Thirty-Three
Hunter managed to get only three and a half hours of sleep. Though he’d been up since 4:30 a.m., it was just past eight by the time he walked into his office. Garcia was at his desk reading one of Father Fabian’s journals. His eyes were bloodshot framed by dark circles.
‘What time did you get here?’ Hunter asked, closing the door behind him.
Garcia placed the journal on his desk, leaned back on his chair and massaged his stiff neck. ‘Seven-thirty, but I was up half the night, reading.’
Hunter nodded. ‘Yeah, me too.’
Garcia noticed he had two journals under his arm. ‘How far did you get?’ He nodded towards the books.
‘I read through both of them.’ Hunter placed them on his desk.
‘You read four hundred pages in one night?’
‘I read a lot, I read fast and I don’t sleep much.’
‘Did you find anything?’
‘Nothing that could really help the investigation. But Father Fabian was a troubled man.’ Hunter leaned against his desk and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. ‘He thought about suicide – twice.’
Garcia rubbed his eyes with the tips of his fingers. ‘Well, I’m getting cross-eyed. And I still haven’t found anything either. Any joy from the tip lines?’
Every night, before going home, Hunter personally went through the day’s tips collected by the tips team.
‘Nothing. Over two hundred calls so far and all of them bullshit.’
A knock came at the door.
‘Come in,’ Hunter called.
Officer Hopkins stepped into the office carrying a blue plastic file. He also looked tired.
‘I have some preliminary results to the searches you asked me for,’ he told Hunter, who raised a hand, stopping him before he was able to continue.
‘I think we could all use a break from the office and from computer screens. It’s not a bad day out there. What do you say we go grab a coffee in Little Tokyo? A change of scenery would do us good.’
‘I’m in.’ Garcia raised his hand.
‘Sure. I love that place.’ Hopkins nodded.
Little Tokyo is a small district in Downtown Los Angeles, just across the road from Parker Center and the RHD. It’s one of only three official Japantowns in the United States, and if you like Japanese food there’s no better place to be in LA.
Hopkins suggested Poppy Coffee Shop, on the south side of Little Tokyo. He’d eaten there many times and their coffee was the best.
Despite the early hour, the cafe was packed. They all ordered black coffees, and Hopkins had a chocolate- sprinkled donut to go with it.
‘You guys should try one of these donuts,’ Hopkins said as they took the last available table by the door. ‘They’re so rich they’re practically a food group.’
‘I’m good,’ Garcia said, lifting his right hand.
‘Knock yourself out.’ Hunter smiled and frowned at the four cubes of sugar Hopkins dropped into his coffee. ‘So what have you got?’ he asked.
‘Not much.’ Hopkins sounded disappointed. ‘I researched what you’ve asked. Any acts of violence against any churches in the past five years.’ He retrieved a few sheets from his file and started flipping through them. ‘I’ve got vandalism, graffiti, a few broken windows, stolen objects, a few attempted arsons, but no significant physical violence against any priests. There have, however, been a few cases of rape against nuns.’
‘That doesn’t fall into the category we’re looking for.’ Hunter sipped his coffee too quickly and burned the roof of his mouth.
‘I know, but still, that’s just fucked up.’ Hopkins took a bite of his donut and wiped the sprinkles from his lips onto a green paper napkin. ‘The second search you asked for; homicides with ritual and torture characteristics. The list is long.’
Somehow Hunter was expecting it to be.
‘I filtered the results using the criteria you gave me. One, criminals that haven’t been apprehended yet, and two, the use of any animals.’
‘What did you get?’
‘Murders with excessive spillage of blood – there’ve been many. Most of them attributed to gangs, turf and drug wars. But other than lots of blood, they carry no other ritualistic characteristics at all.’
‘Anything with animals?’ Garcia asked, blowing into his coffee.
‘Yes, but no dog’s head. Actually, the only case I could find where an animal head was left at the scene of a crime in the last five years involved a horse’s head.’
‘Italian Mafia,’ Hunter said.
‘That’s the theory,’ Hopkins agreed. ‘The case has never been solved.’
‘So what other animals, if any, have been used in crimes?’ Garcia asked just as Hopkins had another bite of his donut. They had to wait while he chewed and swallowed it down.
‘A few. Rats, pigs, pigeons, cats – but apparently the preferred animal is chicken. Especially its blood. Used a lot in black magic – voodoo. And these were mostly attributed to Jamaicans and—’
‘Brazilians.’ Garcia nodded.
‘Brazilians?’ Hunter turned towards his partner.
‘Yes. In Brazil it’s called macumba. Something Brazil inherited from the many slaves who came from Africa.’ Garcia shook his head, indicating he wasn’t about to go into much historical detail. ‘They have lots of rituals, and many of them involve sacrificing chickens and using their blood.’
‘I’ve searched the net for hours,’ Hopkins said, shaking his head, ‘trying to find anything that justified replacing someone’s head for a dog’s – I got nothing. As you’ve asked—’ he tilted his head towards Hunter ‘—I’ve checked with every animal welfare agency in Los Angeles. No street mutt’s body missing a head has been found. I’ll keep checking, but at the moment that’s turning out to be another dead end.’
Hunter rubbed his face with both hands. He hadn’t shaved this morning, and his day-long stubble prickled his palms.
‘I’ve also checked with detectives in every bureau, as you asked me to do,’ Hopkins continued. ‘Nothing on a decapitation, a dog’s head or a numbered body. If this killer has claimed two previous victims, no one’s found them yet.’
Thirty-Four
As soon as they entered their office, Garcia reached for another of Father Fabian’s journals.
‘Have you come across any passages in these journals about a bad dream that pestered Father Fabian for years?’ Hunter asked, flipping open one of the leather-bound volumes on his desk.
‘I have, actually.’ Garcia searched for a specific journal. ‘And I meant to ask you the same question. Some reoccurring dream that scared him senseless.’
‘That’s right.’
‘I made a note of it. Here it is.’ He found the journal and opened it to a marked page. ‘Listen to this.
‘
‘I’ve been through several passages that sounded just like that,’ Hunter observed.
‘It seems this dream came back to haunt him frequently.’ Garcia placed the open diary on his desk. ‘Maybe
