The Death Sculptor

by Chris Carter

  ‘Nothing.’ Hunter put the books down on his desk and took the cup. ‘Thanks. I also spent half of the night searching the net, reading about any and every Los Angeles sculptor I could find. Nothing there either. I don’t think our killer is trying to reproduce an already-existing piece.’

  Garcia returned to his desk. ‘Me neither.’

  ‘I’ll drop by DA Bradley’s office today,’ Hunter continued. ‘I want to ask him if he knows anything about Nicholson wanting to make his peace with someone before dying, and if he has any idea who the other man who visited him was.’

  ‘Isn’t it easier to call?’

  Hunter made a ‘maybe’ face, but he hated having to ask questions over the phone, regardless of who was on the other end. Face-to-face meetings allowed him to observe the movements, reactions and facial expressions of the person he was talking to, and to a homicide detective, that was invaluable.

  The phone on Hunter’s desk rang. He checked his watch before picking up the receiver.

  ‘Detective Hunter.’

  ‘Robert, I just got the first batch of results back from the lab,’ Doctor Hove said. Her voice sounded a little heavier than usual.

  Hunter fired up his computer. ‘I’m listening, doc.’

  ‘First let me tell you that the lab has done a great job with the replica you asked for.’

  ‘Is it ready?’

  ‘Yep, they worked overnight. It’s on its way to you now.’

  ‘That’s great.’

  ‘OK,’ Doctor Hove proceeded. ‘Forensics lifted five sets of fingerprints from the crime scene and other locations throughout the house – kitchen, bathroom, staircase handrail . . . you know the drill. As expected, no joy there. The fingerprints are confirmed to have come from the two nurses, both of the victim’s daughters and the victim himself.’

  Hunter said nothing. He wasn’t really expecting anything to come from those.

  ‘The hairs retrieved from most of the same locations as the fingerprints were also matched to the same five people,’ Doctor Hove continued. ‘I don’t think we’ll need to DNA-test them. Analysis on some of the fibers found is still going on. The ones they’ve already analyzed came back as cotton, polyester, acrylic . . . the most common fibers found in everyday clothes. Nothing that will lead you anywhere.’

  Hunter rested an elbow on his desk. ‘Any toxicology results yet, doc?’

  ‘Yes, I had to push for them, though. The lab is overworked.’ She paused for just a split second. ‘And here is where it gets interesting. And positively more evil.’

  Hunter grabbed Garcia’s attention with a quick hand wave and motioned him to listen in on his extension.

  ‘What does the test say, doc?’ Hunter asked.

  ‘OK, we know that to prolong the victim’s suffering the perp clamped the brachial artery of the amputated right arm using medical forceps, keeping the victim from bleeding out. But even so, something was baffling me from the start.’

  Hunter pulled out his desk chair and had a seat. ‘The victim’s fragile condition.’ He didn’t phrase it as a question.

  ‘That’s right. The victim was already in the very late stages of terminal pulmonary cancer. His body was as weak as a 90-year-old man’s. His resistance to pain, his stamina, had all been reduced to a fraction of what it should’ve been. A person in those conditions should’ve died of shock after losing a finger. He lost five of them, all ten toes, his tongue and an arm before dying.’

  Hunter and Garcia exchanged a long worried look.

  ‘As I expected,’ the doctor continued, ‘he wasn’t sedated, but he was drugged to his eyeballs. Toxicology found high levels of a few drugs, but that was expected due to the victim’s ill health. But some of the high-level drugs are just plain wrong.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘OK, we found high levels of propafenone, felodipine and carvedilol.’

  Garcia looked at Hunter and shook his head. ‘Hold on, doc. Easy with the chemical jargon. Chemistry wasn’t my strongest subject in school, and school was years ago. What are those?’

  ‘Propafenone is a sodium-channel blocker. It works by slowing the influx of sodium ions into the cardiac muscle. Felodipine is a calcium-channel blocker, and very big on controlling high blood pressure. Carvedilol is a beta-blocker. It blocks the binding of norepinephrine and epinephrine to beta-adrenoceptors. The combination of those three drugs will also, most certainly, inhibit the body’s production of adrenaline.’

