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 doesn’t have a good ring to it, does it?’

‘Any stamps on the passport?’ Hunter asked with interest.

Garcia flipped through the first few pages. ‘Only one. Italy, three years ago.’

Hunter nodded. ‘Anything else from the drawers?’

Garcia rummaged through them a little more. ‘A few notes, Saint George cards, pens, pencils, an eraser and . . . a newspaper clipping.’

‘What about?’

‘Father Fabian.’

Hunter joined Garcia to have a look at it. The article was eleven months old and it’d come from the LA Daily News. A photograph of a kind-looking priest surrounded by smiling children topped the article. The headline read COMPTON PRIEST – THE REAL SANTA CLAUS. The rest of the article went on to explain how Father Fabian had saved out of his own allowance to put a smile on the faces of homeless children in six different orphanages by handing out presents.

‘It sounds like he was a good man,’ Hunter commented, walking back to the bookcase.

Garcia agreed with a nod and returned the news clipping to the drawer. ‘I guess tonight won’t be such a party for us after all,’ he said, now looking through the figurines on the small shrine.

Captain Bolter’s leaving do was scheduled to start at five in the afternoon at the Redwood Bar & Grill.

‘I guess not.’ Crouching down, Hunter pulled a leather-bound volume from the bottom shelf and flipped through a few pages before putting it back and repeating the process with the next one.

And the next.

And the next.

They were all handwritten.

‘What’ve you got?’ Garcia asked, noticing Hunter’s interest as he read through a few pages.

‘A whole bunch of journals, or something like it,’ Hunter answered, standing up again. He flicked back to the first page and then all the way to the last one. ‘There are exactly two hundred pages here.’ A few more flicks. ‘And they’re all filled from top to bottom.’

Garcia joined Hunter by the bookcase, twisting his body to get a better look at the bottom shelf. ‘There are over thirty-five volumes. If every page means a day’s entry, he’s been documenting his life for what?’

‘Over twenty years,’ Hunter said, flipping open the volume in his hand. ‘His days, his thoughts, his doubts. They’re all here on paper. Listen to this,’ he said, turning towards Garcia.

‘With a heavy heart I prayed today. I prayed for a woman – Rosa Perez. For the past five years she’d been coming to this church. She’d been praying for one thing and one thing only. To be able to bear a child. Her womb was severely damaged after she’d been sexually assaulted by four men almost eight years ago. It happened only a block away from here. She was sixteen then. Rosa got married three years after the assault. She and her husband, Antonio, have been trying for a child ever since, and last year her prayers were finally answered. She became pregnant. I’ve never seen anyone so happy in all my life. Two months ago she gave birth to a baby boy, Miguel Perez, but there were complications. The baby wasn’t born healthy. He fought bravely for ten days, but his lungs and heart were too weak. He died eleven days after his birth.

‘Rosa came back to this church only once after she left the hospital. She brought with her a single question – WHY?

‘I saw it in her eyes. There was no belief anymore. Her faith had died with her son.

‘Today – alone – she took her own life inside a small apartment in East Hatchway Street. I now fear for Antonio’s sanity. And though my faith is indisputable, I long to know the answer to Rosa’s question. WHY, Lord? Why do you give only to take away?’

Hunter looked at Garcia.

‘When was that?’

‘There are no dates,’ Hunter confirmed.

Garcia shook his head as he pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘That’s a sad story. It seems that even priests question their faith from time to time.’

Hunter closed the diary and placed it back in the bookcase. ‘If Father Fabian feared for his life, or if anything bothered him lately, it will be in one of these books.’

Garcia slowly blew out a deep breath. ‘We’ll need some extra manpower to read through all of them.’

‘Maybe,’ Hunter said, retrieving the first diary from the right. ‘I’m hoping Father Fabian was an organized man. If that’s the case, the journals should be in order. If anything bothered him “lately”, it’ll be in the most recent one.’

Twelve

The party was already in full swing by the time Hunter arrived. Everyone was there. From the chief of police to the Robbery-Homicide Division’s mail boy. Even the mayor was expected to turn up. That wasn’t surprising given that William Bolter had been the Robbery-Homicide Division’s captain for the past eighteen years. Most of the division’s detectives had never been under a different captain. Everyone owed Captain Bolter a favor or two – everyone including Robert Hunter.