The Death Sculptor rh-4

by Carter Chris

  ‘Barbara told me that your first line of investigation is to check on all offenders Derek put away over the years,’ he said after a brief pause.

  ‘Something like that,’ Hunter agreed.

  ‘Well, that’s exactly where I would start, so maybe your brain isn’t the size of a pea after all.’ Bradley unbuttoned his suit jacket, reached inside his pocket for a card and handed it to Hunter. ‘That’s my best researcher.’

  Hunter read the name on the card – Alice Beaumont, Los Angeles County District Attorney’s Bureau of Investigation.

  ‘She’s brilliant when it comes to digging into anyone’s life. A computer genius. She has access to all our archives, and then some. Alice can help you find whatever file you need regarding any of Derek’s prosecutions.’

  Hunter slotted the card into his jacket pocket.

  ‘I hope you’re not one of those who feel intimidated by working with a female who’s brighter than you.’ DA Bradley smiled.

  Hunter smiled back.

  ‘Now, what concerns me the most,’ Bradley said, back in his super-serious tone, ‘is that over the years Derek put a lot of trash away. Many of them dirtbags caught by you.’ His gaze moved from Hunter to Captain Blake. ‘Or by another detective from your division, Barbara. The process is simple. You catch them. We prepare the case. We take them to court. A judge presides, and a jury of twelve jurors convicts. Do you see where I’m going with this?’

  Captain Blake said nothing.

  Hunter nodded. ‘If Derek Nicholson’s murder was payback, then he’s only one link in a long chain.’

  ‘That’s correct.’ Beads of sweat were starting to form on the DA’s shiny forehead. ‘If what we have here is retaliation for Derek being the prosecutor in an old case, then you better catch this crazy fucker soon. Because if you don’t . . . we can expect more bodies.’

  Twelve

  While the sun baked the day in a cloudless blue sky, the AC blasted cold air into the cockpit of the metallic silver Honda Civic that had just turned into Interstate 105, heading west. The trip shouldn’t have taken them more than twenty-five minutes, but Hunter and Garcia had been sitting in stop-and-start traffic for thirty-five minutes, and they were still at least another twenty away from their destination.

  Amy Dawson, Derek Nicholson’s weekdays nurse, lived in a single-story, three-bedroom house with her husband, two teenage daughters, and a noisy little dog called Screamer. The house was tucked away in a quiet street behind a row of shops in Lennox, southwest Los Angeles.

  Amy had been hired as Nicholson’s nurse just a few days after he was diagnosed with his illness.

  As Garcia finally turned into Amy’s road, the dashboard thermometer showed the outside temperature to be at 88ºF. He parked his car across the road from her place and both detectives stepped out into a humid and stuffy day, the sun stinging their faces.

  The house looked old. Rain and sunlight had caused the paint to fade and crack around the windowsills and the front door. The iron-mesh fence that surrounded the property was rusty and bent out of shape in places. The small front yard could certainly have used a little attention.

  Hunter knocked three times and was immediately greeted by a barrage of barks coming from deep within the house. Not the strong, ferocious kind of barks that would scare away a burglar, but the squeaky, annoying kind that could give anyone a headache in minutes. And Hunter already had one.

  ‘Shut up, Screamer,’ a female voice called from inside. The dog reluctantly stopped barking. The door was opened by a black woman with a round face, cat-like eyes and cornrows on her head. She was around five foot five, and her plump figure overstretched the thin fabric of her summer dress. Amy was fifty-two, but her kind face bore the signs of someone who’d lived longer and seen more than her share of suffering.

  ‘Mrs. Dawson?’ Hunter asked.

  ‘Yes?’ Her eyes squinted behind thin reading glasses. ‘Oh, you must be the policeman who called earlier?’ Her voice was hoarse but delicate.

  ‘I’m Detective Hunter and this is Detective Garcia.’

  She checked their credentials, smiled politely, and pulled the door fully open. ‘Please come in.’

