Текст книги "The Executioner"

Автор книги: Chris (2) Carter

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Seven

Brindle’s inquisitive stare stayed on the blood trail for a moment before moving to Hunter. ‘And how did you come to that?’ he asked.

‘Because of these breakaway splatters over here.’ Hunter pointed to two separate points on the floor around the altar where several drops of blood created a foot-long, outbound, breakaway line from the circular trail.

Brindle was joined by the two other crime-lab agents.

‘I don’t follow,’ one of them said.

‘If you had to draw a circle of blood around this altar, but you had no paintbrush, what’d you do?’ Hunter asked.

‘With this much blood,’ the crime-lab agent offered, looking at the pool that surrounded the body, ‘you could fill a cup with it and pour it onto the floor.’

‘Too messy,’ Hunter disagreed. ‘You wouldn’t be able to control the pouring, unless you had a container with a beak.’

‘It’s a drip trail, anyway,’ Brindle said confidently. ‘Blood wasn’t poured onto the floor. It dripped onto it.’

‘That’s also my understanding.’ Hunter nodded.

‘OK. Still, how does that give you the UNSUB’s height?’ The crime-lab agent pressed.

‘Imagine someone walking around the altar holding a small object saturated with blood,’ Hunter explained, moving to the front of the altar. ‘The excess dripping onto the floor.’

‘A small object like a candle?’ the shorter of the two agents asked, lifting a half-melted altar candle by its wick. Its bottom half was stained red as if it’d been dipped in a shallow glass of blood. ‘I found it to the left of the altar.’ He brought it closer, allowing both detectives and Brindle to have a look at it.

‘This is it,’ Hunter agreed.

‘Bag it,’ Brindle commanded.

‘So the killer dips the end of the candle into some blood and uses it to create the circular trail,’ the agent said, dropping the candle into a cellophane bag. ‘What about the breakaway splatters?’

‘A candle isn’t absorbent enough,’ Hunter explained. ‘It can hold only a very limited amount of blood before it stops dripping.’

‘So the killer had to re-dip it,’ Garcia confirmed.

‘Exactly.’

Brindle thought about it for a few seconds. ‘So you figured the killer managed only four steps before having to re-dip the candle in blood.’

Hunter nodded. ‘I’d say he was holding the blood container close to his body. The breakaway lines are the drips from the blood container back to the trail.’

‘And they come at exactly four of Garcia’s steps apart,’ Brindle concluded.

Another nod from Hunter. ‘Your steps overshot it and mine fell short of the mark. I’m six foot tall.’

‘But why create the circle around the altar?’ Garcia asked. ‘Some sort of ritual?’

There was no answer. Everyone went quiet for a while.

‘As I’ve said—’ Brindle broke the silence ‘—you’re the ones who’ll have to figure out what all this means. The blood splatters, the dog’s head shoved down the priest’s neck . . . It looks like the killer is trying to get a message out.’

‘Yeah, and the message is I’m a fucking psycho,’ Garcia murmured, looking back down at the body.

‘Have you ever seen anything like this before, Mike?’ Hunter asked, tilting his head towards the body. ‘I mean, a dog’s head shoved down someone’s neck?’

Brindle shook his head. ‘I’ve seen a lot of bad and weird stuff, but this is a first for me.’

‘It’s gotta mean something,’ Garcia said. ‘No way the killer did it just for the heck of it.’

‘I’m guessing if you haven’t found the head, you haven’t found a weapon either,’ Hunter said, now studying the blood splatters on the wall.

‘Not so far.’

‘Any guess what it could be?’

‘Hopefully, the autopsy will be able to answer that question, but I can tell you the cut looks smooth. No edges. No signs of hacking. Definitely a very sharp instrument. One that could’ve performed the cut in one clean sweep.’

‘An axe?’ Garcia enquired.

‘If the killer is skillful and strong enough, sure.’

Hunter frowned as he studied the altar again. Other than the bloodstained cloth, there was only one object left on it. A gold-plated chalice adorned by silver crucifixes. It was lying on its side, as if someone had knocked it over. Its shiny surface was sprinkled with blood. Hunter bent down and twisted his body so he could have a look inside its bowl without touching it.

‘There’s blood inside this chalice,’ he said as his eyes carried on analyzing the holy cup.

‘Does that surprise you?’ Brindle asked with a chuckle. ‘Look around. There’s blood everywhere, Robert. It’s like a blood bomb exploded in here.’

