The Death Sculptor

by Chris Carter

  Alice’s eyes widened. ‘So you’re telling me that I’m gonna get Sands’s library card, and all it’ll have on it is a whole bunch of numbers, no book titles?’

  ‘That’s right. You’ll then have to cross-reference that number with the book card to find the title.’

  ‘But that’s a crazy system. It will take anyone forever to find anything.’

  Devlin gave her a shy shrug. ‘Time is the one thing we all have to spare in here, ma’am. Ain’t no use doing nothing fast. You just end up with more time on your hands and nothing to do with it.’

  Alice couldn’t argue with that. ‘OK.’ She glimpsed at her watch. ‘Let’s get to it then. Where are all the cards and book lists kept?’

  ‘In file cabinets behind the checkout counter, ma’am, on the library floor.’

  ‘Let’s call the guard then. If that’s the system you guys use, I can’t do anything from here.’

  Sixty-One

  Officer Toledo was a whole foot taller than Alice and as wide as a wardrobe. He had a thick, peppered mustache over thin lips, a shaved head, and sideburns to rival Elvis. He accompanied Alice and Devlin out onto the main library floor and took position to the left of the book-checkout counter – four paces from the main door. There was something in the way his gaze kept reverting back to Alice that made her feel really uncomfortable.

  The main library floor had enough seats for a hundred inmates, but at that time there were only a handful of them, scattered around the many Formica desks and tables. Like a scene from an old western movie, they all stopped what they were doing and lifted their heads at the same time to stare at Alice. A quick murmur followed, and it moved around the floor like a Mexican wave. Alice had no interest in finding out what they were saying.

  ‘What kind of books do you carry in here?’ Alice asked Devlin.

  ‘A little of everything, ma’am, except crime. We have no crime books of any sort – no crime fiction, no true crime, nothing at all.’ He chanced a smile. ‘As if that would make a difference. We have a big department on religious and school books, you know – math, history, geography . . . all that. Anyone could learn how to read, or complete their lower or high-school diplomas in here . . . if they wanted to. Not many do. We also have a large and up-to-date law section.’

  ‘What sort of books did Ken read?’

  Devlin chuckled and scratched his chin. ‘Ken read everything. He was a fast reader too. But he liked them study books a damn lot. He took them correspondence courses – advanced, college stuff, you know. He had a smart brain on him. Because of them courses, he was allowed to request extra books for his studies. Books we didn’t have here. But because the state bought them, we got to keep them after he was done with them. No one else has ever checked them out.’ Devlin paused, screwed up his face and ran a hand through his short-cropped hair. ‘And then there are the books he read in here, sitting at the corner over there.’ He pointed to a desk at the far end of the hall. ‘The ones he didn’t check out. If books are only read in here, then they won’t go onto an inmate’s card either.’

  Alice nodded her understanding.

  Devlin showed Alice how the library cards were organized and where they were kept – a long wooden cabinet that ran along the entire back wall. In her mind, Alice was already starting to prioritize things. ‘Do you have a medical-books section at all?’

  ‘Yes we do,’ Devlin answered. ‘A small one. Let me show you.’

  They left the book-checkout counter and moved onto the main library floor. Officer Toledo was never more than three paces behind them. Once again, every pair of eyes in the library looked up. Murmurs came from every corner, but again Alice made a point of not hearing any of it.

  They carried on towards one of the bookshelves at the back.

  ‘This is our medical-book section,’ Devlin announced, indicating a small segment on the top shelf. It was comprised of twenty-four books. Alice made a mental note of its numeric range. ‘The only reason we have all those books is because they were part of one of Ken’s courses,’ Devlin said.

  Alice asked to be shown two other book sections – psychology and art. She made a mental note of their numeric ranges as well.

  ‘OK, I just need some pen and paper and I can start.’

  ‘I can get you a pencil.’

  ‘That’ll do.’

  They returned to the front of the library. Once back behind the checkout counter, Devlin handed Alice a few sheets of paper and a pencil, showed her the drawer in which she would find Ken Sands’s library cards, and left her to her task.

