‘What gets me is, if the priest was killed down there—’ Garcia pointed to the body ‘—how did all this blood get up here?’

Brindle shrugged.

Hunter approached the altar and carefully walked around it, studying the thin blood trail on the floor. He stopped when he’d completed a full circle.

‘How tall are you, Mike?’

‘Six-four, why?’

‘How about you, Carlos?’

‘Six-two.’

‘Come here.’ Hunter motioned Garcia closer. ‘Walk with me slowly,’ he said as his partner joined him. ‘Stay about a foot away from the trail. Take one step at a time and walk naturally. Start from right here.’ He indicated a point on the floor directly behind the center of the altar.

The two other crime-lab agents stopped what they were doing and joined Mike Brindle by one of the powerlights.

Garcia had taken only four steps when Hunter asked him to stop. Bending over, he quickly checked Garcia’s foot position in relation to the trail before allowing him to continue. Four steps later, Hunter stopped Garcia once again. Four steps after that, the circle was completed.

‘Twelve steps in total,’ Garcia said with an intrigued look.

Hunter called Brindle over and asked him to do exactly the same as Garcia had just done.

‘Eleven steps from me,’ Brindle said when he reached his starting point after a full circle.

‘I’d say the killer’s Garcia’s height,’ Hunter concluded. ‘Six-two, give or take half an inch.’

Seven

Brindle’s inquisitive stare stayed on the blood trail for a moment before moving to Hunter. ‘And how did you come to that?’ he asked.

‘Because of these breakaway splatters over here.’ Hunter pointed to two separate points on the floor around the altar where several drops of blood created a foot-long, outbound, breakaway line from the circular trail.

Brindle was joined by the two other crime-lab agents.

‘I don’t follow,’ one of them said.

‘If you had to draw a circle of blood around this altar, but you had no paintbrush, what’d you do?’ Hunter asked.

‘With this much blood,’ the crime-lab agent offered, looking at the pool that surrounded the body, ‘you could fill a cup with it and pour it onto the floor.’

‘Too messy,’ Hunter disagreed. ‘You wouldn’t be able to control the pouring, unless you had a container with a beak.’

‘It’s a drip trail, anyway,’ Brindle said confidently. ‘Blood wasn’t poured onto the floor. It dripped onto it.’

‘That’s also my understanding.’ Hunter nodded.

‘OK. Still, how does that give you the UNSUB’s height?’ The crime-lab agent pressed.

‘Imagine someone walking around the altar holding a small object saturated with blood,’ Hunter explained, moving to the front of the altar. ‘The excess dripping onto the floor.’

‘A small object like a candle?’ the shorter of the two agents asked, lifting a half-melted altar candle by its wick. Its bottom half was stained red as if it’d been dipped in a shallow glass of blood. ‘I found it to the left of the altar.’ He brought it closer, allowing both detectives and Brindle to have a look at it.

‘This is it,’ Hunter agreed.

‘Bag it,’ Brindle commanded.

‘So the killer dips the end of the candle into some blood and uses it to create the circular trail,’ the agent said, dropping the candle into a cellophane bag. ‘What about the breakaway splatters?’

‘A candle isn’t absorbent enough,’ Hunter explained. ‘It can hold only a very limited amount of blood before it stops dripping.’

‘So the killer had to re-dip it,’ Garcia confirmed.

‘Exactly.’

Brindle thought about it for a few seconds. ‘So you figured the killer managed only four steps before having to re-dip the candle in blood.’

Hunter nodded. ‘I’d say he was holding the blood container close to his body. The breakaway lines are the drips from the blood container back to the trail.’

‘And they come at exactly four of Garcia’s steps apart,’ Brindle concluded.

Another nod from Hunter. ‘Your steps overshot it and mine fell short of the mark. I’m six foot tall.’

‘But why create the circle around the altar?’ Garcia asked. ‘Some sort of ritual?’

There was no answer. Everyone went quiet for a while.

‘As I’ve said—’ Brindle broke the silence ‘—you’re the ones who’ll have to figure out what all this means. The blood splatters, the dog’s head shoved down the priest’s neck . . . It looks like the killer is trying to get a message out.’

‘Yeah, and the message is I’m a fucking psycho,’ Garcia murmured, looking back down at the body.

‘Have you ever seen anything like this before, Mike?’ Hunter asked, tilting his head towards the body. ‘I mean, a dog’s head shoved down someone’s neck?’

Brindle shook his head. ‘I’ve seen a lot of bad and weird stuff, but this is a first for me.’

‘It’s gotta mean something,’ Garcia said. ‘No way the killer did it just for the heck of it.’

‘I’m guessing if you haven’t found the head, you haven’t found a weapon either,’ Hunter said, now studying the blood splatters on the wall.

‘Not so far.’

‘Any guess what it could be?’

‘Hopefully, the autopsy will be able to answer that question, but I can tell you the cut looks smooth. No edges. No signs of hacking. Definitely a very sharp instrument. One that could’ve performed the cut in one clean sweep.’

‘An axe?’ Garcia enquired.

‘If the killer is skillful and strong enough, sure.’

Hunter frowned as he studied the altar again. Other than the bloodstained cloth, there was only one object left on it. A gold-plated chalice adorned by silver crucifixes. It was lying on its side, as if someone had knocked it over. Its shiny surface was sprinkled with blood. Hunter bent down and twisted his body so he could have a look inside its bowl without touching it.

‘There’s blood inside this chalice,’ he said as his eyes carried on analyzing the holy cup.

‘Does that surprise you?’ Brindle asked with a chuckle. ‘Look around. There’s blood everywhere, Robert. It’s like a blood bomb exploded in here.’

‘I’d say that’s what the killer used as a blood container to dip the candle in,’ Garcia emphasized.

‘I agree, but . . .’ Hunter made a come here gesture with his left hand. Garcia and Brindle joined him, both bending down to draw eye level with the chalice. Hunter pointed to a faint print on its border edge.

‘I’ll be damned. It looks like a mouth print,’ Brindle said, surprised.

‘Wait a sec,’ Garcia shot back wide-eyed. ‘You think the killer drank the priest’s blood?’

Eight

The room was small, badly lit and devoid of any luxury. The walls were papered in a dull blue and white pattern with several framed religious drawings hanging from them. Against the east wall stood a tall mahogany bookcase lined with old-fashioned hardcovers. To the right of the entrance door, the room extended out into a small kitchen. A terrified-looking boy was sitting on an iron-framed single bed that occupied the space between the kitchen and the back wall. He was small and skinny; around five foot six, with a narrow chin, tiny brown eyes set closely together and a pinched nose.

‘We’ll take it from here. Thank you,’ Hunter said to the officer standing next to the bookcase as he and Garcia entered the room. The boy didn’t seem to notice them. His stare was cemented on the untouched cup of coffee in his hands. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy from crying.