The Death Sculptor

by Chris Carter

  ‘Anybody tried talking to her yet?’

  ‘I did,’ Garcia nodded. ‘Managed to get some basic information out of her, but she’s psychologically shutting down, and I’m not surprised. Maybe you could try later. You’re better at these things than I am.’

  ‘She was here on a Sunday?’ Hunter asked.

  ‘She’s only here on weekends,’ Garcia clarified. ‘Her name is Melinda Wallis. She goes to UCLA. She’s just finishing a degree in Nursing and Caretaking. This is part of her work experience. She got the job a week after Mr. Nicholson was diagnosed with his illness.’

  ‘How about the rest of the week?’

  ‘Mr. Nicholson had another nurse.’ Garcia unzipped his coverall and reached inside his breast pocket for his notebook. ‘Amy Dawson,’ he read the name. ‘Unlike Melinda, Amy isn’t a student. She’s a professional nurse. She took care of Mr. Nicholson during the week. Also, his two daughters came to visit him every day.’

  Hunter’s eyebrow arched.

  ‘They haven’t been contacted yet.’

  ‘So the victim lived here alone?’

  ‘That’s right. His wife of twenty-six years died in a car accident two years ago.’ Garcia returned the notebook to his pocket. ‘The body is upstairs.’ He motioned to the staircase.

  As he took the steps up, Hunter was careful not to interfere with the forensic agents as they worked. The first-floor landing resembled a waiting room – two chairs, two leather armchairs, a small bookshelf, a magazine holder, and a sideboard covered with stylish picture frames. A dimly lit corridor led them deeper into the house, and to the four bedrooms and two bathrooms. Garcia took Hunter all the way to the last door on the right and paused outside.

  ‘I know you’ve seen a lot of sick stuff before, Robert. God knows I have.’ He rested his latex-gloved hand on the doorknob. ‘But this . . . not even in nightmares.’ He pushed the door open.

  Four

  Hunter stood by the open door to the large bedroom. His eyes registered the scene in front of him, but his logical mind was having trouble comprehending it.

  Centered against the north wall was an adjustable double bed. To its right he could see a small oxygen tank and mask on a wooden bedside table. A wheelchair occupied the space by the end of the bed. There was also an antique-looking chest of drawers, a mahogany writing desk, and a large shelf unit on the wall opposite the bed. Its centerpiece was a flat-screen TV set.

  Hunter breathed out but didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t say a word.

  ‘Where do we start?’ Garcia whispered by his side.

  Blood was everywhere – on the bed, floor, rug, walls, ceiling, curtains, and on most of the furniture. Mr. Nicholson’s body was on the bed. Or at least what was left of it. He’d been dismembered. Both legs and both arms had been ripped from his body. One of his arms had been hacked at the joints into smaller pieces. Both of his feet had also been separated from his legs.

  But what baffled everyone who entered that room was the sculpture.

  On a small coffee table by the window, the victim’s severed and hacked body parts had been bundled up and arranged together into a bloody, twisted, incomprehensible shape.

  ‘You’ve gotta be kidding me,’ Hunter whispered to himself.

  ‘I’m not even going to ask. ’Cos I know you’ve never seen anything like this before, Robert,’ Doctor Carolyn Hove said from the far corner of the room. ‘None of us have.’

  Doctor Hove was the Chief Medical Examiner for the Los Angeles County Department of Coroner. She was tall and slim with deep penetrating green eyes. Her long, chestnut hair was tucked away under the hood of her white coverall, her full lips and petite nose hidden under her surgical mask.

  Hunter’s attention moved to her for a couple of seconds and then to the large blood pools on the floor. He hesitated for a moment. There was no way he could walk into that room without treading on them.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Doctor Hove said, motioning him and Garcia inside. ‘The entire floor has been photographed.’

  Still, Hunter did his best to circumvent the blood. He approached the bed and what was left of Mr. Nicholson’s body. His face was caked in blood. His eyes and mouth were wide open, as if his last terrified scream had been frozen before it came out. The bed sheets, the pillows and the mattress were ripped and torn in several places.

