Текст книги "The Executioner"

Автор книги: Chris (2) Carter

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Thirty-Three

Hunter managed to get only three and a half hours of sleep. Though he’d been up since 4:30 a.m., it was just past eight by the time he walked into his office. Garcia was at his desk reading one of Father Fabian’s journals. His eyes were bloodshot framed by dark circles.

‘What time did you get here?’ Hunter asked, closing the door behind him.

Garcia placed the journal on his desk, leaned back on his chair and massaged his stiff neck. ‘Seven-thirty, but I was up half the night, reading.’

Hunter nodded. ‘Yeah, me too.’

Garcia noticed he had two journals under his arm. ‘How far did you get?’ He nodded towards the books.

‘I read through both of them.’ Hunter placed them on his desk.

‘You read four hundred pages in one night?’

‘I read a lot, I read fast and I don’t sleep much.’

‘Did you find anything?’

‘Nothing that could really help the investigation. But Father Fabian was a troubled man.’ Hunter leaned against his desk and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. ‘He thought about suicide – twice.’

Garcia rubbed his eyes with the tips of his fingers. ‘Well, I’m getting cross-eyed. And I still haven’t found anything either. Any joy from the tip lines?’

Every night, before going home, Hunter personally went through the day’s tips collected by the tips team.

‘Nothing. Over two hundred calls so far and all of them bullshit.’

A knock came at the door.

‘Come in,’ Hunter called.

Officer Hopkins stepped into the office carrying a blue plastic file. He also looked tired.

‘I have some preliminary results to the searches you asked me for,’ he told Hunter, who raised a hand, stopping him before he was able to continue.

‘I think we could all use a break from the office and from computer screens. It’s not a bad day out there. What do you say we go grab a coffee in Little Tokyo? A change of scenery would do us good.’

‘I’m in.’ Garcia raised his hand.

‘Sure. I love that place.’ Hopkins nodded.

Little Tokyo is a small district in Downtown Los Angeles, just across the road from Parker Center and the RHD. It’s one of only three official Japantowns in the United States, and if you like Japanese food there’s no better place to be in LA.

Hopkins suggested Poppy Coffee Shop, on the south side of Little Tokyo. He’d eaten there many times and their coffee was the best.

Despite the early hour, the café was packed. They all ordered black coffees, and Hopkins had a chocolate-sprinkled donut to go with it.

‘You guys should try one of these donuts,’ Hopkins said as they took the last available table by the door. ‘They’re so rich they’re practically a food group.’

‘I’m good,’ Garcia said, lifting his right hand.

‘Knock yourself out.’ Hunter smiled and frowned at the four cubes of sugar Hopkins dropped into his coffee. ‘So what have you got?’ he asked.

‘Not much.’ Hopkins sounded disappointed. ‘I researched what you’ve asked. Any acts of violence against any churches in the past five years.’ He retrieved a few sheets from his file and started flipping through them. ‘I’ve got vandalism, graffiti, a few broken windows, stolen objects, a few attempted arsons, but no significant physical violence against any priests. There have, however, been a few cases of rape against nuns.’

‘That doesn’t fall into the category we’re looking for.’ Hunter sipped his coffee too quickly and burned the roof of his mouth.

‘I know, but still, that’s just fucked up.’ Hopkins took a bite of his donut and wiped the sprinkles from his lips onto a green paper napkin. ‘The second search you asked for; homicides with ritual and torture characteristics. The list is long.’

Somehow Hunter was expecting it to be.

‘I filtered the results using the criteria you gave me. One, criminals that haven’t been apprehended yet, and two, the use of any animals.’

‘What did you get?’

‘Murders with excessive spillage of blood – there’ve been many. Most of them attributed to gangs, turf and drug wars. But other than lots of blood, they carry no other ritualistic characteristics at all.’

‘Anything with animals?’ Garcia asked, blowing into his coffee.