  Ken Sands had ninety-two library cards, all of them packed full of book-catalogue numbers. He must’ve been one of those who could read a book a day. As Devlin said, time was something that every inmate had to spare, and it looked like Sands spent every spare second he had reading. It would take her forever to thoroughly check every card. Alice paused for a moment, her brain pondering the easiest and fastest way to work through them. She had an idea, and started jotting down catalogue numbers.

  An inmate with a shaved head, who had been sitting quietly at the table closest to the checkout counter, approached Devlin and handed him a book.

  ‘This is a good book, Toby. I’m sure you’ll like it.’ Alice was way too busy writing down numbers to notice Devlin furtively inserting a slip of paper between the book’s pages. If anybody could get a message to someone outside Lancaster Prison, Toby could.

  Police officers weren’t the only ones who looked after their own.

  Sixty-Two

  Many connoisseurs will say that the true lover of whisky will drink it with a little water, better still, spring water. Adding a little water to whisky before drinking will prevent its strength from numbing your senses and reducing your enjoyment. Water will also enhance the aroma and flavor of a whisky, bringing out its hidden characteristics. It is widely said that you should dilute your whisky with a fifth measure of water. Connoisseurs also frown upon those who add ice to their Scotch, since reducing its temperature will only freeze its aroma, and dull its taste.

  Hunter couldn’t care less for what others said, connoisseurs or not. He enjoyed his single malt with a little water, not because it was considered the correct way of drinking it, but because he found that some whiskies were truly too intense to drink neat. Sometimes he enjoyed his Scotch with one, perhaps two cubes of ice, welcoming the coolness of the liquid as it slipped down his throat. Garcia drank his whichever way it came. Tonight, each had a single cube of ice in their glass.

  They were sitting at one of the front tables inside Brennan’s, on Lincoln Boulevard – a dive bar famous for its turtle racing on a Thursday evening, and its jukebox’s classic-rock collection.

  Hunter needed a break from his claustrophobic office, not to mention its morbid decoration of bloody crime-scene photographs and the replica body-part sculpture.

  Hunter and Garcia both drank their whiskies in silence, each having his own rollercoaster of thoughts to deal with. Hunter had spoken with Doctor Hove on the phone. The toxicology-test results for Andrew Nashorn were in. Their prediction was correct. Traces of propafenone, felodipine and carvedilol were found in his blood, the same cocktail of drugs that was used to reduce Derek Nicholson’s heart rate.

  A tall, long-haired blonde with a dancer’s lithe body and a walk that was as charming as it was sexy entered the bar. She was wearing skin-tight blue jeans, light-brown stiletto shoes, and a cream-colored shirt tucked in at the waist. Her surgically enhanced breasts stretched the thin cotton fabric so much the buttons were almost popping off. Hunter’s gaze followed her short walk from the entrance to the bar counter.

  Garcia smiled at his partner but didn’t say a word.

  Hunter had one more sip of his Scotch before stealing another peek at the tall blonde.

  ‘Maybe you should go talk to her,’ Garcia said, quickly tilting his head in the direction of the bar.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Well your eyes are about to pop out of you
r head. Maybe you should go and say “hi”.’

  Hunter studied Garcia’s face for a quick second before subtly shaking his head. ‘It’s not what you’re thinking.’

  ‘Of course not. But I still think you should consider talking to her.’

  Hunter placed his glass down and stood up. ‘I’ll be right back.’

  Garcia looked on, surprised, as Hunter made his way towards the bar and the tall blonde, who had already attracted plenty of male attention. Garcia wasn’t really expecting Hunter to make a move so quickly, if he made a move at all. ‘Now this should be interesting,’ he whispered to himself, shifting on his seat to get a better viewing position before leaning forward and placing both elbows on the table. He’d have given anything to have bionic ears at that moment.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Hunter said, coming up to the woman at the bar.

  She didn’t even glance at him. ‘Not interested.’ Her voice was cold, monotone and a little snobbish.

  Hunter paused a fraction. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I said, I’m not interested,’ she repeated, taking a sip of her drink. Still not even a glance in Hunter’s direction.

