The Death Sculptor rh-4

by Carter Chris

  Alice had no reply. She knew how right the captain was. She’d seen it many times in courts of law. Attorneys throwing statements at the jurors that they knew would be objected to by the opposing side, sustained by the judge, and consequently struck from the record. But it made no difference. The statement was out there. Struck from the records or not, the jurors had heard it. And that was all that was needed to get their thoughts moving in the direction that suited the attorney in question.

  Captain Blake faced Hunter. ‘OK, talk to me, Robert. If you’re right about those shadow puppets, then it means Nashorn’s boat has given us something new.’

  Hunter looked at Garcia, who was now standing by the pictures board, organizing the new crime-scene photographs into distinct groups.

  ‘It has,’ Garcia replied.

  Captain Blake and Alice moved closer, scrutinizing every photo as Garcia pinned them up to the large white board. The prints showed the cabin, the blood on its walls and floors, the body left on the chair, Nashorn’s head on the coffee table, and the new sculpture on the tall breakfast bar.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Alice said, touching her lips with the tips of her fingers. In spite of her horror, she was too transfixed to look away.

  Captain Blake’s expert gaze moved from picture to picture, drinking in every detail. In her long career, she was sure she’d seen every ugly face crime and murder had to offer, but what she’d seen in the past three days had fragmented that notion to little pieces and pushed the boundaries to a new level. Evil seemed to be able to reinvent itself very easily.

  Her attention finally settled on the group of photographs that showed the new sculpture – arms, hands, fingers and feet covered in blood; dissected, and then put back together in a totally incoherent and horrific way.

  ‘Did the killer use wire and superglue again?’ Alice asked, squinting at the photo on the far right of the board.

  ‘That’s right,’ Garcia confirmed.

  ‘But no message on the wall this time.’

  ‘There was no reason for it,’ Hunter said. ‘The message left on Derek Nicholson’s wall wasn’t directly related to the crime committed. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.’

  ‘OK, I can understand that, but why do it?’ Alice insisted. ‘Why leave such a message? Just to psychologically destroy that poor girl?’

  ‘That message wasn’t only intended for the nurse.’

  Hunter’s words caused Alice to do a double take. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘It was also intended for us.’

  ‘What?’ Captain Blake finally turned away from the board. ‘What the hell are you talking about, Robert?’

  ‘Determination, resolve, commitment,’ Hunter said, but offered nothing else.

  ‘Keep on talking, Big Brain,’ the captain urged him, ‘I’ll tell you when we’ve caught up.’

  Hunter was used to the spikes in the captain’s intonation.

  ‘It was the killer’s way of telling us that nothing would’ve stopped him, Captain,’ he clarified. ‘And if a completely innocent person had walked in on him, and in any shape or form endangered his objective, he would’ve killed her as well. No remorse. No guilt. No second thoughts.’

  ‘It confirms that there was nothing random about Nicholson’s murder,’ Garcia took over. ‘Robert used the operative word – objective. And our killer sure as hell had one: to kill Derek Nicholson and use his body parts to create his morbid piece. The nurse was never part of the plan, and she didn’t endanger his goal. She would have, if she’d turned on the lights.’

  ‘And that also tells us a very important thing,’ Hunter stepped in again. ‘That this killer isn’t prone to panicking.’

  ‘How’s that?’ Alice asked.

  ‘Exactly because he didn’t kill her.’ He wandered over to the window, stretching his stiff arms and back as he went. ‘When the killer heard the nurse walking back into the house that night, he was composed enough to stop what he was doing, turn off the lights in Nicholson’s room and wait. Her fate was in her hands, not his.’

  ‘Whereas most perps surprised by a third party would either have panicked and gone for her,’ the captain caught on, ‘or fled the scene without finishing what they started.’

  ‘Correct. The message on the wall wasn’t planned. It was an afterthought. But the killer saw it as a chance to . . . warn us of his resolve, his commitment, despite its psychologically destructive nature.’ Hunter undid the latch and pushed the window open. ‘We didn’t realize that at first, because we had no way of knowing he would kill again.’