‘Yes, but no dog’s head. Actually, the only case I could find where an animal head was left at the scene of a crime in the last five years involved a horse’s head.’

‘Italian Mafia,’ Hunter said.

‘That’s the theory,’ Hopkins agreed. ‘The case has never been solved.’

‘So what other animals, if any, have been used in crimes?’ Garcia asked just as Hopkins had another bite of his donut. They had to wait while he chewed and swallowed it down.

‘A few. Rats, pigs, pigeons, cats – but apparently the preferred animal is chicken. Especially its blood. Used a lot in black magic – voodoo. And these were mostly attributed to Jamaicans and—’

‘Brazilians.’ Garcia nodded.

‘Brazilians?’ Hunter turned towards his partner.

‘Yes. In Brazil it’s called macumba. Something Brazil inherited from the many slaves who came from Africa.’ Garcia shook his head, indicating he wasn’t about to go into much historical detail. ‘They have lots of rituals, and many of them involve sacrificing chickens and using their blood.’

‘I’ve searched the net for hours,’ Hopkins said, shaking his head, ‘trying to find anything that justified replacing someone’s head for a dog’s – I got nothing. As you’ve asked—’ he tilted his head towards Hunter ‘—I’ve checked with every animal welfare agency in Los Angeles. No street mutt’s body missing a head has been found. I’ll keep checking, but at the moment that’s turning out to be another dead end.’

Hunter rubbed his face with both hands. He hadn’t shaved this morning, and his day-long stubble prickled his palms.

‘I’ve also checked with detectives in every bureau, as you asked me to do,’ Hopkins continued. ‘Nothing on a decapitation, a dog’s head or a numbered body. If this killer has claimed two previous victims, no one’s found them yet.’

Thirty-Four

As soon as they entered their office, Garcia reached for another of Father Fabian’s journals.

‘Have you come across any passages in these journals about a bad dream that pestered Father Fabian for years?’ Hunter asked, flipping open one of the leather-bound volumes on his desk.

‘I have, actually.’ Garcia searched for a specific journal. ‘And I meant to ask you the same question. Some reoccurring dream that scared him senseless.’

‘That’s right.’

‘I made a note of it. Here it is.’ He found the journal and opened it to a marked page. ‘Listen to this.

‘3:00 a.m. I just woke up again. For minutes I could barely breathe. My hands are still shaking and my clothes are soaked in cold sweat. I am too scared to go back to sleep. Too scared to close my eyes. It’s the dream again. All these years and it has never left me. Why, Lord? Why am I tormented by these visions? Is it a warning of what’s to come?’

‘I’ve been through several passages that sounded just like that,’ Hunter observed.

‘It seems this dream came back to haunt him frequently.’ Garcia placed the open diary on his desk. ‘Maybe it’s nothing.’ He shrugged. ‘We all have bad dreams every now and again.’

Hunter leaned back on his chair. ‘Do you know many people who wake up from dreams short of breath, shaking, sweating and too scared to go back to sleep on a constant basis?’

Garcia thought about it for a moment before conceding with a slight head tilt.

‘Dreams that have that kind of effect on a person are usually based on reality. Farfetched, maybe, but a reality nonetheless.’

‘I’m not sure I know what you mean.’

‘If you have a dream based on fantasy,’ Hunter explained, ‘a fire-breathing dragon, for example. No matter how shocking or violent the dream is, your subconscious knows it’s an impossible fantasy. It might scare you, but it shouldn’t trigger a severe panic reaction.’

‘But if you have a dream based on reality, like being stabbed—’ Garcia caught up with Hunter’s line of thought ‘—your subconscious knows that the chances of it actually happening are very real.’

Hunter nodded. ‘Most nightmares are spin-offs of lived traumatic experiences. We have no control over them.’ He gestured towards the open diary. ‘I know about such dreams. I have them.’

Garcia looked at the scars on his hands for a long moment. ‘Since the Crucifix Killer’s case, so do I.’

