Chris Carter - The Executioner

‘No, sir. Never. We don’t really have anything of value.’

Hunter nodded. ‘So what happened next?’

‘I didn’t know what to do. I knew there was no way I’d be able to get the church cleaned and ready for the six-thirty Mass. When I got to the other side of the altar I saw it, on the floor next to the confessional. I panicked. I thought it was the devil.’

‘The devil?’ Hunter arched his eyebrows.

Hermano was crying again. ‘The man with a dog’s head all covered in blood. It looked like the devil. But it was Father Fabian.’

‘How could you tell?’ Garcia asked.

‘The ring.’

‘What ring?’

‘Big gold ring with the image of Saint George slaying a dragon on the left hand,’ Hunter said, lifting his hand and dangling his ring finger.

Garcia bit his bottom lip, half annoyed he’d failed to notice the ring back in the church.

‘That’s right, sir,’ Hermano said, impressed. ‘Father Fabian never took it off. A present from his grandmother, he told me. When I saw the ring I knew it was him. It was Father Fabian.’ Hermano broke down, burying his head in his hands. His sobs were violent enough to jerk his body every few seconds.

Grief and silence are perfect partners. Hunter understood this very well. He’d been around people suffering from the shock of discovering a dead body too many times. Words, no matter how comforting, rarely made a difference. He offered the young altar boy a new paper tissue and waited as he dried his tears. When he turned to face Hunter, his eyes were cherry red.

‘I don’t understand, sir. Who’d do something like that to Father Fabian? He never hurt a soul. He was always willing to help. No matter who. No matter what time. If anyone needed him, he’d be there.’

Hunter kept his voice calm and steady. ‘Hermano, you look like an intelligent boy and I’m not gonna lie to you. We don’t have the answers right now, but I promise we’ll do our best to find them. If it’s OK with you, we still need to ask you a few more questions.’

Hermano blew his nose into the paper tissue and nodded nervously.

Hunter retrieved a pen and a small black notebook from his jacket pocket. ‘When did you last see Father Fabian?’

‘Last night, sir, just before confessions started.’

‘And what time did it start?’

‘At a quarter to nine.’

‘That late?’ Garcia cut in.

‘Usually confessions go from four to five in the afternoons,’ Hermano explained. ‘But on the weeks leading up to Christmas it gets a lot busier. The afternoon sessions aren’t enough to deal with the number of people who come in. Father Fabian runs a second session around an hour before closing time.’

Hunter scribbled something down in his notebook.

‘After I left the church I came back to my room, said my prayers and went to bed. I’d got up at four-thirty yesterday.’

‘Did you hear anything at all after you went to bed?’ Hunter’s eyes roamed the room.

‘No, sir, I didn’t.’

Hunter wasn’t surprised Hermano hadn’t heard anything. His room was in a separate small building at the back of the church. Through closed doors and thick walls, unless the killer had broadcast his attack over loudspeakers, nothing would’ve been heard.

‘I take it Father Fabian’s room is just down the hall. The next door along?’ Hunter asked with a slight tilt of his head.

‘Yes, sir.’ Hermano massaged his closed eyelids while nodding slowly. A new tear rolled down to the tip of his red and sore nose.

Hunter gave him a few more seconds before carrying on. ‘Did you notice if Father Fabian seemed different in the past few days? Anything at all, maybe agitated or nervous?’

Hermano sucked a deep breath through his nose. ‘He wasn’t sleeping well. Sometimes I heard him in his room in the early hours, praying.’

Hunter leaned back on the bed and used his pen to lift the bottom edge of the heavy curtain. ‘You said you clean the church, right? Do you also clean this building, including Father Fabian’s room?’

‘Not his room, sir.’ He shook his head. ‘Father Fabian was a very private man. He always kept his door locked. He cleaned it himself.’

Hunter found that peculiar. ‘Do you know how we could get access to his room?’

A timid head shake. ‘Father Fabian was the only one who had the key.’

Hunter closed his notebook and placed it back in his pocket. As he stood up, his eyes quickly scanned the religious drawings on the walls. ‘Do you know what his real name was?’ he asked as Hermano got to the door.

Garcia shot Hunter a questioning look.

Hermano turned to face both detectives. ‘His real name was Brett.’

Garcia frowned. ‘And where did the name Fabian come from?’

‘Saint Fabian,’ Hunter replied, nodding towards one of the religious drawings – a man dressed all in white with a white dove on his right shoulder.

‘That’s right,’ Hermano commented. ‘Did you know that before becoming a saint he was elected Pope and…’ He froze, suddenly realizing something. His eyes widened. ‘Oh my God!’

‘What?’ Garcia asked, surprised. His stare moved back and forth between the boy and Hunter.

‘Saint Fabian,’ Hermano said in a weak voice.

‘What about him?’

‘That’s how he died. He was beheaded.’

Hunter went back to the church after he left Hermano. Brindle had found Father Fabian’s room key in the left pocket of his cassock. That wasn’t what the killer was after.

The priest’s room was larger than the altar boy’s but just as simple. Another bookcase lined with hardcovers, an old desk and a small bed. In the far corner, a private shrine was overloaded with religious figures. On the opposite side of the room sat a small wardrobe. The place was spotlessly clean, but an old, musty smell lingered in the air. The bed was perfectly made. No one had slept in it last night.

Father Fabian’s closet revealed work clothes, a few long-sleeved shirts, jeans, a dark blue pinstriped suit and worn-out shoes.

‘This room smells like my grandparents’ house back in Brazil,’ Garcia commented, checking the desk while Hunter slowly browsed through the titles on the bookcase.

‘Hermano was right,’ Garcia said, lifting his latex-gloved right hand to produce a passport. ‘Our priest’s real name was Brett Stewart Nichols. Born 25 April 1965 right here in Los Angeles. I’m not surprised he went for a different name. Father Brett doesn’t have a good ring to it, does it?’

‘Any stamps on the passport?’ Hunter asked with interest.

Garcia flipped through the first few pages. ‘Only one. Italy, three years ago.’

Hunter nodded. ‘Anything else from the drawers?’

Garcia rummaged through them a little more. ‘A few notes, Saint George cards, pens, pencils, an eraser and… a newspaper clipping.’

‘What about?’

‘Father Fabian.’

Hunter joined Garcia to have a look at it. The article was eleven months old and it’d come from the LA Daily News . A photograph of a kind-looking priest surrounded by smiling children topped the article. The headline read COMPTON PRIEST – THE REAL SANTA CLAUS. The rest of the article went on to explain how Father Fabian had saved out of his own allowance to put a smile on the faces of homeless children in six different orphanages by handing out presents.

‘It sounds like he was a good man,’ Hunter commented, walking back to the bookcase.

Garcia agreed with a nod and returned the news clipping to the drawer. ‘I guess tonight won’t be such a party for us after all,’ he said, now looking through the figurines on the small shrine.