  ‘This guy is very confident, and he has no problem boasting about it,’ Garcia said, pinning the last photograph onto the board. ‘Last night, instead of a written message, he decided to show us that he also has a sense of humor.’

  ‘The heavy metal song he left playing,’ Captain Blake commented.

  Alice flinched. ‘I read that in the article. What’s that about?’

  ‘The killer left the stereo in Nashorn’s boat on – full blast,’ Garcia explained. ‘Same song playing on an endless loop.’

  ‘And where’s the sense of humor in that?’ she asked with a slight shake of the head.

  ‘The song the killer chose is an old song called “Falling to Pieces”,’ Hunter told her.

  ‘And the lyrics in the chorus say something about someone falling to pieces, and asking to be put back together again,’ Garcia added.

  Alice paused a beat.

  ‘So he’s laughing at us,’ Captain Blake said, leaning against Garcia’s desk, anger in her voice and a steely glint in her eyes. ‘Not only is this perp crazy enough to kill a state prosecutor and an LAPD cop, but he’s also bold enough to taunt us with messages written on walls, songs with double meanings, sculptures made from the flesh of his victims and shadow puppets. He’s making this his own private goddamn circus.’ Her eyes flashed fire. ‘And we are the clowns.’

  No one replied.

  Alice had redirected her attention back to the pictures board. ‘What did you get when you shone a light on this?’ She indicated one of the photographs of the new sculpture. ‘I know you’re not waiting for the lab to produce another replica to find out. You checked it last night, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what did you get?’ Captain Blake this time. ‘Shadow puppets of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse?’

  Garcia walked back to his desk, reached for an A4 brown-paper envelope and retrieved a single photograph from inside. He turned it over and showed it to the room.

  ‘We got this.’

  Thirty-Six

  Garcia crossed to the pictures board and pinned the new photograph onto it, just below the group containing the images of the sculpture found in Andrew Nashorn’s boat.

  Captain Blake and Alice both craned their necks and squinted at the same time, as if in a synchronized dance move.

  ‘We used a forensic power light against the new sculpture to cast the shadows onto the wall,’ Hunter explained. ‘That’s how we managed to photograph the shadows. There was no need for a camera flash. It took us a while to find the correct angle. In fact, the killer was the one who showed us how exactly to look at it. He left us a clue.’

  Neither Captain Blake nor Alice seemed to be paying attention to Hunter’s words. For them, during the past few seconds it was as if the whole world had disappeared, and all that was left was the photograph Garcia had just stuck to the board.

  The captain was the first to speak. Her words came out slowly, surrounded by doubt. ‘What the hell is this?’

  Hunter folded his arms and once again looked at the image that had taken over his mind since he first set eyes on it last night. ‘What does it look like to you, Captain?’

  She took a deep breath. The way Andrew Nashorn’s arms had been bundled together – inside wrist against inside wrist, hands open outwards as if ready to catch a flying ball, cast a silhouette onto the wall that looked just like a distorted face. The thumbs, broken and twisted out of sh
ape, pointing up, made it looked like crooked horns were growing out of its head.

  ‘Like a goddamn giant monster’s head with horns, or something. Maybe some sort of devil.’ The captain squinted harder and shook her head, hardly believing her eyes as she stared at the shadow images cast by the four figures that had been created by bundling all the severed fingers together two by two.

  The way the killer had expertly carved out the figures – round and chunky at the top, curved at the center, and skinny at the bottom – and then placed them in relation to the light source was mesmerizing. A true work of a sick genius. With the light being shone from that specific angle, the shadows cast by the two upright figures look just like two people standing up, viewed from a profile perspective. The shadows cast by the two lying down figures also resembled two people, lying on top of each other on the floor.

  ‘And what is this devil doing?’ Captain Blake asked. ‘Staring at four people? Two standing up and two on the floor?’

  Hunter shrugged. ‘You see exactly the same thing as we do, Captain.’

  Captain Blake was getting fidgety. ‘Great! And all that crap means what, exactly?’