‘I’d say that’s what the killer used as a blood container to dip the candle in,’ Garcia emphasized.

‘I agree, but . . .’ Hunter made a come here gesture with his left hand. Garcia and Brindle joined him, both bending down to draw eye level with the chalice. Hunter pointed to a faint print on its border edge.

‘I’ll be damned. It looks like a mouth print,’ Brindle said, surprised.

‘Wait a sec,’ Garcia shot back wide-eyed. ‘You think the killer drank the priest’s blood?’

Eight

The room was small, badly lit and devoid of any luxury. The walls were papered in a dull blue and white pattern with several framed religious drawings hanging from them. Against the east wall stood a tall mahogany bookcase lined with old-fashioned hardcovers. To the right of the entrance door, the room extended out into a small kitchen. A terrified-looking boy was sitting on an iron-framed single bed that occupied the space between the kitchen and the back wall. He was small and skinny; around five foot six, with a narrow chin, tiny brown eyes set closely together and a pinched nose.

‘We’ll take it from here. Thank you,’ Hunter said to the officer standing next to the bookcase as he and Garcia entered the room. The boy didn’t seem to notice them. His stare was cemented on the untouched cup of coffee in his hands. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy from crying.

Hunter noticed a kettle sitting on a two-burner hotplate.

‘Can I get you another cup of coffee? That one looks to have gone cold,’ he asked, once the officer had left.

The boy finally looked up with terrified eyes. ‘No, sir, thank you.’ His voice a whisper.

‘Do you mind if I sit down?’ Hunter asked, moving a step closer.

A shy shake of the head.

He took a seat on the bed next to the boy. Garcia chose to stand.

‘My name’s Robert Hunter. I’m a detective with the Homicide Division. That tall and ugly guy over there is my partner, Detective Carlos Garcia.’

A hint of a smile graced the boy’s lips as his eyes stole a peek at Garcia. He introduced himself as Hermano Cordobes.

‘Would you rather we spoke in Spanish, muchacho?’ Hunter asked, leaning forward to mimic Hermano’s position. Both elbows resting on the knees.

‘No, sir. English is fine.’

Hunter breathed, relieved. ‘I’m glad, ’cos muchacho is pretty much the only word I know in Spanish.’

This time the ice-breaker worked and they got a full smile from the boy.

For the first few minutes they talked about how Hermano came to be the altar boy at the Seven Saints church. Father Fabian had found him begging on the streets when he was eleven. He’d just turned fourteen two weeks ago. He explained he’d run away from home and from a violent father when he was ten.

Daylight had started to crawl into the room through the old curtains covering the window just behind Hermano’s bed when Hunter decided the boy was relaxed enough. It was time to get serious.

Nine

‘Can you run me through what happened this morning?’ Hunter asked in a calm voice.

Hermano looked at him and his bottom lip quivered. ‘I got up at a quarter past four, showered, said my prayers and made my way to the church at a quarter to five. I always get here early. I have to make sure everything’s set up properly for the first Mass at six-thirty.’

Hunter smiled kindly, allowing him to continue in his own time.

‘As soon as I entered the church I knew something wasn’t right.’

‘How come?’

Hermano brought his right hand to his mouth and chewed on what was left of a nail. ‘A few of the candles were still burning. Father Fabian always made sure they were all put out after closing the church.’

‘Did Father Fabian always close the church by himself?’

‘Yes.’ He started chewing on another nail. ‘It was the only time of day he had the church all to himself. He liked that.’ Hermano’s voice trailed off as tears started to roll down his cheeks.

Hunter fetched a paper tissue from his jacket pocket.

‘Thank you, sir. I’m sorry . . .’

‘There’s no need to be sorry,’ Hunter said understandingly. ‘Take your time. I know how difficult this is.’

Hermano wiped the tears from his face and drew another deep breath. ‘I could tell that the altar was a mess. The candle-holders were on the floor. The chalice was tipped over on its side, and the altar cloth looked dirty. Smeared with something.’

‘Did you notice if there was anyone else in the church?’

‘No, sir. I don’t believe there was. The place was as quiet as it’s always been at that time. The front door was locked.’

‘OK, what did you do after that?’ Hunter asked, his eyes taking in every reaction from Hermano.

