Текст книги "The Executioner"

Автор книги: Chris (2) Carter

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Twenty

The special operations room was spacious and well lit. Two metal desks already equipped with computer terminals and telephones occupied the center of the room. A fax machine sat on a small wooden table in the corner. A large, nonmagnetic marker board and a half-empty bookcase covered most of the west wall. In the opposite corner was an old-fashioned cork-board. It was mounted onto wheeled pedestals and stood next to two battered gray metal filing cabinets.

Crime-scene photos and witnesses’ statements had already been placed on Hunter’s desk ready to be organized. He fired up his computer as a knock came at the door.

‘It’s open,’ Hunter called.

Officer Ian Hopkins stepped into the room carrying a brown paper envelope.

‘Detective Hunter. These are the photographs you asked me to take of the crowd in front of the church yesterday.’ He handed the envelope to Hunter.

Garcia had forgotten all about that.

There were twenty-five pictures in total. Hunter spread them on his desk, bending over to look at each one attentively for a few seconds.

‘Do you think the killer could’ve been watching from the crowd?’ Hopkins asked with a hint of excitement.

‘It’s possible,’ Hunter agreed, his eyes moving to another photograph.

‘If you don’t mind me asking, detective, why would he do that?’ Hopkins’s curiosity increased.

‘It’s basic human nature. We all want recognition for things we’ve done. Many killers enjoy watching the drama of the aftermath of their actions unfold. They’re very proud of their work.’

‘Proud?’ Hopkins smiled nervously. ‘That’s pretty sick.’

‘Serial killers usually are,’ Garcia commented from his desk.

‘Serial killer?’ Hopkins asked a little too enthusiastically. ‘Was that the work of a serial killer yesterday?’

Garcia laughed.

Hunter kept his eyes on the photos.

‘Do you think the killer is in one of those photos, Detective Hunter?’ Hopkins insisted.

‘It was already raining by the time you took these.’ Hunter shook his head. ‘Everyone had either a hood on or an open umbrella. If he is, we wouldn’t know.’

‘I messed up,’ Hopkins said, running his hand through his hair. ‘I should’ve gotten closer, shouldn’t I?’

Hunter turned and faced him. ‘It’s not your fault the rain came down, Officer . . .?’

‘Hopkins, sir. Ian Hopkins.’ He extended his hand and Hunter shook it firmly.

‘You did what I asked you to do, Officer Hopkins.’

Hopkins gave Hunter an unconvincing smile. He felt he should’ve done better.

‘How long have you been a cop, Ian?’ Hunter asked, studying Hopkins.

‘Three months this week, sir,’ he answered proudly.

‘Do you like it?’

‘Yes, very much.’

‘Yesterday, was that your first crime scene?’

‘No, sir. A couple of gang shootouts and an armed robbery. All of them with fatal victims.’

‘At the church yesterday,’ Hunter continued, ‘I know you were very curious to have a look at the crime scene. Why didn’t you?’

‘Because my orders were to stay outside and deal with the onlookers. And then to take some pictures of them.’ He gestured to the photos on Hunter’s desk.

Hunter glanced at Garcia and they exchanged an unspoken agreement. ‘OK, how’d you like to carry on helping with this investigation?’

Hopkins’s eyes lit up.

‘That’d be fantastic . . . sir.’ He couldn’t believe his luck. To police officers a serial-murder case is the champagne of homicides, and he’d just been given a VIP invitation to join the party.

‘OK. Captain Blake said she’d assign an officer to us. I’ll request you.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘I’m not sure thank you are the words you’ll be using in a week’s time.’ Hunter leaned back and interlaced his fingers behind his head. ‘This won’t be easy.’

‘I don’t like easy, sir.’

Hunter smiled. ‘Good, so let’s start with you dropping the “sir” crap. I’m Robert and this is Carlos.’ Hunter gestured towards Garcia. ‘Are you any good with computers? I mean, internet searching, research, that sort of stuff?’

‘Yeah, I’m very good at it.’

‘Great. I’ll introduce you to Jack Kerley, the main guy in our IT unit. He’ll get you set up.’

‘OK, that sounds great to me.’

‘One more thing,’ Hunter said, stopping Hopkins before he left the room. ‘This case and everything related to it is to be discussed with no one other than Carlos and myself, do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’ He nodded eagerly before reaching for the door.

