The Executioner

Nine

‘Can you run me through what happened this morning?’ Hunter asked in a calm voice.

Hermano looked at him and his bottom lip quivered. ‘I got up at a quarter past four, showered, said my prayers and made my way to the church at a quarter to five. I always get here early. I have to make sure everything’s set up properly for the first Mass at six-thirty.’

Hunter smiled kindly, allowing him to continue in his own time.

‘As soon as I entered the church I knew something wasn’t right.’

‘How come?’

Hermano brought his right hand to his mouth and chewed on what was left of a nail. ‘A few of the candles were still burning. Father Fabian always made sure they were all put out after closing the church.’

‘Did Father Fabian always close the church by himself?’

‘Yes.’ He started chewing on another nail. ‘It was the only time of day he had the church all to himself. He liked that.’ Hermano’s voice trailed off as tears started to roll down his cheeks.

Hunter fetched a paper tissue from his jacket pocket.

‘Thank you, sir. I’m sorry…’

‘There’s no need to be sorry,’ Hunter said understandingly. ‘Take your time. I know how difficult this is.’

Hermano wiped the tears from his face and drew another deep breath. ‘I could tell that the altar was a mess. The candle-holders were on the floor. The chalice was tipped over on its side, and the altar cloth looked dirty. Smeared with something.’

‘Did you notice if there was anyone else in the church?’

‘No, sir. I don’t believe there was. The place was as quiet as it’s always been at that time. The front door was locked.’

‘OK, what did you do after that?’ Hunter asked, his eyes taking in every reaction from Hermano.

‘I walked up to the altar to check what was going on. I thought that maybe someone had broken into the church and sprayed paint everywhere. Like graffiti, you know? This isn’t the best of neighborhoods. Some of the gangs around here don’t have no respect for nothing. Not even Our Lord Jesus Christ.’

‘Have you had problems with gangs in here before?’ Hunter asked while Garcia checked the kitchen.

‘That’s the funny thing, sir. We never had any trouble. Everyone loved Father Fabian.’

‘How about break-ins? Either into the church or into these sleeping quarters?’

‘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.