‘I walked up to the altar to check what was going on. I thought that maybe someone had broken into the church and sprayed paint everywhere. Like graffiti, you know? This isn’t the best of neighborhoods. Some of the gangs around here don’t have no respect for nothing. Not even Our Lord Jesus Christ.’

‘Have you had problems with gangs in here before?’ Hunter asked while Garcia checked the kitchen.

‘That’s the funny thing, sir. We never had any trouble. Everyone loved Father Fabian.’

‘How about break-ins? Either into the church or into these sleeping quarters?’

‘No, sir. Never. We don’t really have anything of value.’

Hunter nodded. ‘So what happened next?’

‘I didn’t know what to do. I knew there was no way I’d be able to get the church cleaned and ready for the six-thirty Mass. When I got to the other side of the altar I saw it, on the floor next to the confessional. I panicked. I thought it was the devil.’

‘The devil?’ Hunter arched his eyebrows.

Hermano was crying again. ‘The man with a dog’s head all covered in blood. It looked like the devil. But it was Father Fabian.’

‘How could you tell?’ Garcia asked.

‘The ring.’

‘What ring?’

‘Big gold ring with the image of Saint George slaying a dragon on the left hand,’ Hunter said, lifting his hand and dangling his ring finger.

Garcia bit his bottom lip, half annoyed he’d failed to notice the ring back in the church.

‘That’s right, sir,’ Hermano said, impressed. ‘Father Fabian never took it off. A present from his grandmother, he told me. When I saw the ring I knew it was him. It was Father Fabian.’ Hermano broke down, burying his head in his hands. His sobs were violent enough to jerk his body every few seconds.

Ten

Grief and silence are perfect partners. Hunter understood this very well. He’d been around people suffering from the shock of discovering a dead body too many times. Words, no matter how comforting, rarely made a difference. He offered the young altar boy a new paper tissue and waited as he dried his tears. When he turned to face Hunter, his eyes were cherry red.

‘I don’t understand, sir. Who’d do something like that to Father Fabian? He never hurt a soul. He was always willing to help. No matter who. No matter what time. If anyone needed him, he’d be there.’

Hunter kept his voice calm and steady. ‘Hermano, you look like an intelligent boy and I’m not gonna lie to you. We don’t have the answers right now, but I promise we’ll do our best to find them. If it’s OK with you, we still need to ask you a few more questions.’

Hermano blew his nose into the paper tissue and nodded nervously.

Hunter retrieved a pen and a small black notebook from his jacket pocket. ‘When did you last see Father Fabian?’

‘Last night, sir, just before confessions started.’

‘And what time did it start?’

‘At a quarter to nine.’

‘That late?’ Garcia cut in.

‘Usually confessions go from four to five in the afternoons,’ Hermano explained. ‘But on the weeks leading up to Christmas it gets a lot busier. The afternoon sessions aren’t enough to deal with the number of people who come in. Father Fabian runs a second session around an hour before closing time.’

Hunter scribbled something down in his notebook.

‘After I left the church I came back to my room, said my prayers and went to bed. I’d got up at four-thirty yesterday.’

‘Did you hear anything at all after you went to bed?’ Hunter’s eyes roamed the room.

‘No, sir, I didn’t.’

Hunter wasn’t surprised Hermano hadn’t heard anything. His room was in a separate small building at the back of the church. Through closed doors and thick walls, unless the killer had broadcast his attack over loudspeakers, nothing would’ve been heard.

‘I take it Father Fabian’s room is just down the hall. The next door along?’ Hunter asked with a slight tilt of his head.

‘Yes, sir.’ Hermano massaged his closed eyelids while nodding slowly. A new tear rolled down to the tip of his red and sore nose.

Hunter gave him a few more seconds before carrying on. ‘Did you notice if Father Fabian seemed different in the past few days? Anything at all, maybe agitated or nervous?’

Hermano sucked a deep breath through his nose. ‘He wasn’t sleeping well. Sometimes I heard him in his room in the early hours, praying.’

Hunter leaned back on the bed and used his pen to lift the bottom edge of the heavy curtain. ‘You said you clean the church, right? Do you also clean this building, including Father Fabian’s room?’

‘Not his room, sir.’ He shook his head. ‘Father Fabian was a very private man. He always kept his door locked. He cleaned it himself.’

Hunter found that peculiar. ‘Do you know how we could get access to his room?’

A timid head shake. ‘Father Fabian was the only one who had the key.’