  ‘He was killed on that bed,’ Doctor Hove said, coming up to Hunter.

  He kept his attention on the body.

  ‘Judging by the splatters and the amount of blood we have here,’ she continued, ‘the killer inflicted as much pain as the victim could handle before allowing him to die.’

  ‘The killer cut him up first?’

  The doctor nodded. ‘And the killer started with the small, non-life-threatening pieces.’

  Hunter frowned.

  ‘All his toes were cut off, together with his tongue.’ Her stare moved back to the revolting body-part sculpture. ‘I’d say that was done first, before he was dismembered.’

  ‘He was alone in the house?’

  ‘Yes,’ Garcia answered. ‘Melinda, the student nurse you saw downstairs, spends the weekends here, but she sleeps in the guesthouse above the garage you saw up front. According to her, Mr. Nicholson’s daughters came by every day and spent a couple of hours with him, sometimes more. They left last night at around 9:00 p.m. After putting him to sleep and finishing up in the house, Melinda left Mr. Nicholson at around 11:00 p.m. She went back to the guesthouse and stayed up until three-thirty in the morning, studying for an exam.’

  It wasn’t hard for Hunter to understand why the nurse never heard anything. The garage was all the way up front and about twenty yards away from the main building. The room they were in was right at the back of the house, the last one down the corridor. Its windows faced the backyard. They could’ve had a party in here and she wouldn’t have heard it.

  ‘No panic button?’ Hunter asked.

  Garcia pointed to one of the evidence bags in the corner of the room. Inside it was a piece of electric wire with a click button at the end of it. ‘The wire was snipped.’

  Hunter’s attention focused on the blood splatters all over the bed, furniture and wall next to it. ‘Was the weapon found?’

  ‘No, not yet,’ Garcia replied.

  ‘The spit-like blood pattern and the jagged edge of the wounds inflicted indicate that the killer used some sort of electrical sawing device,’ Doctor Hove said.

  ‘Like a chainsaw?’ Garcia asked.

  ‘Possibly.’

  Hunter shook his head. ‘A chainsaw would be too noisy. Too risky. The last thing the killer would’ve wanted would be to alert anyone before he was done. A chainsaw is also a harder tool to control, especially if your aim is precision.’ He examined the body and the bed for a while longer before moving away from it and approaching the coffee table and the morbid sculpture.

  Both of Mr. Nicholson’s arms were awkwardly twisted and bent at the wrist joints, forming two distinct, but meaningless shapes. His feet had been cut off and bundled together in a peculiar way with the arms and hands. All of it was held in place by thin but solid pieces of metal wire. Wire had also been used to attach a few of his severed toes to the edges of the two pieces. His legs had been laid flat side-by-side, and formed the base to the sculpture. Everything was covered in blood.

  Hunter circled it slowly, trying to take every detail in.

  ‘Whatever this is,’ Doctor Hove said, ‘it’s not something anyone can put together in a couple of minutes. This takes time.’

  ‘And if the killer took the time to put it together,’ Garcia added, moving closer, ‘it’s gotta mean something.’

  Hunter took a few steps back and stared at the macabre piece from a distance. It meant nothing to him.

  ‘Do you think your lab could create a life-size replica of this?’ he asked Doctor Hove.

  Under her surgical mask, she twisted her mouth from side to side. ‘I don’t see why not. It’s already been ph
otographed, but I’ll call the photographer back in and ask him to get a snapshot from all angles. I’m sure the lab can get it done.’

  ‘Let’s do it,’ Hunter said. ‘We’re not gonna figure this out here and now.’ He turned towards the far wall and froze. It was so covered in blood that he almost didn’t notice it. ‘What in the world is that?’

  Garcia’s stare moved to Hunter and then back to the wall. He breathed out a heavy sigh.

  ‘That . . . is everybody’s worst nightmare.’

  Five

  Doctor Hove pulled down her surgical mask and faced Garcia. ‘He doesn’t know?’

  Hunter’s eyebrows arched.

