The Executioner

Seventy-Five

Captain Blake had to postpone their daily meeting until later that afternoon. She was tied up in a press conference on another case. This time regarding the Slasher investigation.

Hunter decided to go back to the Seven Saints church and the house in Malibu. He hoped that being alone at the murder scenes for a while would help him understand some of the reasons behind the brutality, behind the rage and anger. Most crime scenes, if you know how to read them, are like witnesses, revealing secrets about the victim, the perpetrator and what really happened. Hunter was in a class of his own when it came to understanding murder scenes. He could sense things and read signs most detectives couldn’t. But these crime scenes were silent, with the exception of one word, and they shouted it – FEAR.

Hunter also took some time to go over Amanda Reilly’s apartment on Sunset Strip one more time. He went through all three bedrooms, the living room, the kitchen and the reception room. He looked in every drawer, every storage box, every cupboard and wardrobe in the apartment. He wasn’t sure of what he was hoping to find. Maybe a diary or old pictures of her and her friends, but Amanda kept nothing. A beautifully decorated apartment with delicate furniture, stylish paintings on the walls and expensive-looking rugs, but devoid of any memories. Not even a single family portrait. The only knowledge Hunter came away with was that Amanda Reilly was very proud, very organized and she’d rather not be reminded of her past.

It was mid-afternoon by the time Hunter made it back to the RHD. The Investigative Analysis Unit (IAS) of the LAPD is confined to a large basement room in Parker Center. Hopkins was gathering a few printouts together when Hunter and Garcia entered the room.

‘I was just about to go up and see you guys,’ Hopkins said, waving the sheets in his hands.

‘I guess we beat you to it,’ Hunter said, looking around the young officer’s working space.

Hopkins’s tiny desk was in the far corner of the room. It was just big enough to hold his keyboard, computer monitor and a telephone.

‘I can see they gave you the child’s desk.’ Hunter’s gaze fell on Jack Kerley, the IT Unit supervisor.

‘Hey, it’s the best we could do with such short notice,’ Jack replied, getting up and firmly shaking Hunter and Garcia’s hands. His shaved head shone as if it had been waxed just moments ago. ‘How’re you doing, Robert?’

Hunter nodded but didn’t voice a reply.

Jack placed a hand on Hopkins’s left shoulder. ‘He’s a good kid. Fast learner. We could do with more like him down here. We’ve got work coming out of our fucking asses.’

The phone on his desk rang.

‘See what I mean? That’ll certainly be a new request.’ He returned to his desk.

‘Did we get anything on Father Fabian and Amanda Reilly’s backgrounds?’ Hunter faced Hopkins, who was already flipping through the printouts.

‘Father Fabian’s charity work involved only his parish community. He didn’t do anything on a citywide level. Amanda Reilly has no record of being a charitable person. I found nothing where their paths could’ve crossed in the last fifteen to twenty years.’

‘How about earlier than that?’ Hunter leaned against the wall.

Hopkins paused to organize his notes for a moment. ‘Brett Stewart Nichols, aka Father Fabian, grew up in Compton where he lived his whole life. He attended Compton High in South Acacia Avenue. He wasn’t what you’d call an exemplary student. His grades were quite poor, really. He scraped through most of his classes with a D, barely managing to graduate. He wasn’t only a bad student; he was a baaad student, if you know what I mean. A detention’s expert.’ Hopkins searched for a printout. ‘I’ve got taunting students, destruction of school and private property, cheating, stealing exams, you name it. Hard to believe a kid with this kind of history became a priest.’

‘When did he apply for seminary?’ Hunter asked.

‘A year and a half after graduating. For someone who was such a bad boy, something certainly changed his mind.’

‘Did he go to seminary here in LA?’

Hopkins checked his sheet. ‘Nope, he went to St John’s Seminary College in Camarillo. I called them, but without a warrant they won’t disclose a thing.’

‘I don’t think we’ll need his seminary records. What was his high school attendance like?’ Hunter queried.

‘Funny you asked.’ Hopkins chuckled. ‘Abysmal, really. He certainly liked skipping classes.’

‘Let me see that sheet,’ Hunter said, extending his hand. ‘How about Amanda Reilly?’

‘She didn’t go to the same school; she didn’t live in Compton. She went to Gardena Senior High.’

‘That school is massive,’ Garcia commented.

‘She lived in Gardena?’ Hunter asked, lifting his eyes from the sheet in his hands.

Hopkins nodded. ‘That’s right, until she dropped out of school and got involved with real estate.’

‘Hold on.’ Hunter lifted his hand. ‘Gardena isn’t very far from Compton. What was Amanda’s attendance like when she was in school?’

‘Not great either. Just like Brett, she skipped a lot of classes.’

‘How old was she when she dropped out?’

‘Because she flunked tenth grade twice… eighteen.’

‘Around the same age as Father Fabian,’ Hunter announced. ‘Where did she live?’ Hunter walked over to the large LA neighborhood map on the east wall.

Hopkins checked his sheet. ‘South Ainsworth Street in Gardena.’

Hunter found the street and placed a red pin on the map before checking the sheet with Father Fabian’s information. He used a blue pin to mark the street where the priest lived when young. They all paused and stared at the map.

‘Shit,’ Garcia noted, ‘they were only six blocks away from each other.’