They read the journals in silence for a while before Garcia cursed under his breath. ‘Shit!’

Hunter’s head snapped up. ‘What have you got?’

‘Father Fabian’s disturbing nightmare. And you won’t believe this . . .’

Thirty-Five

Hunter waited for Garcia to continue, but his partner’s catatonic eyes were glued to the open journal in his hands.

‘Carlos. What have you got?’

Garcia leaned back on his chair and drew a deep breath. ‘Listen to this.’ He flipped back a page.

‘It’s very late and I can’t sleep. I woke up from the dream maybe an hour ago, and this time it felt more real than ever. I threw up all over myself.

‘I’m scared.

‘Once I read somewhere that one way to extradite fear is to write it down. It’s supposed to symbolize the act of pushing it out of your mind.’

Garcia looked at Hunter.

‘It’s a well-known technique,’ he confirmed.

Garcia flipped to the next page and continued reading.

‘This is the first time I’m writing about this.

‘I didn’t always have my faith. When I was young, I thought I was invincible. Me and my gang of friends.

‘We terrorized everyone, from school students to teachers and families in our neighborhood. We thought we were cool – real badasses.’ Garcia’s lips stretched into a thin, nervous smile. He found it hard to think of Father Fabian as a ‘badass’.

‘One evening, we were hanging out by the park as we always did. We were bored. We’d been drinking since the afternoon and some of us were high. Someone saw a stray dog rummaging through a trashcan. It was a skinny old mutt with thinning gray fur. Its body was covered in dried blood scabs as if it’d been fighting. Suddenly, one of the guys in the gang jumped to his feet and started chasing the dog. That got us all going. It was like we were possessed. We were waving our clenched fists in the air and yelling “get him . . . get him”. There was something wrong with one of its legs. It couldn’t run properly, so it hopped away, trying to escape.’

Hunter placed both elbows on his desk, leaning forward.

‘It didn’t take us long to catch up with the frightened dog.’ Garcia carried on reading. ‘We cornered it against a wall of hedges. The poor thing was shivering all over. Too weak and scared to put up a fight, it just lowered its head and its sad eyes, as if begging us to leave it be.

‘I tried telling everyone to leave the poor thing alone. It was only looking for some food, but no one listened.’ He paused for a deep breath before continuing.

‘One of the guys in the group bent down and offered the dog his hand. The trembling mutt lifted its head and gingerly took a few steps forward. When it got close enough, my friend grabbed it by the fur on its head and violently lifted it off the ground. Its tiny body kicked and writhed in the air. Everyone could see the dog was in pain. It was so weak that it couldn’t even bark. It tried, but the sound that came out was more like a petrified shriek.’ Garcia stretched his neck awkwardly, as if trying to fight off an incoming migraine.

‘I told my friend again to put the dog down and let it go. The rest of the gang was cheering him on – “Fuck him up, gut the old bag of fleas.”

‘I didn’t even see where the knife came from. All I know was that all of a sudden my friend had a meat cleaver in his hand.’

Garcia’s eyes left the page and wandered over to Hunter for a second.

‘Under shouts of “do it . . . do it,” he raised the crying dog high in the air. Its eyes were filled with dread. It knew what was about to happen. My friend swung the meat cleaver hard at its neck. Blood gushed everywhere. I was sprayed across the face and chest, and my stomach knotted. The dog’s small body slumped to the ground. For another thirty seconds or so it twitched and kicked, draining the last breaths of life out of it. They all cheered and laughed until their eyes rested on me. Without realizing, I’d started crying.’ Garcia leaned forward and placed the book on his desk before running the tip of his finger slowly over his eyes.

‘Soon after that, I started distancing myself from the group. I haven’t seen any of them since then. I couldn’t say for sure how long after the park incident the nightmares started. Maybe a couple of months, but they’ve never left me.’

‘Get ready for this,’ Garcia said, making a face as if what he was about to read was hard to believe.

