Текст книги "The Executioner"

Автор книги: Chris (2) Carter

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Twenty-Five

Captain Blake approached the corkboard and studied the photographs that were pinned on it. ‘I can see what you meant about this being ritualistic. The decapitation, the dog’s head, the circle around the altar, the blood-drinking theory, the numbering of the victim . . . It’s all there, isn’t it?’

Neither detective replied.

‘You see, that bothers me,’ the captain carried on. ‘Rituals are never rushed, and it doesn’t seem like this one was either. That tells me the killer would’ve needed at least twenty to thirty undisturbed minutes to achieve his goal.’

Hunter agreed with a slow nod.

‘Risky, isn’t it? Especially when you take into account the murder was committed in a public place. Anyone could’ve walked in on the killer.’

‘He had it under control,’ Hunter confirmed.

‘How so?’

‘It looks like the killer was inside the church dressed as a priest just before closing time.’

‘What?’

‘The estimated time of death coincides with the church’s closing time – around ten o’clock.’ Hunter searched through a few pieces of paper on his desk. ‘Confessions were due to end at ten to ten. At twenty to ten the church was almost empty, except for two people – a Mrs. Morales and a Mrs. Willis. According to their statement, they were asked to leave at that time by a priest they didn’t recognize.’

Captain Blake squinted.

‘The priest told them he was there to help Father Fabian, and that they were closing early because they needed to prepare the church for a special Mass the next morning. Hermano, the altar boy, knows nothing about a priest helping out. And he said there was nothing special about any Mass.’

‘Have you talked to these two women? Do we have a sketch of this mysterious priest?’

‘I’ve talked to them, yes, but no sketch.’

‘Why not?’

Hunter picked up two sheets of paper from his desk and handed them to Captain Blake. ‘These are the witnesses’ statements concerning the priest who asked them to leave.’

The captain read them attentively. Her brow creased as her eyes jumped back and forth from one page to the other. ‘Is this serious?’

‘Afraid so,’ Hunter said.

‘So Mrs. Morales says the priest was a Caucasian young man, tall with short blond hair and a long nose.’ Captain Blake waggled the sheet in her left hand. ‘While Mrs. Willis thinks the priest was “not so tall” and looked Hispanic with short cropped brown hair, a rounded nose and a thin mustache. Are they both blind?’

‘No,’ Hunter replied casually. ‘They’re old. Mrs. Morales is seventy-two and Mrs. Willis is seventy-seven. Their memories aren’t what they used to be. And you know that our visual memory is our weakest one. No two witnesses ever see the same thing.’

‘Great.’ Captain Blake handed the statements back to Hunter. ‘But the killer still took a big risk by talking to two different people and asking them to leave the church. He had no way of knowing what their description of him would be like.’

‘It was a calculated risk,’ Hunter replied, massaging his neck. ‘If he took the trouble to disguise himself as a priest, it stands to reason that he’d change his appearance as well. Contact lenses, wig, false nose and mustache . . . whatever. I don’t believe he left anything to chance.’

‘Very methodical.’

‘Ritualistic killers usually are.’

‘What if the killer wasn’t disguising himself as a priest?’ the captain asked, leaning against Garcia’s desk. ‘What if he was a priest? Priests are usually very methodical people.’

‘We’re also looking into that.’ Hunter poured himself a glass of water.

‘You don’t sound very sure.’

‘At the moment I’m not sure of anything, captain. There’re too many loose ends.’

‘Like what?’

‘The importance of the ritual, for one.’

‘You lost me already.’

Hunter left his glass on his desk and approached the picture board. ‘In a ritual, the ceremony itself is the most important thing; the victim comes second.’

‘And you don’t believe that’s the case here, do you?’ the captain asked, joining Hunter by the board.

He subtly shook his head. ‘The victim was the most important thing in this murder. The killer specifically wanted Father Fabian dead. And he gave us a clue to that.’

‘What clue?’ She looked at Hunter.

‘The number three drawn on the priest’s chest.’

The captain pouted her lips as she thought about it for a few moments. ‘The fact that the killer went through the trouble of undoing Father Fabian’s cassock, writing the number on his chest and then buttoning him back up.’

Hunter nodded. ‘That means that the attack was very personal.’

Captain Blake pulled a strand of loose hair from over her right eye. ‘Do you think all that could’ve been a diversion? The killer made the murder look like a ritual, when in fact it was just a plain sadistic homicide?’

