The Executioner (13 page)

‘
I told my friend again to put the dog down and let it go. The rest of the gang was cheering him on –
“
Fuck him up, gut the old bag of fleas
.”

‘
I didn’t even see where the knife came from. All I know was that all of a sudden my friend had a meat cleaver in his hand
.’

Garcia’s eyes left the page and wandered over to Hunter for a second.

‘
Under shouts of “do it
. . .
do it,” he raised the crying dog high in the air. Its eyes were filled with dread. It knew what was about to happen. My friend swung the meat cleaver hard at its neck. Blood gushed everywhere. I was sprayed across the face and chest, and my stomach knotted. The dog’s small body slumped to the ground. For another thirty seconds or so it twitched and kicked, draining the last breaths of life out of it. They all cheered and laughed until their eyes rested on me. Without realizing, I’d started crying
.’ Garcia leaned forward and placed the book on his desk before running the tip of his finger slowly over his eyes.

‘
Soon after that, I started distancing myself from the group. I haven’t seen any of them since then. I couldn’t say for sure how long after the park incident the nightmares started. Maybe a couple of months, but they’ve never left me
.’

‘Get ready for this,’ Garcia said, making a face as if what he was about to read was hard to believe.

‘
In my dream, instead of the dog, it’s me who’s held by the hair. I’m as petrified as the poor animal was. I try, but I can’t escape. I can’t see my attacker’s face, but I know it’s not my friend, the one who beheaded the dog. He has a sword in his hand. As the blade comes towards me, I freeze, unable to move. I open my mouth and try to scream, but no sound comes out. I’m terrified. In slow motion the cold blade strikes me at the base of my neck
.’ A new pause. A new awkward neck movement. ‘
I feel it gradually slicing through my flesh, tearing my head from my torso. The pain is unbearable. I feel my blood soaking my clothes. My body starts to get cold. The strike is clean, but for some reason I’m still not dead. My head tumbles to the ground, rolling several times, just like the dog’s that night in the park. But my body isn’t headless
.’ Garcia placed both elbows on his desk and rested his forehead on his closed fists.

‘
Above my shoulders there’s a mutt’s head – its eyes wide, its tongue black and sticking out of its crooked mouth. The person with the blade spills my blood all around me, like a ritual. My head is taken away to be burned. That’s when I wake up
.’

Garcia rubbed his exhausted eyes. ‘No fucking way this was a coincidence,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘The decapitation, the mutt’s head, the splattering of blood . . . Father Fabian’s been dreaming his own grotesque murder for years. How can that be?’

Hunter thought about it for a moment before looking up slowly. ‘You’re looking at it from the wrong angle, Carlos. Father Fabian hadn’t been dreaming his own death. The killer knew about the nightmare and decided to make it come true.’

‘Well, listen to the next line.’ Garcia leaned forward over the book. ‘
I’ve never told anyone about that day in the park or about the dreams that torment me
.’

Hunter went silent for a few seconds while his mind kept going over the facts, digesting what Garcia had just told him. A secret nightmare that had tormented and scared Father Fabian for over twenty years. A nightmare that someone had gone to great lengths to make a reality.

Garcia spoke first.

‘The killer could’ve read the journal just like we did, but the altar boy told us that there’d never been a break-in and no one had access to the priest’s room, except the priest himself.’ He stood up, approached one of the windows and pushed it wide open. Their office wasn’t particularly stuffy, but he suddenly felt the need for some fresh air.

Hunter let out a constricted breath. ‘I don’t believe the killer found out about the nightmare through the diaries.’

‘Why not? We did.’

‘Exactly. There are two of us.’ Hunter leaned back on his chair. ‘We read solidly for almost three days. How many journals did we get through before you came across the pages that told us about the dream?’

‘Several,’ Garcia admitted, slowly running his right hand over his face.