  Garcia’s frown was so intense his forehead looked like a prune. ‘You did hear when I said that chemistry wasn’t my strongest subject in school, right, doc? OK, neither was biology. Pretend I’m a seven-year-old kid and tell me all that again.’

  ‘In a nutshell, that’s a very strong cocktail of drugs to slow anyone’s heart rate down, control blood pressure and inhibit the production of adrenaline by the adrenal glands. As you know, adrenaline is released whenever a person senses danger. It’s the fear and pain hormone. It increases heart rate and dilates air passages, getting the subject ready to fight or flee.’

  Garcia still looked a little puzzled.

  ‘So the killer reduced the victim’s blood flow,’ Hunter said, ‘and sedated his production of adrenaline.’

  ‘That’s exactly right,’ Doctor Hove said. ‘When the body senses danger or feels pain, like when having a finger, toe or tongue cut off, adrenaline is released and the heart speeds up, pumping more blood to the affected area, brain and muscles. Those drugs wouldn’t allow that to happen. They’d keep the heart in rest pace, if not even slower. That way, smaller amounts of blood were distributed throughout the victim’s body. He would’ve bled a lot less than expected. But none of those drugs have a sedating effect.’

  ‘Meaning he would’ve felt all the pain,’ Garcia caught on. ‘But held on for longer.’

  ‘Correct,’ the doctor agreed. ‘When a victim is severely cut, but no vital organs are damaged, there are mainly two ways the victim can die. Bleed to death, or the heart gets overworked to such an extent that it fails. In an unorthodox way, this killer addressed both of those problems with his drug combination. He didn’t want the victim to die too soon. And he certainly wanted the victim to feel as much pain as he could endure. But without a surgical team to help him, the killer would’ve had to work a lot faster to be able to perform the amputations and contain the hemorrhaging before the victim bled out. Well, his cocktail of drugs helped him a lot.’ She paused, dwelling on the severity of her own words. ‘I think all this strengthens our suspicion that this killer knows medicine, Robert. And I’d say he knows it well.’

  Eighteen

  Hunter and Garcia placed their receivers back in their cradles at the same time. Hunter laced his fingers, rested both elbows on the arms of his chair, and sat back.

  ‘OK,’ he said, facing his partner. ‘I know this is a long shot, but since all three of the drugs toxicology found are prescription only, let’s start checking with drugstores and pharmacists to see if anyone has sold all three in one go. I mean, all in the same prescription to the same person. Who knows, we might get lucky.’

  Garcia was already reading through the email they’d just received from Doctor Hove, noting down the names of all three medications.

  ‘How are we doing on that list of criminals Nicholson put away?’ Hunter asked.

  ‘We haven’t got it yet, but the team is working on it.’

  ‘Tell them we’ll need to reprioritize it. Check if anyone on that list has any previous medical education, worked in a hospital, care home, maybe even a gym.’

  Garcia’s eyebrow twitched.

  ‘Gym instructors and personal trainers must know first aid,’ Hunter explained. ‘If any of the people on that list knows so much as how to properly put on a Band-Aid, I want to know.’

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ Hunter called from his desk.

  The door was pushed open by a petite and very pretty woman in a dark business suit. She had long
, straight, dyed blonde hair and deep-brown eyes. In her right hand she held a black leather briefcase. There was no doubt she was a lawyer, or worked for one.

  ‘Detective Hunter?’ she said, looking straight at him.

  ‘Yes, can I help you?’ Hunter stood up.

  The woman stepped forward and offered her hand.

  ‘I’m Alice Beaumont. I work for Los Angeles District Attorney’s office. Directly with DA Bradley himself. He said you could use my help on the Derek Nicholson investigation.’ She shook Hunter’s hand with a firm and self-assured grip.

  Garcia frowned.

  Hunter studied the woman in front of him for a moment. Her eyes were full of intelligence – both the university and street kind. Hunter noticed that she had expertly and subtly allowed her gaze to run around the room. It took her less than two seconds to take in her entire surroundings. There was something vaguely familiar about her.