  Hunter smiled to himself. ‘Well, neither am I. I just wanted to call your attention to the fact that you have sat on some gum, which is now stuck to the back of your jeans like a big blob of green gunk.’ He tilted his head to one side. ‘Not such a great look.’

  The woman’s gaze finally met Hunter’s for a split second before moving down. She twisted her body awkwardly, trying to look at the back of her jeans.

  ‘On the other side,’ Hunter said with a nod.

  She twisted her body the other way, her hand shooting straight to her bum. The tips of her carefully manicured fingers touched the gooey mess of gum that ran from her bum cheek down to the top of her leg.

  ‘Shit,’ she said, pulling her hand away and looking at it with disgust. ‘These are Roberto Cavalli jeans.’

  Hunter had no idea what difference that made. ‘They’re nice jeans,’ he said sympathetically.

  ‘Nice? They cost a fortune.’

  Hunter stared back at her blankly. ‘I’m sure if you take it to a laundry service they’ll be able to get it off for you.’

  ‘Shit,’ she said again, making her way towards the rest room.

  ‘Well that was subtle,’ Garcia said when Hunter returned to the table. ‘What the hell did you say to her? All I saw was her grabbing her ass and then shooting straight out into the bathroom like a rocket.’

  Hunter had a sip of his whisky. ‘Like I said, it wasn’t what you were thinking.’

  Garcia chuckled and leaned back on his seat. ‘You’ve gotta work on your pick-up lines, man.’

  Hunter’s cellphone rang in his pocket. He placed his glass down on the table and reached for it. ‘Detective Hunter.’

  ‘Robert, it’s Terry. I’ve got some info for you.’

  Detective Terry Cassidy was part of the RHD team. Hunter had asked him to find out whatever he could on the whereabouts of the now-released Raul Escobedo, the rapist Nashorn had beat up before sending to prison.

  ‘I’m listening, Terry.’

  ‘Well, this guy you asked me to look into, Escobedo, he’s a bona fide piece of shit,’ Cassidy began. ‘Scumbags-R-us, you know what I’m sayin’? A rapist with a second hard-on for violence. They believe he raped as many as ten women.’

  ‘I know the original story,’ Hunter interrupted him. ‘What have you got?’

  ‘OK, our friend did some hard time inside. He got ten years for the violent rape of three women, the only three who’d testify. Now get this, during his spell inside, the barf bag repented. He found God.’ Cassidy paused, either for effect or because he was really insulted by the idea of someone like Escobedo saying that he was now reformed. Cassidy was a real Roman Catholic. ‘Inside, Escobedo started reading the Bible day and night, and took the theology program offered by the prison. He graduated with flying colors. Upon his release two years ago . . .’ another quick pause, ‘. . . you guessed it, he started preaching. Thinks he’s a reverend now, out there to spread the good word and help others repent. Calls himself Reverend Soldado. Named after Saint Juan Soldado, a folk saint revered by many in northwestern Mexico, where Escobedo’s family is originally from.’

  ‘Saint Soldier?’ Hunter asked, translating the name from Spanish into English.

  ‘That’s right,’ Cassidy confirmed. ‘I checked it out. The saint’s real name was Juan Castillo Morales. He was a private in the Mexican army. Now check this out, if you please . . . Castillo was executed in 1938 for the rape and murder of an 8-year-old girl from Tijuana. I shit you not, Robert – rape. His adherents believe that he was falsely accused of the crime, and they appeal to his spirit for help in matters of health, criminal problems, family, crossing the US–Mexico border, and other challenges of daily life.’ Hunter heard an uneasy chuckle from Cassidy. ‘Believe it or not, Escobedo named himself after a rapist saint. How’s that for having balls?’

  Hunter made no comment. Cassidy proceeded.

  ‘He runs his own church, or temple, or whatever you wanna call it, in Pico Rivera. Personally, I’d just call it a cult. It’s called Soldiers for Jesus, would you believe that crap? Sounds like a terrorist group, doesn’t it? I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s now convincing the young women who join his group that they should give themselves to him as an initiation or something, making them believe that it’s the will of the Lord, and he’s the new Messiah. If he learned anything in prison, it was how to circumvent the law.’