‘In my dream, instead of the dog, it’s me who’s held by the hair. I’m as petrified as the poor animal was. I try, but I can’t escape. I can’t see my attacker’s face, but I know it’s not my friend, the one who beheaded the dog. He has a sword in his hand. As the blade comes towards me, I freeze, unable to move. I open my mouth and try to scream, but no sound comes out. I’m terrified. In slow motion the cold blade strikes me at the base of my neck.’ A new pause. A new awkward neck movement. ‘I feel it gradually slicing through my flesh, tearing my head from my torso. The pain is unbearable. I feel my blood soaking my clothes. My body starts to get cold. The strike is clean, but for some reason I’m still not dead. My head tumbles to the ground, rolling several times, just like the dog’s that night in the park. But my body isn’t headless.’ Garcia placed both elbows on his desk and rested his forehead on his closed fists.

‘Above my shoulders there’s a mutt’s head – its eyes wide, its tongue black and sticking out of its crooked mouth. The person with the blade spills my blood all around me, like a ritual. My head is taken away to be burned. That’s when I wake up.’

Garcia rubbed his exhausted eyes. ‘No fucking way this was a coincidence,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘The decapitation, the mutt’s head, the splattering of blood . . . Father Fabian’s been dreaming his own grotesque murder for years. How can that be?’

Hunter thought about it for a moment before looking up slowly. ‘You’re looking at it from the wrong angle, Carlos. Father Fabian hadn’t been dreaming his own death. The killer knew about the nightmare and decided to make it come true.’

‘Well, listen to the next line.’ Garcia leaned forward over the book. ‘I’ve never told anyone about that day in the park or about the dreams that torment me.’

Thirty-Six

Hunter went silent for a few seconds while his mind kept going over the facts, digesting what Garcia had just told him. A secret nightmare that had tormented and scared Father Fabian for over twenty years. A nightmare that someone had gone to great lengths to make a reality.

Garcia spoke first.

‘The killer could’ve read the journal just like we did, but the altar boy told us that there’d never been a break-in and no one had access to the priest’s room, except the priest himself.’ He stood up, approached one of the windows and pushed it wide open. Their office wasn’t particularly stuffy, but he suddenly felt the need for some fresh air.

Hunter let out a constricted breath. ‘I don’t believe the killer found out about the nightmare through the diaries.’

‘Why not? We did.’

‘Exactly. There are two of us.’ Hunter leaned back on his chair. ‘We read solidly for almost three days. How many journals did we get through before you came across the pages that told us about the dream?’

‘Several,’ Garcia admitted, slowly running his right hand over his face.

‘The killer would’ve needed either a lot of luck, or a lot of undisturbed time with the journals to have found out about the dream the same way we did. And if that’s the case, why didn’t he just take the book with him? Why leave it behind? The journals aren’t numbered or dated. We would’ve never known one was missing.’

‘So how?’ Garcia stopped in front of Hunter’s desk, his hands resting on his hips.

‘The journal entries aren’t dated.’ Hunter gestured towards the books on his desk. ‘The priest could’ve written that specific entry you read last week or five years ago.’

It took Garcia only a few seconds to catch up with Hunter’s line of thought. ‘So you’re thinking the priest could’ve told someone after he wrote the entry.’

Hunter nodded. ‘The dream had obviously gotten too much for the priest. He tried the writing down therapy. That didn’t work.’

‘So the next logical stage would’ve been to step it up a notch and tell someone,’ Garcia concluded, and Hunter agreed.

The phone on Hunter’s desk rang and he picked it up before the second ring. He looked concerned as he listened.

‘We’ll be right down.’

‘What’s up?’ Garcia asked.

‘There’s someone downstairs, a member of the public, who wants to talk to us.’

‘About what?’

‘Father Fabian’s killer.’