  Garcia unzipped his coverall and reached inside his pocket for his notebook once again. ‘Let me talk you through what we know, but for you to fully understand it, I have to take you back to yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘OK.’ Hunter was intrigued.

  Garcia read on. ‘Mr. Nicholson’s oldest daughter, Olivia, came by at around 5:00 p.m. Her younger sister, Allison, arrived half an hour after her. They had dinner with their father and kept him company until about 9:00 p.m., when they both left. After that, Melinda, the nurse, helped Mr. Nicholson into the bathroom, and then tucked him into bed, as she had done every weekend night. It took him about thirty minutes to fall asleep. She never left his side.’ Garcia indicated the chair on the other side of the bed. ‘She sat over there. She had some of her study books with her.’ He flipped a page on his notebook. ‘Melinda then turned off the lights, emptied the dishwasher downstairs, and at around 11:00 p.m. retired to her room in the guesthouse.’

  Hunter nodded and his attention reverted back to the wall.

  ‘I’m getting there,’ Garcia said. ‘Melinda remembers locking all the doors, including the backdoor in the kitchen, but she can’t say the same about the windows. When I got here earlier this morning, two of the ones downstairs were unlocked, the one in the study and the one in the kitchen. LAPD First Response said they didn’t touch anything.’

  ‘So chances are they were open all night,’ Hunter said.

  ‘Most probably, yes.’

  Hunter glanced over at the sliding glass balcony doors.

  ‘Those were left ajar,’ Garcia explained. ‘Apparently this room can get a little stuffy, especially during summer. Mr. Nicholson didn’t like air conditioning. The balcony overlooks the backyard and the swimming pool. The problem is, the entire wall outside is covered in Morning Glories – as you probably know, the most-common climbing plant in California. The wooden trellis that supports it is strong enough for a person to climb it. Gaining access into this room from the backyard wouldn’t be difficult.’

  ‘Forensics will be going over the backyard and balcony as soon as they are done with the house’s interior,’ Doctor Hove added.

  ‘At around midnight,’ Garcia continued, still reading from his notebook, ‘Melinda realized she’d forgotten one of her study books here in the room. She came back to the house, opened the front door and made her way up the stairs.’ Garcia guessed Hunter’s next couple of questions and offered an answer before he spoke. ‘Yes, the front door was locked. She remembers using the key to unlock it. And no, she didn’t notice anything strange when she came back into the house. No noises either.’

  Hunter nodded.

  ‘Melinda came upstairs again,’ Garcia moved on, ‘and because she didn’t want to disturb Mr. Nicholson, and she knew exactly where she’d left her study book . . .’ He pointed to the mahogany writing desk pushed up against the wall . . . ‘on that desk, she never turned on the lights. She just tiptoed into the room, grabbed her book, and tiptoed back out again.’

  Hunter’s stare moved back to the bloody wall next to the bed and his heart skipped a beat as Garcia’s account of what had happened finally started to make sense.

  ‘Melinda slept through her alarm this morning,’ Garcia carried on. ‘She got up, got ready as fast as she could, and rushed back in here. She said she opened the front door at 8:43 a.m. She checked her watch.’ Garcia closed his notebook and returned it to his pocket. ‘She came straight upstairs, and as she entered the room she was greeted not only by what you see here, but also by that message from whoever was in the room.’ He indicated the wall again.

  Among all the splatters, written in large blood letters were the words ‘GOOD JOB YOU DIDN’T TURN ON THE LIGHTS’.

  Six

  An awkward silence took hold of the room. Hunter took a couple of steps towards the wall and studied the words and the lettering for a long moment.

  ‘What did the killer use to write this with, a piece of cloth soaked in blood?’ he asked.

  ‘That would be my guess as well,’ Doctor Hove agreed. ‘But the forensic lab will have a better idea in a day or two.’ She turned away from the wall and faced the bed once again. Her voice trembled with distress. ‘This defies belief, Robert. It’s beyond any case I’ve ever worked on. The killer spent hours in here, first torturing, then dismembering the victim. Not only that, but he then went on to create that thing.’ She pointed to the bloody sculpture. ‘And still found time to leave a message like this behind.’ She looked at Garcia. ‘How old is that girl again? The student nurse?’