  ‘Another riddle within a riddle,’ Garcia said, returning to his desk.

  ‘We don’t know yet, Captain,’ Hunter admitted. ‘We haven’t had time to analyze and research the image and its connotations. We only got this last night, remember?’

  ‘The shadow that looks like a head with horns could represent the killer,’ Alice offered, pointing at the photograph and stealing everyone’s attention. ‘That’s why it’s so much bigger than the four other images. The crooked thumbs casting horn shadows and making the whole figure look like a devil’s head obviously characterizes evil. Maybe he believes he’s possessed by an evil being or something.’ She shrugged as she considered the rest of the image. ‘And one could maybe argue that the reason he’s looking down at four other figures is because they represent his . . .’ Her voice trailed off and she shuddered, scaring herself with the thought that swirled around in her head.

  ‘Victims,’ Hunter finished the sentence for her.

  Captain Blake almost choked. ‘Wait up. So you’re saying that this new riddle, this new shadow image, could represent the killer and his agenda?’ The annoyed edge was still in her voice.

  Hunter turned his palms up in a subtle ‘who knows’ gesture. ‘As I’ve said, we don’t know yet, Captain.’

  ‘But it makes sense, doesn’t it?’ Alice pushed. ‘Maybe that’s why there are two figures already lying down, look.’ She stepped closer and indicated it on the photograph. ‘They could represent the two victims we already have: Derek Nicholson and Andrew Nashorn. Maybe he’s telling us he’s got his sights set on at least two more. You were discussing this just a moment ago, weren’t you?’ She addressed Captain Blake. ‘Saying that this killer was cocky enough to taunt the investigation with messages and songs and sculptures and shadow puppets. So why not be bold enough to tell us that he’s going after two more victims? We know he’s confident. We know he’s big-headed.’ She tapped her index finger over the oversized image of what looked like a head with horns. ‘We know he thinks he can’t be stopped.’

  The captain lifted her hand to keep Alice from going any further. ‘Slow down a second, Professor Sunshine. Yesterday, with the first sculpture, you were debating whether the killer might be delusional enough to think he is God. Now we think he’s changed his mind and he’s telling us he’s the devil? Evil personified? We’re skating all over the rink here.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure I’ve said this before,’ Hunter interrupted, his voice firmer this time, ‘but we don’t know what the meaning behind those shadow images is yet, Captain. All this is just guesswork based on nothing other than our own imaginations and interpretations. Even what we think we know about the images behind the first sculpture might be wrong. We have no way of being sure.’

  ‘So find a way,’ the captain barked as she moved towards the door. ‘And get me something more concrete than damn guesswork.’ She scowled at Alice. ‘And you better get cracking on that list of names, Miss DA’s-Best-Researcher.’ She exited the room, purposefully allowing the door to slam behind her.

  A fraction of a second later the phone on Hunter’s desk rang and he reached for it.

  ‘Detective Hunter,’ he said into the mouthpiece and listened for about ten seconds before frowning so intensely his eyebrows almost touched. ‘I’m on my way down.’

  Thirty-Seven

  The famous Parker Center building had been the headquarters of the Los Angeles Police Department since 1954. In 2009, the entire operation was moved from the old building, located at 150 North Los Angeles Street, to its new, half-a-million-square-feet site just south of City Hall. The new Police Administration Building houses over ten different LAPD divisions, including Vice, Juvenile, Commercial Crimes, Narcotics and the Robbery Homicide Division. It’s no wonder that its reception hall is always overflowing with people – civilians and officers alike.

  It didn’t take long for Hunter to spot her. Olivia Nicholson was sitting in one of the many fixed-row plastic seats near the building’s floor-to-ceiling glass entrance doors. Dressed in a conservative black ruffle chiffon dress and black stiletto-heel court shoes, she stood out from the much rougher-looking crowds around her like a bright laser beam. Her oversized sunglasses were perched high on her small and pointy nose.

  ‘Ms. Nicholson,’ Hunter said, offering his hand.

