The Executioner

Three

‘The vultures are already here,’ Garcia observed as they approached the yellow tape. Behind them, reporters were pushing their way to the front of the crowd, their camera flashes exploding every few seconds. ‘I think they get the call before we do.’

‘They do,’ Hunter confirmed, ‘and they pay very well for the information too.’

The policeman standing behind the tape nodded as Hunter and Garcia stooped under.

‘Detective Hunter,’ a short, round and bald reporter called out. ‘Do you think this is a religious kill?’

Hunter turned to face the squad of reporters. He understood their apprehension. Inside that small church someone had been robbed of his or her life, and they all knew that if Robert Hunter had been assigned to the case, the murderer had used overwhelming violence to do it.

‘We just got here, Tom,’ Hunter answered evenly. ‘We haven’t even been inside yet. At this point you probably know more than we do.’

‘Could this be the work of a serial killer?’ A tall, attractive brunette asked. She was wearing a thick winter coat and holding a small tape recorder. Hunter had never seen her before.

‘Did I stutter?’ he murmured, looking at Garcia. ‘I’m gonna say it slower this time for those of you who have trouble keeping up.’ He stared straight at the brunette. ‘We-just-got-here. We-haven’t-been-inside-yet. And you guys know the drill. If you want any information, you’ll have to wait for the official police press conference. If there is one.’

The brunette met Hunter’s stare before disappearing towards the back of the crowd.

A crime-lab agent waited on the worn stone steps of the church’s entrance, ready to hand Hunter and Garcia white Tyvek coveralls.

As they stepped inside, they were hit by the smell. A combination of perspiration, old wood and the sharp, metallic odor of blood.

Two long rows of red oak pews were separated by a narrow aisle that ran from the entrance to the steps at the altar. On a busy day, the Seven Saints Catholic Church could receive close to two hundred worshippers.

Its small interior was brightly lit by two large forensic powerlights mounted on separate metal pedestals. In their unnatural brilliance everything was harsh and clinical. At the end of the aisle three crime-lab agents were photographing and dusting every inch of the altar and the confessional on the right-hand side.

The door closed behind them. Hunter felt the anxiety that came with the first steps into every new murder scene.

Hearing their approach, the crime-lab agents paused and looked up uneasily. The two detectives walked towards them, stopping at the altar steps.

Blood was everywhere.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Garcia murmured, covering his mouth and nose with both hands. ‘What the hell is that?’