  ‘Twenty-three.’

  ‘You, better than anyone, know that she’ll need months, maybe years of psychological treatment to get over this, Robert, if she ever does. The killer was in here when she came back for her book. If she had reached for that light switch, we’d have two bodies, and she’d probably be part of that grotesque thing.’ She indicated the sculpture again. ‘Her nursing career is over before it had begun, her psychological stability shaken forever. And the nightmares and the sleepless nights haven’t even started yet. And you know first hand how destructive that could be.’

  Hunter’s insomnia was no big secret. He had started experiencing it at the age of seven, just after cancer robbed him of his mother.

  Hunter was born an only child to very poor working-class parents in Compton, an underprivileged neighborhood of South Los Angeles. With no family other than his father, coping with his mother’s death proved to be a very difficult and lonely task. He missed her so much it was physically painful.

  After the funeral he started fearing his dreams. Every time he closed his eyes he saw his mother’s face. He saw her crying, contorted with pain, begging for help, praying for death. He saw her once fit-and-healthy body so drained of life, so fragile and weak, she couldn’t sit up on her own strength. He saw a face that once had been beautiful, with the brightest smile he’d ever seen, transformed during those last few months into something unrecognizable. But it was still a face he never stopped loving.

  Sleep became a prison he’d do anything to escape from. Insomnia was the logical answer his body found to deal with his fear and the ghastly nightmares that came at night. A simple defense mechanism.

  Hunter had no reply for Doctor Hove.

  ‘Who in the world is capable of something like this?’ She shook her head in disgust.

  ‘Someone with a lot of hate inside,’ Hunter said quietly.

  Everyone’s attention was diverted from the room by the loud shouts coming from downstairs. A female voice that was fast becoming hysterical. Hunter looked at Garcia with concern.

  ‘One of the daughters,’ he said and quickly started moving towards the door. ‘Keep this door shut.’ He exited the room, cleared the corridor in no time and reached the stairs going down. Standing at the bottom, being obstructed by two police officers, was a woman in her early thirties. Her wavy blonde hair was long and loose, falling halfway down her back. She had a heart-shaped face with light green eyes, prominent cheekbones and a small, pointy nose. The expression on her face was of pure desperation. Hunter got to her before she managed to break free from the officers.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said, lifting his right hand. ‘I’ll take it from here.’

  The police officers let her go.

  ‘What’s going on? Where’s Father?’ Her voice cro
aked with fear and anxiety.

  ‘I’m Detective Robert Hunter of the LAPD,’ Hunter said in the calmest voice he could muster.

  ‘I don’t care who you are. Where is my father?’ the woman said, trying to push past Hunter.

  He subtly stepped back, blocking her path. Their eyes met for an instant and he gave her a delicate headshake. ‘I’m sorry.’

  She closed her tearful eyes and brought a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, God. Daddy . . .’

  Hunter gave the woman a moment.

  She paused and stared at Hunter as if something had suddenly dawned on her. ‘Why are you here? Why are the police here? Why is there crime-scene tape everywhere?’

  Since Derek Nicholson’s doctors diagnosed his illness four months ago, his family had, in a way, been preparing themselves for his departure. His death was expected, and didn’t come as a real surprise to his daughter. Everything else did.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,’ Hunter said.

  ‘Olivia, Olivia Nicholson.’

  Hunter had already noticed the faint, whiter patch of skin around her ring finger. She was either a recent widow, or a recent divorcee. Most widows in America are reluctant to get rid of their wedding rings and discard their husband’s name quickly. Olivia also looked too young to be a widow, bar some sort of tragedy. Hunter’s educated guess was – divorcee.

  ‘Could we maybe talk someplace more private, Ms. Nicholson,’ Hunter suggested, gesturing towards the living room.

  ‘We can talk here,’ she replied defiantly. ‘What’s happening here? What’s all this?’

  Hunter’s stare moved to the two officers at the bottom of the stairs, who were listening attentively. Both quickly got the hint and moved away, towards the front door. Hunter’s attention returned to Olivia.