Thirty-Seven

The girl was in her late teens. She sat alone in one of the interrogation rooms on the second floor. Hunter and Garcia were watching her from the other side of the two-way mirror in the adjacent observation room.

She could’ve been attractive, but it was clear her appearance wasn’t the most important thing in her life. Her disheveled brown hair fell over her shoulders in an overly casual way. Her beautiful, big brown eyes were bloodshot. She wore no makeup and her face was pale. The long winter coat she had on had certainly seen better days.

‘She’s just a kid,’ Hunter said, frowning. ‘Who’s she again?’ he asked the police officer who had initially talked to the girl and brought her up to the room.

‘She said her name is Monica, but you don’t need to be an expert to figure out that’s made up.’

‘And she said she had information on the Seven Saints Catholic Church murder?’

The officer nodded. ‘She said she’d only speak to the detectives in charge. I tried taking a statement downstairs, but she refused.’ He looked unsure for a moment.

‘Anything else?’ Hunter asked, sensing the officer’s uneasiness.

‘Something about her—’ he looked from one detective to the other ‘—gave me the creeps.’

Garcia stepped closer to the mirror, his eyes scrutinizing the girl. She looked frightened.

Monica lifted her eyes as both detectives entered the room. Her stare bypassed Garcia and settled on Hunter.

‘Hello,’ Hunter said with a warm smile, extending his hand. ‘I’m Detective Hunter and this is Detective Garcia.’

She stood up, smiled back and shook their hands, holding Hunter’s just a little longer than she did Garcia’s. ‘I’m Monica.’ Her voice was soft but padded with grief.

‘Just Monica?’ Garcia asked, his eyebrows arching slightly.

She bit her bottom lip, and her worried eyes reverted back to Hunter.

‘It’s OK,’ he said in a comforting tone. ‘I’m Robert and that’s Carlos.’ He tilted his head towards his partner. ‘I also prefer when people call me by my first name. It’s much less formal, isn’t it?’

She smiled thinly.

‘Could we get you a drink of something? Water, coffee, soda . . .?’

‘Some water would be great, thank you,’ she said as she sat back down.

‘I’ll get it,’ Garcia offered, already reaching for the door.

Hunter pulled a chair and sat across the table from the girl. Her hands were clenched, and she was rubbing her thumbs against each other.

‘These rooms are very intimidating, aren’t they?’ Hunter said in a relaxed tone. ‘The bland walls, the metal table and chairs, the big mirrored window . . . Some say we could do with an internal decorator, a few flowers, maybe some incense. I tend to agree. What do you say?’

Her mouth didn’t move.

‘I’d offer to talk in my office, but I’m afraid it looks even worse than this. If you can imagine such a place.’

Her mouth twitched with a possible smile.

‘If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?’

She hesitated for a second. ‘I’m nineteen.’

Hunter nodded. She knew he hadn’t bought her lie. Despite her young age, Hunter saw something in her eyes that told him that she was forced to mature faster than most.

The door opened and Garcia walked in with an aluminum jug of icy water on a metal tray. He placed it on the table before pouring her a glass.

‘Have a seat, Carlos,’ Hunter said, pointing to the chair next to him.

‘It’s OK, I’ll stand. I don’t mind.’

‘I do,’ Hunter hit back.

If Monica was a suspect in an ongoing investigation, Hunter would’ve stood up himself. Interrogations demand a certain degree of intimidation. Standing up, being able to move around freely and looking down on a subject who’s restricted to his or her chair puts the detective in a psychologically authoritative position. One thing Hunter definitely didn’t want was for Monica to feel any more intimidated than she already was.

Garcia pulled a chair and sat down.

‘We were told you might have information that could be of some value to us,’ Hunter said.

Monica had a sip of her water before locking eyes with him. ‘I saw something.’

‘You saw something?’ Garcia’s voice raised half an octave as he leaned forward. ‘You were inside the church on Wednesday night?’

Monica gave Garcia a subtle head shake.

