Chris Carter - The Executioner

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.

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?’

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.’