  She stood up but didn’t reciprocate the gesture. ‘Detective, could we talk?’ Her voice was as steady as she could manage.

  ‘Of course.’ Hunter lowered his hand and quickly scanned the hall. ‘If you follow me, I’ll find us a quiet spot.’ He guided her through the crowd and used his security card to green-light one of the magnetic turnstiles, allowing them deeper into the building. As they stepped into an elevator, Olivia moved her sunglasses to her head, pinning her loose blonde hair back, away from her face. Her eyes were still bloodshot. Hunter identified it as the compound effect of crying and lack of sleep. Her makeup expertly hid the dark circles under her eyes, but she still looked exhausted. Not knowing who her father’s killer was was eating at her. Hunter could tell.

  Hunter pressed the button for the first floor, where the press-conference and meeting rooms were located. With the pictures board, the replica sculpture, and case files strewn about everywhere, his office was definitely out of bounds. The interrogation rooms on the second floor were too ominous, with their metal tables, bland walls, large two-way mirrors and no windows. Either the main press-conference room, or any of the smaller meeting rooms were a much better choice.

  They rode the elevator up in silence and exited into a long, wide and brightly lit corridor. Hunter took the lead, and tried the door to the first meeting room on the right. It was unlocked and empty. He flicked on the lights and showed Olivia inside.

  ‘How can I help you, Ms. Nicholson?’ he asked, indicating one of the five seats around the small, oblong-shaped table.

  Olivia didn’t sit down. Instead, she unzipped her handbag, retrieved a copy of the morning paper and placed it on the table. ‘Is this what happened to my father?’ Her lower eyelids looked like water dams overflowing with tears, and it was only a matter of seconds before they burst. ‘Did the person who killed him use his body parts to create some sort of sick sculpture?’

  Hunter kept his hands by his side and his voice even. ‘That article isn’t about your father’s murder.’

  ‘But it’s about a very similar murder,’ Olivia snapped back like a sharp switchblade. ‘A murder that, according to this article, you are investigating. Is that true?’

  Hunter held her stare. ‘Yes.’

  ‘DA Bradley assured me that everyone was doing everything they could to bring the monster who broke into my father’s home to justice. He assured me that the case detectives were the best in the force, and that they were working exclusively on my father’s murder investigation. So the only logi
cal conclusion is that these murders must be connected.’ She searched Hunter’s face for an answer. Found none. ‘Please don’t insult me by saying that those questions you asked me and my sister the other day about sculptures were because you found a metal piece from a broken sculpture in my father’s house.’

  Hunter’s face didn’t give anything away, but he knew the game was up. ‘Please, Ms. Nicholson, have a seat.’ This time he pulled a chair out for her, moving into Stage One in dealing with an individual whose emotions have taken over: take simple, unchallenging steps to reduce their anxiety. If possible sit them down – a seating position is always more relaxing than a standing one – physically and emotionally.

  ‘Please,’ Hunter insisted.

  Olivia finally sat down.

  Hunter approached the cooler in the corner, filled two plastic cups with ice-cold water, and brought them back to the table before sitting down opposite her.

  Stage Two was to give the person a drink. This would get the digestive system working, giving the body one more activity to occupy itself with and distract from an approaching panic attack. A cold drink on a hot day cools the body down, which is a very comforting feeling.

  Hunter had a sip of his water first, leading the way. Seconds later Olivia did the same.

  ‘I apologize if I gave you the impression that I was lying to you and your sister,’ Hunter said, maintaining eye contact. ‘It really wasn’t my intention.’

  ‘But you did lie about the sculpture piece found in my dad’s room.’ Her words were shadowed by hurt.

  Hunter nodded once. ‘Knowing the details of a crime scene, or the exact cruelty used by sociopaths, never helped anyone deal with their grief. It often has the opposite effect. Trust me on this, Ms. Nicholson. I’ve seen it many times. Me questioning you and your sister that day was already hard enough for you. There was no reason for me to add to your pain. Your answers wouldn’t have changed if I’d told you the truth about the sculpture.’