The phone on Hunter’s desk rang.

‘Detective Hunter.’

It was Doctor Winston. ‘Robert, I’ve got the results of the autopsy together with a few of the lab tests. I can email them to you, but . . .’

Hunter sensed the uneasiness in the doctor’s voice. ‘It’s OK. We’ll be right over, doc.’

Twenty-One

In the Los Angeles lunchtime traffic, it took them over twenty-five minutes to cover the two miles between the RHD headquarters and the LACDC. Doctor Winston was waiting for them in room 2B, the same autopsy room they were in earlier.

‘So what have you got for us, doc?’ Hunter asked, covering his nose with his right hand.

‘Would you like a mask, Robert? We’ve got plenty,’ Doctor Winston said, reading Hunter’s discomfort.

‘No, I’m fine, but if we could speed this up, it’d be great.’

‘OK, follow me.’ The doctor walked up to the stainless-steel table. Hunter and Garcia followed. The headless priest’s body had been washed clean. The familiar Y incision that ran from the front of each shoulder to the pubic bone had already been sewn shut. Large black stitches stuck out of the ghostly-white flesh like poisonous thorns.

‘Fingerprints have confirmed that the victim is indeed Brett Stewart Nichols, aka Father Fabian. Time of death is estimated to be somewhere between 10:00 p.m. and midnight on Wednesday.’

Hunter nodded. ‘Closing time at the church.’

‘Except for where the head’s been severed, the body is clean of traumas,’ the doctor said, putting on a new pair of latex gloves. ‘Decapitation didn’t occur after death. In layman’s terms, it was the cause of death. Now here’s the interesting fact: there’s nothing to indicate that the victim’s been restrained. No abrasions or marks on the wrists or ankles.’

‘Was he sedated?’ Hunter asked, bending down to look at the neck stump.

A slight head shake. ‘Toxicology came back negative for any type of anesthetic.’

‘Why do you think he could’ve been sedated?’ Garcia turned to Hunter.

‘Most people would put up a fight if they were about to be beheaded.’

Doctor Winston agreed with a nod. ‘With no defensive wounds, we know the priest didn’t fight back. It’s not easy to decapitate a moving target.’

‘Could the priest have been knocked unconscious?’ Garcia asked.

‘That’s a possibility I’ve considered,’ Doctor Winston replied, circling the table to the other side. ‘Without the head, I won’t be able to confirm it.’

Garcia nodded.

‘There’s only one glitch with that possibility,’ the doctor continued, pointing to the neck stump. ‘The head was severed with a single, powerful strike. Undoubtedly a very sharp and precise weapon. No hacking, no sawing. According to the forensics team, there were no marks, no dents, nothing on the floor surrounding the body. If the victim was lying unconscious on the floor, a blow from a sharp, decapitating weapon would’ve surely left some sort of impression. The cut line on the neck suggests the priest was in an upright position, probably kneeling or sitting down. The blow came from above and from the victim’s left, suggesting the killer’s right-handed.’

Hunter considered the doctor’s words for several silent seconds. ‘I don’t believe the priest was knocked unconscious.’ He stepped away from the body and leaned against the microscope counter.

‘Why not?’ Garcia asked. ‘It would’ve made things a lot simpler for the killer.’

‘This killer isn’t after easy or simple. You saw the brutality of the crime scene. Sadistic killers rarely show compassion. Killing an unconscious victim would’ve given him no satisfaction. This killer wanted the victim’s fear. I bet he was looking straight into Father Fabian’s eyes when he delivered the fatal blow.’

Garcia felt a shudder run through his body. ‘So if he was conscious, why didn’t Father Fabian fight back? Or at least lift his hands to protect his face? It’s only natural.’

‘Too scared to move,’ Hunter offered.

‘Very possible,’ Doctor Winston admitted.

‘Are you suggesting that he just sat there like a statue while the killer took a swing at him?’

‘It happens.’ Doctor Winston nodded. ‘Depending on how terrified a victim is, it’s not uncommon for the brain to simply shut down. No motor stimuli get sent anywhere. And even though the victim might want to, he won’t be able to move.’

‘Hence the terms scared stiff and petrified.’ Hunter confirmed.