  ‘DA Bradley gave me your card,’ Hunter said. ‘But maybe I misunderstood him. I thought he said that if we needed your help, I would give you a call.’

  ‘Trust me, detective, you need my help.’ Her tone was as confident as her posture. She turned and faced Garcia. ‘You must be Detective Carlos Garcia.’

  ‘The legend himself,’ Garcia joked, shaking her hand.

  Alice didn’t smile; instead, she walked over to Hunter’s desk, placed her briefcase on it, flipped the top open, and retrieved several sheets of paper that’d been stapled together.

  ‘This is a list of all perpetrators Derek Nicholson sent, or helped send, to prison over the years.’ She handed it to Hunter. ‘There are some really nasty people on that list. It’s been prioritized by severity of crime; ultra violent and sadistic ones come first. Also by those individuals who have been released, paroled, or made bail recently.’ Her gaze circled from Hunter to Garcia. ‘I’ve already checked. None of the violent criminals he put away have been released – either on probation or in any other way. None has escaped either. The files of the ones who have committed minor offenses and have either served their sentences, or were granted early release for whatever reason, don’t read like the type of people who would be capable of such a crime.’

  ‘You’d be surprised what people are capable of,’ Garcia said, moving towards Hunter to have a look at the list. ‘Especially the ones who don’t look the type.’

  ‘You’ve read these files?’ Hunter asked.

  ‘The most relevant ones, yes.’

  ‘Who stipulated their relevance, you?’

  Alice didn’t reply.

  Hunter held her gaze for a moment before flipping through the pages. There were over 900 names on it. ‘You said that none of the violent criminals on this list have been released recently. How recently are we talking?’

  ‘Past year.’

  ‘We need to go further back than that,’ Hunter countered.

  ‘That won’t be a problem. How far back would you like?’

  ‘Five years, to start with, maybe ten.’

  ‘Give me a computer with a fast Internet connection and a few minutes and you’ll have it.’

  ‘I need to know what each and every person on this list was prosecuted for.’

  ‘It says right there next to their names and ages,’ Alice said with a tiny amount of prickliness in her voice while she nodded at the list.

  Hunter’s eyes didn’t move from her face. ‘It says homicide, aggravated homicide, armed robbery, and so on. We need to know exactly what they did and how they did it. What weapons were used? Was the crime scene bloody? Was the perpetrator violent because he lost control, or because he enjoyed it? We need real specifics.’

  ‘Again, not a problem. Just give me a computer.’

  ‘We also need to cross-reference the names on this list with any family member, relative or gang member who is on the outside, and who’d be crazy enough to seek revenge on behalf of the inmate.’

  ‘Not a problem.’

  Hunter’s eyes moved to the list, then to Garcia, and then back to Alice. ‘You’re very confident. You think you’re that good?’

  A smile lit up her face for a brief second. ‘I’m better,’ she replied without hesitation. ‘Get me a computer and I’ll go to work right now.’ She pointed to the list in Hunter’s hands. ‘But for now, that can give us a start.’

  For a moment no one spoke.

  ‘Us . . . ?’ Garcia asked.

  ‘DA Bradley wants me to help you as much as I can. That sort of puts us in a team, doesn’t it?’ Her stare returned to Hunter.

  ‘Ms. Beaumont,’ Hunter said, putting the list down on his desk. ‘We’re the Homicide Special Section of the Robbery Homicide Division. This isn’t Club Med. We know that DA Bradley is keen to get results, and so are we. We appreciate your help, and this list can give us a good start, you’re right. But I have no authority to add anyone to this investigation without consulting my captain. For starters, she’s not very keen on civilians being involved in any of the department’s investigations.’

  Alice smiled and walked over to the pictures board where all the crime-scene photographs had been pinned up. She had a sensual walk. Slow and easy, as if she knew men liked to watch her move.

  ‘Don’t be so modest, Detective. You do have the authority to bring anyone you like into your team,’ she replied in a non-aggressive way. ‘I checked. In here, you call the shots and everyone listens. But in any case, DA Bradley has talked to Chief of Police Martin Collins, who, in turn, has talked to your “not very keen” captain. She didn’t have much of a choice. And I’m afraid that neither do you. DA Bradley always gets what he wants.’