‘To divert us from what?’ Garcia asked.

‘It wasn’t a diversion,’ Hunter said confidently as he returned to his desk and had a sip of his water. ‘If the killer wanted to stage a ritual, the decapitation and the circular blood trail around the altar would’ve done the job. He didn’t have to go as far as drinking the priest’s blood or shoving a dog’s head down the body’s neck. There’s a deeper meaning to all this.’

Captain Blake closed her eyes and let out a long sigh. ‘So what’s your next move?’

‘We need to find out as much as we can about Father Fabian, including his personal life.’

‘Any family?’

‘Father Fabian was an only child,’ Garcia replied, reading from a sheet on his desk. ‘His father’s unknown and his mother died of liver cirrhosis six years ago.’

‘Our best bet is Father Malcolm,’ Hunter cut in.

‘Who’s Father Malcolm?’

‘He’s the head priest at the Our Lady of the Rosary Catholic Church in Paramount. He was also Father Fabian’s closest friend.’ Hunter instinctively checked his watch. ‘I’m taking a drive there later on.’

‘I’ll stay and get on with the journals.’ Garcia pointed to the pile of books.

‘How about this?’ the captain asked, pointing to the dog’s head photograph. ‘Any leads?’

‘Not yet,’ Garcia replied. ‘We’ve found references to Greek mythology and the Eastern Orthodox Church, but nothing relevant so far.’

They were interrupted by the phone on Hunter’s desk. It rang twice before he picked it up. ‘Detective Hunter.’ He turned towards Captain Blake. ‘It’s for you.’

‘Yes . . .’ she said, bringing the receiver to her right ear. ‘Put him on hold and transfer the call to my office. I’ll take it in there.’ She handed the phone back to Hunter. ‘Just a few days on the job and the mayor is already becoming a pain in my ass.’ She headed for the door.

Twenty-Six

Ryan Turner arrived at Reilly’s Estate Agency in West Hollywood an hour and fifteen minutes late. Amanda had only talked to the prospective buyer over the phone and she wasn’t really sure of what to expect. She was pleasantly surprised.

Ryan was around six-two, in his early forties and well built. His dark brown hair was short, conservative and clean, in harmony with the rest of him. He was executively dressed in an expensive-looking dark suit with perfectly polished shoes. He spoke with a hint of a southern accent.

‘I’m sorry for being late,’ he said as he firmly shook Amanda’s hand. ‘Business people always babble on more than they should.’

‘It’s no problem at all, Mr. Turner,’ she replied, giving him her warmest smile. ‘I’m glad you could make it.’

‘I’m really looking forward to seeing this house. From what I saw on your website, it looks perfect.’

Amanda’s smile widened.

‘And please,’ he continued, ‘call me Ryan.’

‘Only if you call me Amanda.’

‘Deal.’

Ryan convinced Amanda to ride with him. With traffic, the drive took them just over an hour. Amanda spent the first twenty-five minutes telling Ryan how wonderful the property was. Her rehearsed speech rolled off her tongue like poetry. For the rest of the drive they talked about everything, from business to Christmas presents.

The first thing Ryan noticed as they drove through the grand electronic iron gates of the property in Malibu was the tennis court to the left of it.

‘Impressive,’ he said.

Things were going just as Amanda hoped they would.

The rest of the house didn’t disappoint Ryan. Over six thousand square feet of living space with high wood-beamed ceilings in places and magnificent marble floors. Its interior had been luxuriously decorated with modern and stylish furniture. Ingenious light fixtures made every room relaxed and warm. Outside, the spacious entertaining and seating area and large pool with spa provided the final touches to the house.

As he explored each room, Ryan tried to conceal his excitement by keeping his leather-gloved hands tucked into the pockets of his long black overcoat. But the smile on his face gave him away. In this case, the house was literally selling itself.

‘Do you mind if we take another look in the living room before we go?’ he asked as he stared out of the window of the master bedroom on the second floor, overlooking the beach.

‘Of course not,’ Amanda replied, trying hard to curb her enthusiasm.

As they entered the living room, Amanda stood by the large, hand-carved wooden double doors. She seemed a little apprehensive.

Ryan was standing behind a lavish white leather sofa positioned just off the center of the immense room, his eyes glued to the ostentatious river rock fireplace that occupied part of the south wall.

‘I take it that the fireplace works?’ he asked, turning to face Amanda.

‘Yes. Everything in this house works perfectly.’