Garcia’s stare rested on the priest’s body once again. ‘Poor man. How about the weapon used, doc? An axe?’

‘An axe is an easy weapon to obtain, but very hard to handle and control,’ the doctor clarified. ‘It’s bulky, heavy and, contrary to what you might’ve seen in movies, the length of its blade isn’t ideal for decapitation. The killer would have to be a master lumberjack to achieve this sort of precision with a single swing.’

‘Any suggestions of what we should be looking for, doc?’ Both detectives faced Doctor Winston.

‘Because we haven’t found the head yet, I can only analyze the neck side of the cut. Judging by how smooth and precise it is, I’d say it’s very consistent with the type of cut achieved by a samurai sword.’

‘Samurai?’ Garcia’s eyes widened. ‘Like ninja style?’

Doctor Winston laughed. ‘They’re not the same thing, but you’ve got the idea.’ The doctor studied both detectives for a moment.

‘I wanna show you something that might just help.’

Twenty-Two

From the counter behind him, Doctor Winston retrieved a remarkable-looking sword. Its long, slightly curved blade had a distinctive mirror-polish finish.

‘Goddamnit, doc,’ Hunter said, taking a step back. ‘You gotta lay off those cheesy late-night kung-fu movies.’

Doctor Winston paid no attention to the comment. ‘This is a typical samurai sword, also known as katana. It can be easily purchased over the internet – no identity checks necessary. The blade is made out of carbon steel. Its length can vary, but it’s usually somewhere between twenty-two and twenty-nine inches.’ He stepped closer to the priest’s body. ‘This is a precise and laser-sharp weapon. Ideal for a decapitation job. If the sword handler is skilled enough, the strike can be lightning fast. Almost impossible to evade.’ He held the sword with both hands and slowly moved it down towards the body’s neck stump. ‘But the great thing about this weapon is that it’s so light the killer could’ve used a single hand for the fatal blow. And it would’ve been just as precise.’

‘Great,’ Garcia commented.

‘Some of the lab results are in.’ Doctor Winston changed the subject as he returned the sword to the counter. ‘As we expected, there were hundreds of fingerprints all around the church and the confessional.’ He pulled a few sheets of paper out of a manila envelope. ‘At the moment they’re being run against the national fingerprint database, but I wouldn’t expect any great breakthroughs.’

Hunter nodded. He knew they’d probably get positive matches for petty crimes, robbery, maybe even firearms offences. Compton is an underprivileged neighborhood, still heavy with gang activity. Most of its residents are no strangers to violence. ‘Did we get anything from the altar?’ he asked, his eyes scanning the sheets Doctor Winston had handed him.

‘Two sets of prints. They belong either to the victim or to the altar boy. Nothing from an unidentified source.’

‘How about the chalice?’ Garcia asked. ‘Didn’t the killer allegedly drink the priest’s blood from the chalice?’

‘Yes.’

‘So we can get the killer’s DNA,’ Garcia said with excitement.

‘No, we can’t.’ Hunter rubbed his tired eyes.

‘Why not? Can’t DNA be extracted from saliva?’ Garcia faced Doctor Winston.

‘Yes, it can.’

‘But the blood inside the chalice belonged to Father Fabian, right?’ Hunter asked.

Doctor Winston nodded.

‘That means that our killer’s DNA, taken from the saliva, would’ve mixed with the priest’s DNA in the blood. Once DNA gets mixed together . . .’ Hunter shook his head. ‘It can’t be split apart anymore.’

Garcia looked at Doctor Winston for confirmation.

‘Robert’s right.’ He nodded. ‘The lab will be able to tell you that there’re two different sources of DNA. But they won’t be able to split them.’

‘Fantastic.’ Garcia cupped his hand over his nose. The nauseating smell was getting to him. ‘This gets better by the second. Do we have anything conclusive?’

Doctor Winston took a deep breath. ‘The blood the killer used to draw the number three on the priest’s chest. It’s human, and it’s not Father Fabian’s.’

Hunter raised his eyebrows in anticipation.

‘It belongs to a woman.’

‘A woman?’ Garcia looked baffled. ‘I didn’t know you could tell gender from a simple blood test?’

‘You can from DNA tests, or if you specifically test for levels of estrogen.’

Hunter instinctively checked his watch. ‘There’s no way you would’ve gotten DNA results this fast, doc. And you had no reason to test for estrogen levels.’