‘The killer would’ve needed either a lot of luck, or a lot of undisturbed time with the journals to have found out about the dream the same way we did. And if that’s the case, why didn’t he just take the book with him? Why leave it behind? The journals aren’t numbered or dated. We would’ve never known one was missing.’

‘So how?’ Garcia stopped in front of Hunter’s desk, his hands resting on his hips.

‘The journal entries aren’t dated.’ Hunter gestured towards the books on his desk. ‘The priest could’ve written that specific entry you read last week or five years ago.’

It took Garcia only a few seconds to catch up with Hunter’s line of thought. ‘So you’re thinking the priest could’ve told someone after he wrote the entry.’

Hunter nodded. ‘The dream had obviously gotten too much for the priest. He tried the
writing down
therapy. That didn’t work.’

‘So the next logical stage would’ve been to step it up a notch and tell someone,’ Garcia concluded, and Hunter agreed.

The phone on Hunter’s desk rang and he picked it up before the second ring. He looked concerned as he listened.

‘We’ll be right down.’

‘What’s up?’ Garcia asked.

‘There’s someone downstairs, a member of the public, who wants to talk to us.’

‘About what?’

‘Father Fabian’s killer.’

The girl was in her late teens. She sat alone in one of the interrogation rooms on the second floor. Hunter and Garcia were watching her from the other side of the two-way mirror in the adjacent observation room.

She could’ve been attractive, but it was clear her appearance wasn’t the most important thing in her life. Her disheveled brown hair fell over her shoulders in an overly casual way. Her beautiful, big brown eyes were bloodshot. She wore no makeup and her face was pale. The long winter coat she had on had certainly seen better days.

‘She’s just a kid,’ Hunter said, frowning. ‘Who’s she again?’ he asked the police officer who had initially talked to the girl and brought her up to the room.

‘She said her name is Monica, but you don’t need to be an expert to figure out that’s made up.’

‘And she said she had information on the Seven Saints Catholic Church murder?’

The officer nodded. ‘She said she’d only speak to the detectives in charge. I tried taking a statement downstairs, but she refused.’ He looked unsure for a moment.

‘Anything else?’ Hunter asked, sensing the officer’s uneasiness.

‘Something about her—’ he looked from one detective to the other ‘—gave me the creeps.’

Garcia stepped closer to the mirror, his eyes scrutinizing the girl. She looked frightened.

Monica lifted her eyes as both detectives entered the room. Her stare bypassed Garcia and settled on Hunter.

‘Hello,’ Hunter said with a warm smile, extending his hand. ‘I’m Detective Hunter and this is Detective Garcia.’

She stood up, smiled back and shook their hands, holding Hunter’s just a little longer than she did Garcia’s. ‘I’m Monica.’ Her voice was soft but padded with grief.

‘Just Monica?’ Garcia asked, his eyebrows arching slightly.

She bit her bottom lip, and her worried eyes reverted back to Hunter.

‘It’s OK,’ he said in a comforting tone. ‘I’m Robert and that’s Carlos.’ He tilted his head towards his partner. ‘I also prefer when people call me by my first name. It’s much less formal, isn’t it?’

She smiled thinly.

‘Could we get you a drink of something? Water, coffee, soda . . .?’

‘Some water would be great, thank you,’ she said as she sat back down.

‘I’ll get it,’ Garcia offered, already reaching for the door.

Hunter pulled a chair and sat across the table from the girl. Her hands were clenched, and she was rubbing her thumbs against each other.

‘These rooms are very intimidating, aren’t they?’ Hunter said in a relaxed tone. ‘The bland walls, the metal table and chairs, the big mirrored window . . . Some say we could do with an internal decorator, a few flowers, maybe some incense. I tend to agree. What do you say?’

Her mouth didn’t move.

‘I’d offer to talk in my office, but I’m afraid it looks even worse than this. If you can imagine such a place.’

Her mouth twitched with a possible smile.

‘If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?’

She hesitated for a second. ‘I’m nineteen.’

