Garcia half nodded accepting Hunter’s theory.

‘Our victim for example. She wasn’t skinned at that old wooden house. The killer surely has a very secure place, a killing place, a place where he feels safe, where he can take his time with the victims, where he knows no one would ever interrupt him. So all the messy stuff, the blood, the noise, the fibers are all left somewhere else. The killer then transports the victim to the place where he wants them to be found, usually a secluded place where the risk of being seen by a member of the public is very slim. All the killer has to do is wear some sort of overall that sheds no fibers.’

‘Like a plastic suit?’

‘Or a rubber suit, diving suit, something like that. Something the killer could’ve made himself at home, impossible to trace really.’

‘How about transporting the victim?’

‘Probably a van, something common, something that wouldn’t raise any suspicions, but big enough to transport a body or two in the back.’

‘And I bet the van’s interior is completely covered in plastic sheets or something the killer can easily remove and burn, avoiding leaving any traces behind in case the van is ever found.’

Hunter nodded and had another sip of his drink. They both went silent and Hunter started playing with his car keys.

‘Have you ever thought about getting a newer car?’ Garcia asked cautiously.

‘You know, you sound just like Scott. I like that car, it’s a classic.’

‘Classic piece of junk maybe.’

‘That’s a true old-fashioned, all-American car. None of this Japanese- or European-made flimsy stuff.’

‘Japanese cars will run forever, they’ve got amazing engines.’

‘Yeah, now you’re really sounding like Scott, he used to drive a Toyota.’

‘Intelligent man.’

Garcia pressed his upper teeth against his lower lip. He wasn’t sure how Hunter would react to his next question, but he decided to go for it anyway. ‘What happened to Scott? I was never told,’ he tried to sound casual.

Hunter placed his beer back on the table and looked at his partner. He knew that sooner or later that question would come up. ‘Do you want another beer?’ he asked.

Garcia looked at his half-full bottle. It was obvious Hunter was trying to avoid the question. He decided not to push it. ‘No, I’m not really a beer guy, I prefer whisky.’

Hunter lifted his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Really?’

‘Yeah, single malt is my weakness.’

‘OK, now you’re talking.’ Hunter gave Garcia a quick nod. ‘Do you think they have any decent single malt in this joint?’

Garcia realized Hunter was about to go back to the bar. ‘Probably not, but hey, I don’t wanna get started on whisky, not at this time,’ he said quickly glancing at his watch. ‘This beer will do. I wanted coffee remember.’

Hunter gave Garcia a quick smile and finished the rest of his beer in one go. ‘Boat accident.’

‘What?’

‘Scott and his wife died in a boat accident, right after Mike Farloe was sentenced.’ Hunter’s statement caught Garcia by surprise. He wasn’t sure if he should say something or not and took another swig of his beer instead.

‘We were both due a vacation,’ Hunter continued. ‘We’d been working on the case for too long. It’d taken over our lives and we were literally losing our minds. The pressure had gotten to everyone. It was affecting our logical thought process. We were doubting our abilities and depression was setting in fast. When Mike confessed to the crucifix killings we were ordered to take some time off. For our own sanity.’ Hunter toyed with his empty beer bottle, scraping off the label.

‘I think I’ll take that single malt now, do you want one?’ Garcia said making a head movement towards the bar.

‘Sure, why not, if they have any.’

A couple of minutes later Garcia came back with two single shots. ‘The best they could manage was Arran eight years, and the prices in here are a joke.’ He placed a glass in front of Hunter and sat down.

‘Thanks… to good health,’ Hunter said raising his glass. He had a sip of the brownish liquid and let its strong taste engulf his entire mouth. ‘Much better than beer I’d say.’

Garcia agreed with a smile.

‘I live alone, I always have, but Scott had a wife… Amanda. They’d been married for only three and a half years.’ Hunter’s eyes were fixed on his glass.

Garcia could tell this wasn’t easy for Hunter.

‘The case had put a lot of pressure on their marriage. Sometimes he’d go for days without going home. It was hard for Amanda. They started arguing a lot. Scott had become obsessed with the case and so had I,’ Hunter said having another sip of his single malt. ‘We were sure there had to be some sort of bond, something that would link all the victims together. We were waiting for the killer to slip up. Sooner or later they all do, no one could be that thorough.’

‘Did you check with the FBI?’

‘Yeah, we were given clearance to their database and library. We spent days… weeks looking for something that could help us.’ Hunter paused for a few seconds. ‘There’s always something. It doesn’t matter how evil or crazy someone is, there’s always a reason for murder. Most of the time it’s an illogical one, but a reason nevertheless. We were going crazy; we were checking the most absurd possibilities.’

‘Like what?’ Garcia asked curiously.

‘Oh, we checked things like if they all had the same childhood diseases, holiday destinations, allergies – anything really, and then…’

‘And then you got your break.’

‘And then we got our break – we arrested Mike Farloe. For Scott, that was a blessing.’

‘I can see why.’

‘I’m sure if the case had gone on for a few more months, Amanda would’ve walked out on him and Scott would’ve ended up in a crazy house.’

‘So what happened after the arrest?’

‘We were ordered to go on a vacation, not that we needed any persuasion,’ Hunter said with a shy smile.

‘I bet you didn’t.’

‘Scott’s big passion was this boat of his. He’d saved for years to be able to afford it.’ Another sip. ‘He needed to spend time with Amanda, you know, just the two of them to try and patch things up. A sailing vacation sounded like a great idea.’

‘It was a sailboat?’ Garcia’s interest grew.

‘Yeah, something like… Catarina 30.’

Garcia laughed. ‘Catalina 30, you mean.’

Hunter’s eyes met Garcia’s. ‘Yeah, that’s it, how do you know?’

‘I grew up with sailboats. My father was obsessed with them.’

‘Huh! How about that? Anyway, there was some sort of fuel leak on board. Something ignited it causing it to blow. They died in their sleep.’

‘A fuel leak?’ Garcia sounded surprised.

‘That’s right,’ Hunter replied, noticing Garcia’s skeptical look. ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

Garcia raised his eyebrows.

‘Sailboats don’t carry that much fuel. Why would they, right? They are sailboats. And it would’ve had to have been a massive leak to cause the boat to explode.’

Garcia nodded.

‘Yeah, that didn’t sit right with me either so I tried carrying out my own private investigation. I don’t believe someone as thorough as Scott would’ve overlooked any sort of problem with his most prized possession, no matter how small. Scott was a very proud man.’ Hunter had another sip of his whisky. ‘The leak didn’t come from the engine. It came from the fuel barrows.’

‘Fuel barrows?’

‘For some reason that I’ll never find out, Scott took more fuel onboard than usual. A few barrows.’

‘Was he planning a longer trip?’

‘I don’t know, and as I’ve said, I’ll never find out.’

Garcia looked pensive for a long minute and watched Hunter drink the rest of his whisky in silence. ‘Did Scott smoke?’

‘Both of them did, but I don’t buy it. That’s what the official report tried to blame it on.’ Hunter shook his head. ‘There’s no way I’ll ever believe that some sort of cigarette accident caused the boat to blow. Not with Scott on board. He wouldn’t make that sort of mistake.’