  As they did, Screamer started barking again from under a table. ‘I’m not gonna tell you again, Screamer. Shut up and go inside.’ Amy pointed to a door on the far end of the living room and the tiny dog dashed through it and disappeared down a small corridor. A freshly baked cake smell came from the kitchen and perfumed the entire house. ‘Please make yourselves at home.’ She gestured towards the small and dark living room. Hunter and Garcia had a seat in the mint green tufted sofa, while Amy took the armchair directly in front of them.

  ‘Would you care for some iced tea?’ she offered. ‘It’s mighty warm out there.’

  ‘That would be great,’ Hunter replied. ‘Thank you very much.’

  Amy walked into the kitchen and moments later returned carrying a tray with an aluminum jug and three glasses.

  ‘I can’t believe anyone would want to harm Mr. Nicholson,’ she said as she served the drinks. Sadness coated her words.

  ‘We’re very sorry about what happened, Mrs. Dawson.’

  ‘Please call me Amy.’ She gave both detectives a feeble smile.

  Hunter smiled back. ‘We appreciate you taking the time to talk to us, Amy.’

  She stared down at her drink. ‘Who would want to hurt a terminal-cancer patient? It just makes no sense.’ Her eyes found Hunter’s. ‘I was told it wasn’t a burglary.’

  ‘It wasn’t,’ he replied.

  ‘He was such a nice and kind man, who I know is now in much better hands.’ She looked up towards the ceiling. ‘May he rest in peace.’

  Hunter wasn’t surprised that Amy didn’t seem distraught. She hadn’t been told about the sordid details of the crime. Hunter had also checked her background. Amy had been a nurse for twenty-seven years, eighteen of those dedicated to helping patients with some form of terminal cancer. She did her job to the best of her abilities, but inevitably all of her patients passed away. She was used to dealing with death, and she had learned long ago to keep her emotions in check.

  ‘You were Mr. Nicholson’s nurse on weekdays, is that correct?’ Garcia asked.

  ‘Monday to Friday, that’s right.’

  ‘Did you use the same room as Melinda Wallis, the nurse that took over from you on weekends?’

  Amy shook her head. ‘No, no. Mel used the guesthouse above the garage. I used the guestroom inside the house. Two doors from Mr. Nicholson’s room.’

  ‘We were told that Mr. Nicholson’s daughters visited him every day.’

  ‘That’s right, for at least a couple of hours. Sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon, sometimes in the evening.’

  ‘Did Mr. Nicholson have any other visitors recently?’

  ‘Not recently.’

  ‘At any time?’ Garcia pushed.

  Amy looked pensive for a moment. ‘When I first started, yes. I remember only two separate visitors during my first few weeks in the house. But as soon as the most severe symptoms began to manifest themselves, then he had no more visitors. Mainly because Mr. Nicholson himself didn’t want to see anyone. He also didn’t want anyone to see him looking the way he did. He was a very proud man.’

  ‘These visitors, can you tell us any more about them?’ Garcia asked. ‘Do you know who they were?’

  ‘No. But they looked like lawyers, you know, very nice suits and all. Probably work colleagues.’

  ‘Do you remember what they talked about?’

  Amy looked at Garcia with a touch of indignation. ‘I wasn’t in the room, and I don’t listen to other people’s conversations.’

  ‘I apologize, that wasn’t what I meant at all,’ Garcia backpedaled as fast as he could. ‘I was just wondering if maybe Mr. Nicholson mentioned anything.’

  Amy offered Garcia a feeble smile, accepting his apology. ‘The truth is, not very much is ever said when visitors come around t
o see cancer patients. No matter how talkative people are, they tend to lose their ability to make conversation when they see what the disease has done to their friend, or family member. People usually just stand there, mostly in silence, trying their best to appear strong. When you know someone is dying, it’s hard to find words.’

  Hunter said nothing but he knew exactly what Amy Dawson meant. He was only seven when his mother was diagnosed with glioblastoma multiforme, the most aggressive type of primary brain cancer. By the time her doctors discovered it, the tumor was already too advanced. Within weeks she went from being a smiling, full-of-life mother, to an unrecognizable, skin-and-bones person. Hunter would never forget the image of his father standing by her bed with tears in his eyes, but unable to utter a single word. There was nothing he could say.

  ‘Do you remember their names?’ Garcia pushed.

