The Executioner Read Online Free Page A

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.’

Eleven
     
    Hunter went back to the church after he left Hermano. Brindle had found Father Fabian’s room key in the left pocket of his cassock. That wasn’t what the killer was after.
    The priest’s room was larger than the altar boy’s but just as simple. Another bookcase lined with hardcovers, an old desk and a small bed. In the far corner, a private shrine was overloaded with religious figures. On the opposite side of the room sat a small wardrobe. The place was spotlessly clean, but an old, musty smell lingered in the air. The bed was perfectly made. No one had slept in it last night.
    Father Fabian’s closet revealed work clothes, a few long-sleeved shirts, jeans, a dark blue pinstriped suit and worn-out shoes.
    ‘This room smells like my grandparents’ house back in Brazil,’ Garcia commented, checking the desk while Hunter slowly browsed through the titles on the bookcase.
    ‘Hermano was right,’ Garcia said, lifting his latex-gloved right hand to produce a passport. ‘Our priest’s real name was Brett Stewart Nichols. Born 25 April 1965 right here in Los Angeles. I’m not surprised he went for a different name. Father Brett