‘And I’m guessing it’s a gas fire instead of log. Or else I’ll need a small forest to fire up this thing.’

Amanda noticed he said ‘I’ll need’ and bit her lip to conceal her smile. ‘You’re right. It’s a gas fire.’

‘Could we light it up so I could have a look?’

The question caught Amanda by surprise, and she stared at Ryan wide-eyed.

‘Are you OK?’

‘Umm . . . yes, I’m fine.’ It took her a few seconds to regain her composure. ‘I guess it’ll be OK if you wanna light it up, but if you don’t mind I’ll wait in the kitchen.’

Ryan narrowed his eyes and took a couple of steps towards Amanda. ‘Is there something the matter?’

‘Not at all. Everything is just fine.’ Though she put on a brave face, she failed to convince him.

‘Everything isn’t just fine. The color is gone from your face, Amanda. Did I miss something?’ Ryan’s eyes searched the room.

‘No, no . . .’ Her reaction had startled him and she knew it. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the house or the fireplace. I guarantee it.’

‘So what’s wrong? I’m very good at reading people, and something is definitely bothering you.’

Amanda took a deep breath. ‘I . . . I don’t like fires very much.’ Her eyes found the floor like a timid little girl.

Ryan let out a nervous chuckle. He stepped within two feet of her and tried to catch her eyes once again. ‘Really?’

Amanda lifted her head and stared into Ryan’s caring eyes.

‘A bad experience?’ he asked in a soft voice.

Her lips made a thin line as she nodded.

Ryan placed a comforting hand on Amanda’s left shoulder. ‘Do you wanna know something?’ he said after a short silence. ‘I’m petrified of spiders.’

Her lips widened into a tentative smile.

‘When I was a young kid, I had an attic room in this old timber house,’ he said calmly. ‘One night, I fell asleep reading. It must’ve been around three or four in the morning when I felt something tickling the back of my neck.’

‘Oh God!’ Amanda exclaimed with a quick shiver.

‘Still half asleep, I tried to scratch the annoying tickle. I ended up pissing the spider off and pushing it into the collar of my shirt.’

‘Urgh!’

‘It was a common brown recluse spider, the type that bites more than once. I guess the one in my shirt was really hungry because it bit me several times.’

Amanda made an ‘irk’ face and rubbed her hand urgently against her nape.

‘Unfortunately, my body reacted really badly to the bites. I had fever, chills, nausea and these large white blisters popped up where I’d been bitten. Since then, every time I see a spider I act like the biggest wimp you’ll ever see. Even my voice changes to a high-pitched one and I sound like a Barbie doll.’

‘Really?’ Amanda chuckled.

‘Trust me.’ He nodded and smiled. ‘It’s very embarrassing.’

She didn’t like talking about what happened, but she felt comfortable with him. She also needed to convince Ryan that there was nothing wrong with the house.

‘I was young when it happened,’ she said, brushing her fringe from her face. ‘My friend and I were playing. Pretending we were cooking. I don’t really know how it happened, but my clothes caught fire.’

Ryan’s interest grew.

‘In a way, I was lucky,’ she continued. ‘Only the back of my dress lit up. Have you ever been burned?’ she asked.

Ryan shook his head. ‘Not in that way.’

‘The pain is hard to describe.’ She paused, searching for words to illustrate it. ‘It’s not like scalding or touching a hot iron. It’s not a stinging kind of pain. It’s something so intense your brain ceases to work and you pray for death. I felt my skin melting. I could smell my hair burning.’ Amanda softly touched her hair with her right hand. Her gaze distant. ‘We were alone in the house that day. By the time my friend managed to find some water and throw it over me, most of my back and neck had burned.’

They looked at each other in silence for a while.

‘I’m truly sorry,’ he said.

‘It’s OK. It’s not your fault. I should learn to control it, really, but I just can’t. Any type of fire simply freaks me out.’

Ryan walked back to the center of the living room. Amanda followed him.

‘I did see a psychologist about my fear of spiders,’ he announced. ‘You know, they have these special therapies that are supposed to help you get rid of any phobias.’

‘What happened?’ she asked curiously.

‘The psychologist talked a lot and after a few sessions he decided I was ready to face my fear. He brought in this huge hairy spider and placed it in my hand to try and prove they were harmless.’

‘Did it work?’

‘Did it hell. I peed myself before running out of the room screaming like a lunatic.’

