The Executioner

Twenty-Seven

Father Malcolm had agreed to a meeting at 7:30 p.m. At twenty past seven Hunter parked his Buick Lesabre in front of the Our Lady of the Rosary Catholic Church in South Paramount Boulevard. The street lights, together with the Christmas decorations, created a warm carnival of colors.

The church was a large white building flanked by two small green yards. Above its hand-carved rosewood double doors sat a life-size, light gray statue of Our Lady of the Rosary.

A cheery-looking priest in his late sixties was standing by the entrance door talking to a short and stout woman. His hairline had totally receded on top, and all that was left were two small islands of gray hair. One over each ear.

He said goodbye to the woman as Hunter made his way up the four short steps in front of the church.

‘Father Malcolm?’ Hunter asked.

‘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.