‘Did you see anyone leaving the church late that night? Were you walking by or something?’

‘No. It wasn’t like that.’ She held Garcia’s gaze for a couple of silent seconds. ‘I saw it in a vision.’

Garcia’s posture stiffened defensively and he shook his head as if he hadn’t heard her correctly. Hunter didn’t react.

‘I’m sorry?’ Garcia frowned.

Monica took a deep breath to steady her voice. ‘I know how this might sound, but please just listen to me for five minutes. I’m not crazy. I’m not a clairvoyant. I can’t see the future. I don’t read minds or talk to spirits either. But unfortunately I can sense certain things deeper than most people.’

Garcia glanced at Hunter, who was sitting back in his chair. His legs were crossed casually with his hands resting on his lap. He was concentrating on the girl.

‘What sort of things?’ Garcia asked.

Monica nervously pulled a loose strand of hair from her face and hooked it behind her ear. Even though Garcia had asked the question, she stared at Hunter before answering.

‘Pain.’

‘You can sense pain?’ Garcia asked with a dubious expression.

‘I can sense other people’s pain,’ she explained.

Garcia shifted his weight in his chair. Almost without fail, every time a high-profile case hits the news, the police get tens of people dropping in or calling and saying they can help with the investigation because they had a dream or a vision. He knew it was only a matter of time before it happened in this case, but he wasn’t expecting it to happen so soon.

Since Garcia took point on questioning, Hunter had limited himself to listen and observe. He was taking in the girl’s reactions, analyzing her eyes and physical movements together with voice intonation and quivers. Experience told him that when people walked in from the streets claiming they had a vision that could help the police catch a criminal, they usually fell into one of five categories – a lonely person looking for attention – a drug user who had hallucinations – someone with mental problems, most probably schizophrenia – a charlatan looking for money and/or publicity – or they had been involved in the crime themselves. Monica, so far, gave no indication of any.

Garcia once again glanced at Hunter, half hoping for some sort of reaction. When he didn’t get one, he checked his watch before leaning forward and placing both elbows on the table.

‘I’ll tell you what we’ll do, Monica,’ he said calmly. ‘I hope you understand that at the moment we’re stretched thin and really pressed for time. But I’ll ask an officer to take down what you think you saw, and if you leave us your details we’ll get in touch if we have any questions . . .’

‘I’m not trying to waste your time, detective,’ she said firmly, reading Garcia’s reluctance to believe her.

‘And we appreciate that,’ he replied in the same tone, but she didn’t break stride.

‘Whether you believe it or not, detective, it happens. Unfortunately, it happens to me. I see other people’s suffering. I see their pain and tears and what makes them sad. It’s not a gift; it’s a curse that makes me scared of closing my eyes every night. I don’t wanna be here either. I’ve never done this before, but I really think I can help.’

Monica went back to staring at Hunter. Something shifted in her eyes.

‘Helen . . .’ she whispered, ‘. . . it wasn’t your fault.’

Hunter raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘You just wanted the crying to stop. She just wanted the pain to go away. You did what you thought was right. What she asked you to do. You freed her from the pain.’ She shook her head. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

Hunter stiffened. His eyes fixed on the brunette in front of him. He felt his mouth go dry and his stomach churn as images of a long time ago flooded his memory.

Garcia sensed the change in Hunter, but before he could say anything the door to the interrogation room was pushed open by Captain Blake.

‘You guys better wrap it up in here,’ she said, ignoring Monica. ‘It looks like he claimed another one.’

Hunter looked up. ‘Our man?’

Captain Blake nodded. ‘In Malibu.’

Garcia jetted out of his chair. ‘Thanks for coming,’ he said before hurrying out of the room.

Hunter turned and faced Monica. ‘I’ll get an officer to write down your details.’ He quickly placed one of his cards on the table in front of her.

‘Detective,’ she called as Hunter got to the door.

‘He knew about the fire. He knew what scared her.’