Hunter nodded. She knew he hadn’t bought her lie. Despite her young age, Hunter saw something in her eyes that told him that she was forced to mature faster than most.

The door opened and Garcia walked in with an aluminum jug of icy water on a metal tray. He placed it on the table before pouring her a glass.

‘Have a seat, Carlos,’ Hunter said, pointing to the chair next to him.

‘It’s OK, I’ll stand. I don’t mind.’

‘I do,’ Hunter hit back.

If Monica was a suspect in an ongoing investigation, Hunter would’ve stood up himself. Interrogations demand a certain degree of intimidation. Standing up, being able to move around freely and looking down on a subject who’s restricted to his or her chair puts the detective in a psychologically authoritative position. One thing Hunter definitely didn’t want was for Monica to feel any more intimidated than she already was.

Garcia pulled a chair and sat down.

‘We were told you might have information that could be of some value to us,’ Hunter said.

Monica had a sip of her water before locking eyes with him. ‘I saw something.’

‘You saw something?’ Garcia’s voice raised half an octave as he leaned forward. ‘You were inside the church on Wednesday night?’

Monica gave Garcia a subtle head shake.

‘Did you see anyone leaving the church late that night? Were you walking by or something?’

‘No. It wasn’t like that.’ She held Garcia’s gaze for a couple of silent seconds. ‘I saw it in a vision.’

Garcia’s posture stiffened defensively and he shook his head as if he hadn’t heard her correctly. Hunter didn’t react.

‘I’m sorry?’ Garcia frowned.

Monica took a deep breath to steady her voice. ‘I know how this might sound, but please just listen to me for five minutes. I’m not crazy. I’m not a clairvoyant. I can’t see the future. I don’t read minds or talk to spirits either. But unfortunately I can sense certain things deeper than most people.’

Garcia glanced at Hunter, who was sitting back in his chair. His legs were crossed casually with his hands resting on his lap. He was concentrating on the girl.

‘What sort of things?’ Garcia asked.

Monica nervously pulled a loose strand of hair from her face and hooked it behind her ear. Even though Garcia had asked the question, she stared at Hunter before answering.

‘Pain.’

‘You can sense pain?’ Garcia asked with a dubious expression.

‘I can sense other people’s pain,’ she explained.

Garcia shifted his weight in his chair. Almost without fail, every time a high-profile case hits the news, the police get tens of people dropping in or calling and saying they can help with the investigation because they had a dream or a vision. He knew it was only a matter of time before it happened in this case, but he wasn’t expecting it to happen so soon.

Since Garcia took point on questioning, Hunter had limited himself to listen and observe. He was taking in the girl’s reactions, analyzing her eyes and physical movements together with voice intonation and quivers. Experience told him that when people walked in from the streets claiming they had a vision that could help the police catch a criminal, they usually fell into one of five categories – a lonely person looking for attention – a drug user who had hallucinations – someone with mental problems, most probably schizophrenia – a charlatan looking for money and/or publicity – or they had been involved in the crime themselves. Monica, so far, gave no indication of any.

Garcia once again glanced at Hunter, half hoping for some sort of reaction. When he didn’t get one, he checked his watch before leaning forward and placing both elbows on the table.

‘I’ll tell you what we’ll do, Monica,’ he said calmly. ‘I hope you understand that at the moment we’re stretched thin and really pressed for time. But I’ll ask an officer to take down what you think you saw, and if you leave us your details we’ll get in touch if we have any questions . . .’

‘I’m not trying to waste your time, detective,’ she said firmly, reading Garcia’s reluctance to believe her.

‘And we appreciate that,’ he replied in the same tone, but she didn’t break stride.

‘Whether you believe it or not, detective, it happens. Unfortunately, it happens to me. I see other people’s suffering. I see their pain and tears and what makes them sad. It’s not a gift; it’s a curse that makes me scared of closing my eyes every night. I don’t wanna be here either. I’ve never done this before, but I really think I can help.’