The Executioner

Eight

The room was small, badly lit and devoid of any luxury. The walls were papered in a dull blue and white pattern with several framed religious drawings hanging from them. Against the east wall stood a tall mahogany bookcase lined with old-fashioned hardcovers. To the right of the entrance door, the room extended out into a small kitchen. A terrified-looking boy was sitting on an iron-framed single bed that occupied the space between the kitchen and the back wall. He was small and skinny; around five foot six, with a narrow chin, tiny brown eyes set closely together and a pinched nose.

‘We’ll take it from here. Thank you,’ Hunter said to the officer standing next to the bookcase as he and Garcia entered the room. The boy didn’t seem to notice them. His stare was cemented on the untouched cup of coffee in his hands. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy from crying.

Hunter noticed a kettle sitting on a two-burner hotplate.

‘Can I get you another cup of coffee? That one looks to have gone cold,’ he asked, once the officer had left.

The boy finally looked up with terrified eyes. ‘No, sir, thank you.’ His voice a whisper.

‘Do you mind if I sit down?’ Hunter asked, moving a step closer.

A shy shake of the head.

He took a seat on the bed next to the boy. Garcia chose to stand.

‘My name’s Robert Hunter. I’m a detective with the Homicide Division. That tall and ugly guy over there is my partner, Detective Carlos Garcia.’

A hint of a smile graced the boy’s lips as his eyes stole a peek at Garcia. He introduced himself as Hermano Cordobes.

‘Would you rather we spoke in Spanish, muchacho?’ Hunter asked, leaning forward to mimic Hermano’s position. Both elbows resting on the knees.

‘No, sir. English is fine.’

Hunter breathed, relieved. ‘I’m glad, ’cos muchacho is pretty much the only word I know in Spanish.’

This time the ice-breaker worked and they got a full smile from the boy.

For the first few minutes they talked about how Hermano came to be the altar boy at the Seven Saints church. Father Fabian had found him begging on the streets when he was eleven. He’d just turned fourteen two weeks ago. He explained he’d run away from home and from a violent father when he was ten.

Daylight had started to crawl into the room through the old curtains covering the window just behind Hermano’s bed when Hunter decided the boy was relaxed enough. It was time to get serious.