The Executioner

Ten

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.’