Hunter closed his notebook and placed it back in his pocket. As he stood up, his eyes quickly scanned the religious drawings on the walls. ‘Do you know what his real name was?’ he asked as Hermano got to the door.

Garcia shot Hunter a questioning look.

Hermano turned to face both detectives. ‘His real name was Brett.’

Garcia frowned. ‘And where did the name Fabian come from?’

‘Saint Fabian,’ Hunter replied, nodding towards one of the religious drawings – a man dressed all in white with a white dove on his right shoulder.

‘That’s right,’ Hermano commented. ‘Did you know that before becoming a saint he was elected Pope and . . .’ He froze, suddenly realizing something. His eyes widened. ‘Oh my God!’

‘What?’ Garcia asked, surprised. His stare moved back and forth between the boy and Hunter.

‘Saint Fabian,’ Hermano said in a weak voice.

‘What about him?’

‘That’s how he died. He was beheaded.’

Eleven

Hunter went back to the church after he left Hermano. Brindle had found Father Fabian’s room key in the left pocket of his cassock. That wasn’t what the killer was after.

The priest’s room was larger than the altar boy’s but just as simple. Another bookcase lined with hardcovers, an old desk and a small bed. In the far corner, a private shrine was overloaded with religious figures. On the opposite side of the room sat a small wardrobe. The place was spotlessly clean, but an old, musty smell lingered in the air. The bed was perfectly made. No one had slept in it last night.

Father Fabian’s closet revealed work clothes, a few long-sleeved shirts, jeans, a dark blue pinstriped suit and worn-out shoes.

‘This room smells like my grandparents’ house back in Brazil,’ Garcia commented, checking the desk while Hunter slowly browsed through the titles on the bookcase.

‘Hermano was right,’ Garcia said, lifting his latex-gloved right hand to produce a passport. ‘Our priest’s real name was Brett Stewart Nichols. Born 25 April 1965 right here in Los Angeles. I’m not surprised he went for a different name. Father Brett doesn’t have a good ring to it, does it?’

‘Any stamps on the passport?’ Hunter asked with interest.

Garcia flipped through the first few pages. ‘Only one. Italy, three years ago.’

Hunter nodded. ‘Anything else from the drawers?’

Garcia rummaged through them a little more. ‘A few notes, Saint George cards, pens, pencils, an eraser and . . . a newspaper clipping.’

‘What about?’

‘Father Fabian.’

Hunter joined Garcia to have a look at it. The article was eleven months old and it’d come from the LA Daily News. A photograph of a kind-looking priest surrounded by smiling children topped the article. The headline read COMPTON PRIEST – THE REAL SANTA CLAUS. The rest of the article went on to explain how Father Fabian had saved out of his own allowance to put a smile on the faces of homeless children in six different orphanages by handing out presents.

‘It sounds like he was a good man,’ Hunter commented, walking back to the bookcase.

Garcia agreed with a nod and returned the news clipping to the drawer. ‘I guess tonight won’t be such a party for us after all,’ he said, now looking through the figurines on the small shrine.

Captain Bolter’s leaving do was scheduled to start at five in the afternoon at the Redwood Bar & Grill.

‘I guess not.’ Crouching down, Hunter pulled a leather-bound volume from the bottom shelf and flipped through a few pages before putting it back and repeating the process with the next one.

And the next.

And the next.

They were all handwritten.

‘What’ve you got?’ Garcia asked, noticing Hunter’s interest as he read through a few pages.

‘A whole bunch of journals, or something like it,’ Hunter answered, standing up again. He flicked back to the first page and then all the way to the last one. ‘There are exactly two hundred pages here.’ A few more flicks. ‘And they’re all filled from top to bottom.’

Garcia joined Hunter by the bookcase, twisting his body to get a better look at the bottom shelf. ‘There are over thirty-five volumes. If every page means a day’s entry, he’s been documenting his life for what?’

‘Over twenty years,’ Hunter said, flipping open the volume in his hand. ‘His days, his thoughts, his doubts. They’re all here on paper. Listen to this,’ he said, turning towards Garcia.

‘With a heavy heart I prayed today. I prayed for a woman – Rosa Perez. For the past five years she’d been coming to this church. She’d been praying for one thing and one thing only. To be able to bear a child. Her womb was severely damaged after she’d been sexually assaulted by four men almost eight years ago. It happened only a block away from here. She was sixteen then. Rosa got married three years after the assault. She and her husband, Antonio, have been trying for a child ever since, and last year her prayers were finally answered. She became pregnant. I’ve never seen anyone so happy in all my life. Two months ago she gave birth to a baby boy, Miguel Perez, but there were complications. The baby wasn’t born healthy. He fought bravely for ten days, but his lungs and heart were too weak. He died eleven days after his birth.