‘So how do you know the blood came from a woman?’ Garcia pressed.

‘Unless . . .’ Hunter’s questioning eyes moved back to Doctor Winston.

‘Unless what?’ Garcia asked eagerly.

‘Unless she was pregnant.’

Doctor Winston closed his eyes and nodded slowly.

Twenty-Three

Amanda Reilly re-entered the numbers into her spreadsheet and pressed the RETURN button.

Nothing changed.

The final calculation was still way short of what was needed to cover her estate agency’s bills for the month. She placed her reading glasses on the desk in front of her and pinched the bridge of her nose. This was the fourth consecutive month she’d have to default on several payments. The week was drawing to a close, and the two viewings they’d had this week hadn’t produced an offer. According to her calculations, if she didn’t get a sale soon she’d only be able to afford to keep the agency open for a few more weeks – maybe a month.

Amanda had dropped out of high school at the age of seventeen after flunking tenth grade for the second time. She was an intelligent girl, but when it came to exams and answering questions her heart would take off like a fighter jet, her mind would go blank and she couldn’t get a single answer out.

Amanda knew she was very good with people. And she had charisma – bundles of it. Her first job was as a trainee broker in a small real estate agency in central LA. It didn’t take her long to get the gist of things, and within a year her sales figures were topping everyone else’s in the agency.

She didn’t stay in central Los Angeles for long, accepting a job with Palm Properties, one of the largest real estate agencies in Palm Springs.

In California, businesses don’t come much more cutthroat than real estate, but Amanda knew how to use her assets to her advantage. Other than being smart, charismatic and charming, she was also very attractive, with shoulder-length blond hair, sky-blue eyes and porcelain-smooth skin. Some would say she slept her way into her partnership just three years after joining Palm Properties.

Amanda stayed with the agency for eleven years before giving up the partnership and opening her own agency – Reilly’s – in West Hollywood. She was a hard-working woman, and during the following ten years three other Reilly’s opened across Los Angeles. But just over a year ago, the booming American property market came crashing to a halt. Repossessions were at an all-time high. Bank loans were nonexistent. No one was buying. Not even the super-rich.

Amanda tried every trick she’d learned over the years to keep her head above the waterline, but nothing seemed to work. She had to close all but her flagship agency in West Hollywood. The past four months had been particularly hard for Amanda and her company. She had to let everyone go except for her best friend and first ever Reilly’s employee, Tania Riggs.

Despite the gloomy week, Amanda was feeling lucky. Late yesterday she’d received a call from a potential buyer who sounded very interested in one of her most expensive properties. A seven-bedroom, nine-bathroom, four-million-dollar mansion on Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu. The caller had seen the property advertised on their website and loved the features – the swimming pool, the large eccentric fireplace in the living room, the tennis court, the beautiful grounds – the house was perfect. He had requested a viewing for late this afternoon.

‘Here you go,’ Tania Riggs said, handing Amanda a dark green plastic folder.

Amanda had asked Tania to prepare a ‘killer’ package on the property.

‘I’ve included everything.’ Tania said. ‘Photos, detailed information on the house and grounds – even a list of celebrities who live within two miles of the place. There’s also a CD with that PowerPoint presentation I showed you earlier.’

Amanda smiled. ‘That was a fantastic presentation, Tania, thanks. I have a good feeling about this.’ She wiggled the folder in her hand.

‘Me too. It’s such a beautiful house, and if you have the money . . . a bargain.’

Amanda admired Tania’s optimism. For someone who hadn’t received her wages in five weeks, she sure knew how to stay positive.

The phone rang and Tania ran back to her desk to pick it up.

‘Amanda,’ Tania said, after placing the caller on hold. ‘It’s Mr. Turner for you.’

Amanda nodded and reached for the phone on her desk. The conversation took less than a minute.

‘Please tell me he didn’t cancel,’ Tania said nervously, after Amanda hung up.

‘No, no.’

‘Thank God for that.’

‘But he’ll be about an hour late.’

‘Oh, that’s OK, then.’ Tania smiled. ‘Do you want me to wait with you?’

‘There’s no need. I’m all set here.’ She pointed to the dark green folder Tania had given her. ‘Go home, girl. And try to have a good rest over the weekend.’