Amanda laughed.

‘Maybe some fears are not meant to be conquered.’ He stepped closer to the leather sofa. Amanda was standing about two feet in front of him, staring at the fireplace.

His hand wrapped around something inside his pocket.

‘You know when you told me about the incident when you were young and how scared you are of fires?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she replied without turning around.

His voice suddenly changed: ‘I already knew.’

Before she was able to turn and face him, he grabbed her from behind, covering her nose and mouth with a wet cloth.

Twenty-Seven

Father Malcolm had agreed to a meeting at 7:30 p.m. At twenty past seven Hunter parked his Buick Lesabre in front of the Our Lady of the Rosary Catholic Church in South Paramount Boulevard. The street lights, together with the Christmas decorations, created a warm carnival of colors.

The church was a large white building flanked by two small green yards. Above its hand-carved rosewood double doors sat a life-size, light gray statue of Our Lady of the Rosary.

A cheery-looking priest in his late sixties was standing by the entrance door talking to a short and stout woman. His hairline had totally receded on top, and all that was left were two small islands of gray hair. One over each ear.

He said goodbye to the woman as Hunter made his way up the four short steps in front of the church.

‘Father Malcolm?’ Hunter asked.

‘You must be the detective I talked to earlier on the phone,’ the priest said with a warm smile.

‘I’m Detective Hunter.’ He had his credentials in hand. ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me.’

The priest quickly checked Hunter’s ID before ushering him inside. The interior of the church was large, and the altar shone with hundreds of candles. The main hall was able to hold around five hundred worshipers, and a handful of people were scattered among the many red oak pews. Some were praying, some were reading the Bible and some looked to be asleep.

‘Shall we talk in my office?’ the priest asked with a hand gesture. ‘It’s just out back.’

‘Sure.’ Hunter nodded.

Father Malcolm’s office was small but comfortable. The walls were painted in white, very lightly tinged with gray. The furnishings were classic, with a distinct European influence. A heavy wooden desk sat at the back of the room facing the door. In front of it were two replica Victorian armchairs. There were saints’ prints on the walls, and religious books lined the large bookcase to the left of the desk.

Father Malcolm showed Hunter to a seat before taking his place behind the desk. Neither spoke for a few seconds. ‘I can’t believe what’s happened. Fabian was a good man, a good priest.’ Father Malcolm’s voice was frail and sad.

‘I’m very sorry,’ Hunter replied. ‘I understand you were good friends.’

The priest nodded. ‘I used to teach seminary. Fabian was one of my students. I’ve known him for over twenty years.’

‘What was he like?’

‘Kind, devoted, compassionate. As I’ve said, he was a good priest.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘About two weeks ago. We had a seventh– and eighth-grade bake-sale here. He came over to help.’ A shy smile appeared on the priest’s lips. ‘Actually, he came over to eat. He loved banana cake.’

‘Did he seem different at all? Maybe worried or nervous about something?’

‘Not at all. He was as calm as he’d always been. Very talkative, joking with the students all the time. He looked a bit tired, but that had always been the case with Fabian.’

‘How so?’ Hunter gently rubbed the scar on the back of his neck.

‘As far as I know he never really slept very well.’

‘Any particular reason why?’

A slight shake of the head. ‘We deal with many hardships, detective, and they sometimes creep up into our minds in the middle of the night and keep us awake. Fabian told me once he had bad dreams quite regularly.’

Hunter remembered reading several passages in Father Fabian’s journals about bad dreams, but he never described them. ‘Did he ever talk to you about these dreams?’

‘Never. He was a very reserved man.’

Hunter scribbled something down in his black notebook. ‘Did he ever talk about any worries he had?’

‘As priests we have many worries, Detective Hunter. We deal with people in need, and in today’s world troubles are plenty. But I guess you mean the type of worry that could’ve cost him his life?’

Hunter didn’t reply, but his silence was understood.

‘No.’ Father Malcolm sounded confident. ‘He was a simple man. He lived for the church and to help others. Whatever worries he had, I assure you they weren’t life threatening.’

Hunter thought about his next words. He knew he was about to venture into dangerous territory.

Twenty-Eight

‘Did Father Fabian ever talk to you about doubting his decision to become a Catholic priest or his intention to leave it all behind?’ Hunter asked and saw Father Malcolm’s demeanor change. He looked offended. He narrowed his eyes and surveyed Hunter.