  Amy thought about it for a long, hard moment. ‘My memory isn’t very good anymore, you know? But I remember thinking that the one who came first must’ve been a really important man. He came in a very large Mercedes with a driver and all.’

  ‘Could you describe him?’

  She tilted her head from side to side. ‘Older, chunky fellow with chubby cheeks. He wasn’t very tall, either, but he was very well dressed. Liked to move his arms around a lot.’

  ‘DA Bradley?’ Garcia suggested, looking at Hunter who gave him a ‘probably’ nod.

  ‘Yes,’ Amy said with a hint of a smile. ‘I think that was his name, Bradley.’

  ‘How about the second visitor, can you remember anything?’

  Amy searched her memory. ‘Slimmer and taller.’ She looked at Hunter. ‘I’d say he was about your height, could’ve been around the same age too. He was quite attractive. Nice dark-brown eyes.’

  Garcia took notes. ‘Anything else you can remember about him.’

  ‘I think he had a short name. Something like Ben, Dan, or Tom, maybe.’ She hesitated, taking a breath. ‘Yeah, something like that, but I can’t be sure.’

  ‘Amy,’ Hunter said, leaning forward and placing his empty iced-tea glass on the coffee table between them. ‘I’m sure you and Mr. Nicholson had several conversations, especially given that you spent so much time with him.’

  ‘Sometimes, at the beginning,’ Amy admitted. ‘But as the weeks went by, his breathing worsened. Talking was an effort. We talked very little.’

  Hunter nodded. ‘Did he tell you anything that you think can help us? Anything about his life? Anything about one of his cases? Anything about someone in particular?’

  Amy frowned and shook her head. ‘I was just his nurse. Why would he confide in me of all people?’

  ‘In the last few weeks you spent more time with him than anyone else. Even his daughters. Nothing at all comes to mind?’

  Hunter understood the intrinsic need human beings have to talk to each other. Talking has a psychological soul-cleansing effect, and that need is heightened exponentially when someone is certain of his or her death. Because she spent so much time alone with him and was caretaker to Derek Nicholson, Amy Dawson would’ve seemed like the oldest and best of friends. Someone he could talk to. Someone he could confide in.

  Amy looked away for a moment, focusing her stare on the window to Hunter’s right. ‘Once he said something that got me wondering.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  Her eyes stayed on the window. ‘He said that life was a funny thing. It doesn’t matter how much good you’ve done throughout it, or how many people you’ve helped. Your mistakes are what haunt you until your dying days.’

  Neither Hunter nor Garcia replied.

  ‘I told him that no one was free from mistakes. He smiled and said he knew that. And then he said something about making his peace with God, and telling someone the truth.’

  ‘The truth about what?’ Garcia asked, scooting to the edge of his seat.

  ‘He didn’t say. I never asked. It wasn’t my place. But it was certainly something that was eating him inside. He wanted to clear his conscience before it was too late.’

  Thirteen

  Hunter had arranged to meet both of Mr. Nicholson’s daughters that afternoon. Olivia, the older of the two, whom he’d met in Mr. Nicholson’s house, had asked him to come over to her place in Westwood. Her sister, Allison, would meet them there.

  Hunter and Garcia arrived at 4:35 p.m. The two-story house was modest by Westwood standards, but still, larger and more expensive-looking than most Angelinos could ever hope to afford. They climbed the few redbrick steps in front of the house and followed the short pathway through a well-kept front yard where summer flowers were already blooming. There were two cars parked in front of the two-car garage, a red BMW 3-series, and a brand-new-looking tuxedo-black Ford Edge.

  Hunter rang the doorbell. They waited almost a minute before Olivia herself opened the door. She was wearing a black sleeveless knee-length dress and black shoes. Her hair was tied back into a neat and conservative ponytail. Her face was hidden behind heavy makeup, but even so, the signs of a sleepless night spent crying were clear.

  At the sight of Hunter and Garcia, her eyes filled with tears again, but with some effort she held them there.

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to see us so soon, Ms. Nicholson,’ Hunter said.

  ‘I told you,’ she replied, putting on a brave smile. ‘Call me Olivia. Please come in.’