  Hunter was seasoned enough to know that protesting wouldn’t make a sand grain of difference. He hated people butting into his investigations, dictating what he should and should not do, hence his reputation for not exactly sticking to protocol all the time; but the LAPD had a chain of command, and he was a long way down it. Sometimes he had to go along to get along, and this sure as hell was looking like one of those times. He said nothing.

  Alice’s eyes browsed the pictures on the board for just a moment. ‘Oh my God,’ she whispered in a weak breath and quickly turned away.

  Hunter’s stare was fixed on her.

  ‘I knew Derek well,’ she said in a more tender voice. ‘I helped him in tens of cases. I helped him put away many of the names in that list. He was a good man who didn’t deserve any of this. I want to help. And I know I can because I’m the best at what I do. Please give me a chance to help you catch the son of a bitch who did this to Derek.’

  Nineteen

  Before Hunter could say anything, there was a new knock at the door.

  ‘Busy here this morning,’ Garcia joked before calling out. ‘Come in.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ a male voice replied from outside. ‘Not enough hands.’

  Everyone in the room frowned. Garcia stepped up to the door and pulled it open.

  A rookie officer, barely out of his teens, was standing outside in a crisp, straight-out-of-the-bag police uniform. Both of his arms were wrapped around a large package, covered by thick black plastic sheets held in place by duct tape.

  ‘Forensics lab just delivered this for you, Detective.’

  ‘OK, thanks. I can take it from here,’ Garcia said, reaching for it. The package was a lot lighter than it looked. Its base was flat and easy to grab hold of. ‘Over by the board?’ Garcia asked Hunter, after allowing the door to close behind him.

  ‘Yeah, I think that’ll do.’ Hunter cleared a space on a small table and pushed it closer to the pictures board. Garcia carefully deposited the package on it.

  ‘What is that?’ Alice asked, moving around to the other side.

  ‘A life-sized replica of this,’ Garcia replied, pointing to the photograph on the board.

  Hunter saw Alice hold her breath for a beat. ‘Have you ever worked this closely with a homicide investigating team?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Alice replied firmly. No embarrassment.

&
nbsp; Hunter took a penknife out of his pocket and flicked it open. ‘As I said before, this isn’t Club Med.’ He skillfully cut through the duct tape. ‘You can stay if you want. But this will be no picnic.’

  ‘I hate picnics.’ Alice stood her ground.

  Hunter and Garcia pulled down the black plastic cover, letting it drop to the floor. For a long moment, the only sound in the room came from the pedestal fan behind Garcia’s desk. Doctor Hove was right; forensics had done a fantastic job in replicating the morbid piece, despite the short amount of time. The replica was done in white plaster, cast over a light wooden base, no color finish, but it still made the hairs at the back of Garcia’s neck stand on end, and it had knocked the air out of Alice’s lungs.

  Hunter found it hard to tear his eyes away from it. Images of the real thing flashed at the back of his mind like fireworks, going off every few seconds. With it, his subconscious brought back the same sensations he experienced two days ago when he walked into that crime scene for the first time. He could smell the pungent odor of that room. He could see the blood splattered all over the walls and floors, and the way it trickled down from the human flesh sculpture. For a second he could even see the bloody words painted onto the far wall ‘GOOD JOB YOU DIDN’T TURN ON THE LIGHTS’.

  ‘Do you mind if I pour myself a glass of water?’ Alice said, finally breaking the silence. Her words seemed to have interrupted some sort of group trance. Hunter and Garcia blinked almost at the same time.

  ‘Please do,’ Hunter replied, folding his arms over his chest. His attention was still on the piece. He walked over to the other side to look at it from a different angle.

  Garcia moved a few steps back, as if trying to see a bigger picture.

  There was nothing there. The piece resembled nothing else they’d ever seen. It didn’t trigger anything in either of their minds.

  ‘That has got to be the most grotesque thing I’ve ever seen,’ Alice said, after downing a glass of water as if to put out a fire inside her. ‘And judging by the way you two are looking at it, you have no idea what it means, do you?’