‘I sure will. Good luck.’

Tania buttoned up her coat all the way to her neck before closing the door behind her.

Amanda placed her right elbow on her desk, rested her chin on her closed fist and stared at the spreadsheet on her screen once again. Things were about to change, she could feel it.

Twenty-Four

Hunter and Garcia were studying the forensic photographs taken at the church when Captain Blake entered the room without knocking and closed the door behind her. Her eyes rested on the piles of leather-bound notebooks on both detectives’ desks.

‘Are these the priest’s journals?’ she asked, approaching Garcia’s desk, picking a volume up and flipping through the first few pages.

Hunter nodded.

‘Anything interesting?’

‘Depends what you consider interesting.’

Captain Blake gave Hunter a look that told him she didn’t have time for bullshit.

‘We’re going through them as fast as we can,’ Hunter explained. ‘But there’s a lot of stuff in those books. They’re not proper journals or diaries. They’re just books the priest used to write his thoughts, the way he felt, things he’d done . . . There’s no sequence. Most of the entries read like dissertations, and they go back a long way.’ He walked back to his desk. ‘The problem is we’re not really sure what were looking for. It could be anything, a word, a phrase . . . or it could be hidden between the lines. If Father Fabian feared for his life, we were hoping to find something in the most recent diary, but they aren’t dated. The idiots who brought them over after forensics were done dusting them didn’t think to number the books in the same order they were found on the shelves inside Father Fabian’s room.’

‘They’ve been shuffled like a deck of cards,’ Garcia commented.

‘So if by interesting you mean stories of a tormented priest, then yes, they’re very interesting,’ Hunter continued. ‘But if you mean “have we found something that might give us a clue why he was murdered?”, then the answer is – not yet.’

Captain Blake closed the diary and placed it back on the pile. Only then she noticed how neat and tidy Garcia’s desk was. Nothing was out of place. No clutter. All the objects on it were arranged symmetrically. ‘What do you mean by a tormented priest?’

‘It seems like he’d questioned his faith more than once,’ Garcia offered.

‘We all do that every now and again,’ she replied with a shrug.

‘That’s true.’ Hunter looked for something inside his top drawer. ‘But it looks like what Father Fabian saw and heard over the years made him doubt priesthood was really his call.’

‘Why?’

‘You need to believe in God if you’re gonna be a priest. At times he questioned God’s existence.’

‘Plus, there’re a few passages that make it clear that he was struggling with the whole celibacy concept,’ Garcia noted.

‘How many of these have you been through so far?’

‘Three each, and we’ve been reading through the night.’ Hunter answered.

The captain folded her arms and exhaled a deep breath. ‘Bishop Clark is worried about these journals.’

‘Worried how?’ Hunter cracked his knuckles and Captain Blake cringed.

‘He fears Father Fabian might’ve written things he shouldn’t have.’

‘Can you be a little more specific, captain?’ Hunter asked. ‘We don’t have a lot of time for guessing games.’

‘The celibacy dilemma for one.’

Garcia coughed. ‘So Bishop Clark is more worried that Father Fabian could’ve jumped the fence than with the fact that he was brutally decapitated inside his own church? That’s messed up.’

‘He’s also very worried that Father Fabian might’ve written down things he heard in confessions. To the Catholic Church, that’s like a felony.’

‘Only if Father Fabian had verbally discussed any of his confessions with someone else.’ Hunter disagreed. ‘Writing them down in a private diary constitutes no sin or Catholic crime.’

‘Are you Catholic?’ she asked with a frown.

A shake of the head.

‘So how do you know that?’

‘I read a lot.’

Garcia smiled.

‘I suggest you read faster then.’

‘Why?’

‘Bishop Clark is pressuring to get the journals back.’

‘Let him pressure.’ Hunter wasn’t worried. ‘The contents of these journals may turn out to be evidence in an ongoing investigation. The last I heard the police still had the authority to seize any evidence from a crime scene.’

‘He ain’t going through a court of law.’ Captain Blake faced Hunter.

‘Let me guess. My old friend, Mayor Edwards?’

‘Who no doubt will talk to his old friend, the chief of police. After that it gets complicated.’

‘Complicated is what we do, captain. We need to go through those journals.’

‘Just get through them as fast and as thoroughly as you can, will you?’