too much for me, I loved him very much,’ Catherine said in-between sobs.

‘We understand and we won’t take any more of your time. Just one last question,’ Hunter said, walking over to her. ‘Have you ever seen this symbol?’ He showed her a sketch of the double-crucifix.

She stared at it for a few seconds.

‘No . . . never . . . what is it?’

‘Nothing really, we found it around the park so I wondered if it meant anything to you . . . or George. Look, if you need anything, or if you just feel like talking, please don’t hesitate to call me.’ He handed her one of his cards.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

‘We’ll see ourselves out.’





Thirty-Four





Hunter poured himself another cup of coffee from the machine in his office. Garcia had brought in a special blend of Brazilian coffee imported direct from the state of Minas Gerais. It was grounded finer than most well-known blends and roasted at a lower initial temperature preventing it from over-roasting and giving it a stronger but smoother taste. Hunter had been instantly converted.

He had a sip of the dark liquid and joined Garcia, who was facing the photograph-covered corkboard. George Slater’s picture was the last in line.

‘What was he hiding?’ Garcia asked, pinching his lower lip with his thumb and index finger.

‘One thing is for sure, there was no Tuesday-night poker game,’ Hunter commented.