‘Rosa came back to this church only once after she left the hospital. She brought with her a single question – WHY?

‘I saw it in her eyes. There was no belief anymore. Her faith had died with her son.

‘Today – alone – she took her own life inside a small apartment in East Hatchway Street. I now fear for Antonio’s sanity. And though my faith is indisputable, I long to know the answer to Rosa’s question. WHY, Lord? Why do you give only to take away?’

Hunter looked at Garcia.

‘When was that?’

‘There are no dates,’ Hunter confirmed.

Garcia shook his head as he pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘That’s a sad story. It seems that even priests question their faith from time to time.’

Hunter closed the diary and placed it back in the bookcase. ‘If Father Fabian feared for his life, or if anything bothered him lately, it will be in one of these books.’

Garcia slowly blew out a deep breath. ‘We’ll need some extra manpower to read through all of them.’

‘Maybe,’ Hunter said, retrieving the first diary from the right. ‘I’m hoping Father Fabian was an organized man. If that’s the case, the journals should be in order. If anything bothered him “lately”, it’ll be in the most recent one.’

Twelve

The party was already in full swing by the time Hunter arrived. Everyone was there. From the chief of police to the Robbery-Homicide Division’s mail boy. Even the mayor was expected to turn up. That wasn’t surprising given that William Bolter had been the Robbery-Homicide Division’s captain for the past eighteen years. Most of the division’s detectives had never been under a different captain. Everyone owed Captain Bolter a favor or two – everyone including Robert Hunter.

The Redwood Bar & Grill was bustling with law-enforcement officers. The ones on duty had their beepers securely clipped onto their belts. The ones off duty had beer bottles and whiskey glasses in their hands.

Hunter and Garcia had spent the entire day at the Seven Saints Catholic Church and its neighborhood. But the house-to-house turned up nothing but scared and distressed people. Hunter’s mind was overflowing with questions, and he knew the answers would take time.

‘Believe it or not, they have a ten-year-old bottle of Macallan behind the bar,’ Garcia said, coming up to Hunter with two half-full whiskey tumblers.

Single-malt Scotch whiskey was Hunter’s biggest passion. But unlike most people, he knew how to appreciate it instead of simply getting drunk on it.

‘To Captain Bolter.’ He raised his glass. Garcia did the same. ‘Where’s Anna?’ Hunter asked, looking around.

Anna Preston had been Garcia’s high school sweetheart and they’d married straight after graduation.

‘She’s at the bar chatting to some of the other wives.’ Garcia made a silly face. ‘We ain’t staying long.’

‘Me neither,’ Hunter agreed.

‘Are you gonna go back to the church?’

‘Roberrrrrt,’ Detective Kyle Byrne interrupted, grabbing Hunter by the arm and raising the bottle of Bud in his hand. ‘A toassst to Captain Bolterrr.’

Hunter smiled and touched his glass against Kyle’s bottle.

‘Where’re you going?’ Kyle asked as Hunter started towards the bar. ‘’ave a drink wizz us,’ he slurred, pointing towards a table where a handful of detectives sat drinking. They all looked wasted.

Hunter nodded to everyone at the table. ‘I’ll come back in a minute, Kyle. I just gotta say hello to a few people, but Carlos here can hang around with you boys for a while.’ He patted Garcia on the back, who gave him a ‘you didn’t just do that to me?’ look.

‘Carlosss. Come and ’ave a drink.’ Kyle dragged Garcia towards the table.

A firm hand grabbed Hunter by the shoulder before he reached the bar. He turned around ready to raise a new toast.

‘So you finally decided to show up.’

Captain Bolter was an impressive-looking man. Tall and built like a rhinoceros. Despite being in his late sixties, he still had a full head of silvery hair. His thick mustache had been his trademark for the past twenty years. His menacing figure demanded respect.

‘Captain,’ Hunter replied with a pleased smile. ‘Did you actually think I wouldn’t turn up?’

Captain Bolter placed his right arm around Hunter’s shoulders. ‘Let’s step outside, shall we? I can’t bear to raise another toast to myself.’