‘What we do is based solemnly on faith and on the desire to serve Our Lord, Detective Hunter.’ The priest’s voice was steady but firm, as if reprimanding a disobedient child. ‘We don’t do it for money or thrills. It’s a call. I must admit that sometimes it gets tough. We’re humans and as such we have our moments of weakness, our uncertainties. It’s not uncommon for those of us who choose a life of servitude to God to question that decision every now and then. But our faith always proves stronger than any doubt. Do you understand what faith means, detective?’

‘I think so,’ Hunter replied with a nod. ‘Blind belief without questioning or proof.’

Father Malcolm smiled, showing yellow-stained teeth. ‘That belief keeps us on the right path. It drowns our doubts. So in answer to your question, detective – yes, Father Fabian and I talked about his uncertainties and his dilemmas. Just because we decide to serve God it doesn’t make us immune to temptation and unclear thoughts. And just because cloudy thoughts enter our minds, it doesn’t mean we’re gonna go through with them. He was a man of unquestionable faith.’

‘Please don’t get me wrong, father,’ Hunter said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. ‘I’m not questioning his or your faith. I was just wondering if there was a reason for these “unclear” thoughts. If there was, it could give us a lead. Did Father Fabian ever tell you he was thinking about giving up the priesthood?’

Father Malcolm scratched a small scar above his right eyebrow. Hunter could see he was debating if he should answer the question or not. ‘It really is important,’ Hunter pressed.

‘Yes,’ Father Malcolm said after several unsettling seconds. ‘After Fabian’s mother passed away, his faith was unbalanced.’

‘Were they close?’

‘He tried.’

‘Tried?’

‘Fabian never knew his father. His mother brought him up on her own, but she was a bitter woman. She expected her only son to become a lawyer or a doctor or something that would make him rich so he could pay her back.’

Hunter shifted on his seat.

The priest looked down at his clasped hands. ‘She had problems. She battled with alcoholism for many years. Even though she resented him for becoming a priest, he loved her. He prayed for her every day, for as long as I can remember. When she got ill, it all happened very fast. She was taken into hospital and within a week she passed away. He took it very badly.’

‘How badly?’

‘He was angry.’ Father Malcolm bit his lip and rethought his words. ‘No, I think the correct word would be discontent. He was discontent with God. He hoped that after so many years praying for the same thing, God would’ve listened. He kept on saying he never asked for a miracle. He only wanted God to give his mother a fighting chance. But instead, God took her away.’

Hunter sat motionless battling with his own memories. His eyes were fixed on the priest but unfocused. ‘I know exactly how he felt.’

Father Malcolm noticed pain in Hunter’s expression and leaned forward. ‘Can I ask you something, detective?’

‘Of course.’

‘Is it true what the papers said? About Fabian being decapitated? About the dog’s head?’

‘Yes.’

The priest let out a deep sigh. ‘You probably already know that Saint Fabian, who Father Fabian got his pseudonym from, was beheaded.’

Hunter nodded.

‘Do you think there’s a relation?’

‘It’s a possibility.’ Hunter leaned back again. ‘What do you think, father? Do you think the killer wanted Father Fabian to die the same way Saint Fabian did?’

The priest stood up and approached the bookcase next to his desk. ‘In years gone by, a great number of people who were misunderstood were arrested and tortured before being sentenced to death,’ he said, reaching for a book on the top shelf. ‘For centuries, most death sentences in the Western world meant decapitation.’

Hunter considered this. ‘So if Father Fabian had chosen any other saint’s name, death by decapitation would’ve probably matched the saint’s death anyway,’ he concluded.

A slow nod.

‘How about a dog’s head? Does it mean anything to you, or to the Catholic faith?’

The priest took a deep breath. ‘The devil,’ he replied. As he spoke a cold draft entered the room. Hunter instinctively pulled the collar of his jacket tighter around his neck.

Father Malcolm returned to his seat. ‘Without being insolent, detective, I think that maybe you’re going down the wrong path.’

‘How’s that, father?’ Hunter asked, meeting the priest’s eyes.

‘I believe that this has been an aggression against the Catholic Church. Someone who wants to hurt the Church as a whole, not an individual priest. Fabian was a tragic casualty. It could’ve been any of us. The killer could’ve chosen any of our churches for his act of anger.’ He paused as his next words worried him. ‘And something tells me he will kill again. Maybe he already has.’ The priest’s tone caused the tiny hairs on Hunter’s arms to rise.