  They followed her into an anteroom decorated with a lot of taste and elegance. Vases, flowers and furniture came together to create a comfortable greeting space. Olivia guided them into the first room on the right – her study. The room was spacious, with the entire south wall taken by a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. The decoration was just as elegant as the anteroom, but unlike outside, where the clear skies and the sun drew a smile on everyone’s faces, the mood inside was solemn. The place was dark and suffocating, helped by the shut windows and drawn curtains. The only light came from a pedestal lamp in one of the corners.

  Standing by an imposing partner’s desk was a woman in her late twenties. She was also dressed all in black. As both detectives entered the room, she turned and faced them.

  Allison Nicholson was striking, though skinny. She had straight black hair that came down to the top of her shoulders and very dark, soulful eyes that were far more knowing then they ought to have been at her age. Hers, too, were red from crying.

  ‘This is my sister, Allison,’ Olivia said.

  Allison’s eyes moved from Hunter to Garcia, but she stood still. No offer of a handshake.

  ‘These are Detectives Hunter and Garcia, Ally,’ Olivia said, moving closer to her sister.

  ‘We’re very sorry for your loss,’ Hunter said. ‘We know how difficult this is for both of you and we appreciate your time. We won’t take much of it.’ He reached inside his pocket for his black notebook. ‘If we could ask you just a few quick questions?’

  Their silence prompted Hunter to continue.

  ‘You both visited your father on Saturday last, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes,’ Olivia answered.

  ‘Can you remember what time you got there and what time you left?’

  ‘I got there before Ally,’ Olivia said. ‘I had a few things to do in the afternoon. We’re opening a new store.’

  Hunter knew Olivia owned Healthy Eats, a chain of healthy-food stores with several shops downtown and around greater Los Angeles. Allison on the other hand had followed in her father’s footsteps. She was a prosecutor.

  ‘I got there at around four-thirty or five o’clock,’ Olivia continued. ‘Ally . . .’

  ‘I got there at around five-fifteen,’ Allison took over.

  Hunter waited.

  ‘We sat around with Dad as we usually do, chatting, or trying to,’ Allison continued. ‘On the weekends Levy usually cooks.’ She nodded at her sister. ‘I sometimes help.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not very good in the kitchen.’

  ‘Did you cook on Saturday?’ Hunter asked Olivia.

  ‘Yes.
Then we all ate together.’

  ‘How about Melinda Wallis, the nurse?’ Garcia asked.

  ‘Mel always ate with us. She’s a lovely person, very caring.’

  ‘What time did you leave?’

  ‘Levy left a couple of minutes before me,’ Allison said. ‘I left around nine o’clock.’

  Olivia nodded.

  ‘Do any of you remember seeing anyone in the street, around your father’s house? Anyone or anything that caught your attention?’

  ‘I don’t remember seeing anything,’ Allison replied first.

  ‘Neither do I,’ Olivia agreed.

  ‘We talked to Amy Dawson this afternoon. She mentioned something about your father having two visitors about three-and-a-half months back. Did your father mention anything about that? Do you know who they were?’

  Olivia and Allison looked at each other for a moment.

  ‘I know that DA Bradley visited Dad at the house when he first fell ill,’ Allison said.

  ‘Yes, we figured that,’ Garcia commented. ‘But apparently there was someone else.’ He quickly checked his notes. ‘Slim, about six foot tall, same age as your father, brown eyes, does it ring any bells?’

  Olivia shook her head.

  ‘Half of the male prosecutors in the DA’s office could fit that description,’ Allison noted.

  ‘Your father didn’t mention anything about having someone visit him a few weeks ago?’

  ‘Not to me,’ Allison said.

  ‘Me neither,’ Olivia tagged. ‘And that’s strange, because Dad did mention when DA Bradley went over to visit him.’

  Hunter returned his notebook to his pocket. ‘Mrs. Dawson also told us that your father said something about making peace with someone, telling someone the truth about something.’

  Both women frowned.

  ‘Do you know anything about that?’

  ‘Truth about what?’ Allison asked.

  Garcia shrugged. ‘That’s what we’d like to find out.’

  ‘About a case he prosecuted?’

  ‘We don’t know. That’s all the information we have.’

  Silence took over for several seconds.