Chris Carter - The Executioner

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.’

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.

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.