Chris Carter - The Executioner

‘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.

‘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.