  ‘Did you find out about his whereabouts on those dates and times I gave you?’ Hunter asked.

  ‘Yeah. As much as I already hate the guy, he can’t be the man you’re looking for. On the first date you gave me – June 19th, Escobedo was out of Los Angeles, hosting a service in San Diego. He’s planning to expand Soldiers for Jesus. The second date, June 22nd, he spent the entire day recording two CDs and a DVD. He sells them amongst his followers. He has loads of witnesses who’d testify to that. Escobedo is a cesspit of lies, stinky shit, and blasphemy, but he ain’t your killer, Robert.’

  Hunter nodded to himself. Protocol said he needed to check, but he’d never really considered Escobedo as a real suspect. As a psychologist, and then as a detective for the RHD, Hunter had studied, interviewed and apprehended hundreds of murderers, and throughout the years he’d found that usually there was little to separate a murderer from the regular man on the streets. He’d met killers who were handsome, charming and charismatic. Some who looked like kindly grandfathers. Even some who were voluptuous and sexy. The real difference only surfaced once he started delving into their minds. But there were different kinds of criminals – different kind of killers. Escobedo was a rapist – lowest of the low. True, he was violent, but his only interest was in fulfilling his carnal desires. He’d never stalked his victims, simply randomly picking them from whoever was around on a given night. There was never any planning. Hunter knew that criminals like that very rarely changed their MO. Even if revenge were the motive, Escobedo would probably have shot or knifed his victims and fled the scene as fast as he could, not spent hours dismembering them and creating those grotesque sculptures – assigning to each one meanings hidden in the shadows. No, Escobedo didn’t have the knowhow, the patience, the intellect, or the nerve to commit such crimes.

  ‘Great work, Terry, thanks,’ Hunter said before closing his phone and returning it to his pocket. He told Garcia the news and they both finished their drinks in silence. As they got up to leave, the tall blonde came out of the bathroom and approached their table.

  ‘Sorry for earlier,’ she said, coming up to Hunter, her voice now charming, with a seductive tone. ‘And thanks.’

  Garcia’s facial expression was a picture. ‘You’ve gotta be kidding me,’ he whispered.

  ‘Not a problem,’ Hunter replied.

  ‘I know I came across as being arrogant,’ she continued, her smile plastic, rehearsed. ‘I’m not always
like that. It’s just that in places like this a woman has to watch herself, you know?’

  ‘As I said, it’s not a problem.’ Hunter maneuvered around her. ‘Enjoy the rest of your evening.’

  ‘Listen,’ she called as he turned to leave again. ‘I gotta go home and try to sort this mess out, but maybe we could have a drink some other time.’ She very expertly slipped Hunter a folded napkin. ‘Your call.’ She closed the whole thing with a sexy wink and walked out of the bar.

  ‘You’ve gotta be kidding me,’ Garcia whispered again.

  Sixty-Three

  Friday night, and The Airliner on North Broadway was pretty much packed to capacity. The spacious up-market dance club and lounge was decked out in a ‘don’t tax the imagination too hard’ airline motif, but certainly served a much finer selection of booze than any US Airways economy flight. With two large and well-equipped bars, a bumpin’ dance floor, a plush lounge area and some of Los Angeles’ hottest DJs, The Airliner was certainly up there with the best LA clubs, attracting a diverse clientele of Angelinos and tourists alike. And that was why Eddie Mills loved going there.

  Eddie was a lowlife, small-time crook, who’d got caught with one-and-a-half kilos of cocaine while driving through Redondo Beach. In prison he met Guri Krasniqi, an Albanian crime ringleader. Krasniqi was never coming out of prison, but he still ran his empire from inside, and got Eddie hooked up with his people when he was released from the California State Prison in Lancaster two years ago.

  Eddie was standing by the upstairs bar, sipping champagne. He was so distracted, watching a shorthaired brunette set the dance floor alight, that he didn’t even notice the six-foot-one, heavy-set man who’d come up next to him at the bar.