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.
‘ 3:00 a.m. I just woke up again. For minutes I could barely breathe. My hands are still shaking and my clothes are soaked in cold sweat. I am too scared to go back to sleep. Too scared to close my eyes. It’s the dream again. All these years and it has never left me. Why, Lord? Why am I tormented by these visions? Is it a warning of what’s to come? ’
‘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 it’s nothing.’ He shrugged. ‘We all have bad dreams every now and again.’
Hunter leaned back on his chair. ‘Do you know many people who wake up from dreams short of breath, shaking, sweating and too scared to go back to sleep on a constant basis?’
Garcia thought
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.
‘ 3:00 a.m. I just woke up again. For minutes I could barely breathe. My hands are still shaking and my clothes are soaked in cold sweat. I am too scared to go back to sleep. Too scared to close my eyes. It’s the dream again. All these years and it has never left me. Why, Lord? Why am I tormented by these visions? Is it a warning of what’s to come? ’
‘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 it’s nothing.’ He shrugged. ‘We all have bad dreams every now and again.’
Hunter leaned back on his chair. ‘Do you know many people who wake up from dreams short of breath, shaking, sweating and too scared to go back to sleep on a constant basis?’
Garcia thought
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