by Carter Chris
Total panic.
His eyes rolled back into his head and the contents of his stomach exploded inside him, shooting up through his chest and esophagus like a rocket, though to him everything happened in slow motion. His body started to go limp. Life was quickly draining away from him.
He felt the acid taste of vomit take hold of his mouth a fraction of a second before it was flooded by warm, lumpy liquid. At that exact moment, his gag gave in, dropping from his mouth as if someone had snipped it off at the back.
He threw up all over his lap. But the good news was he could now breathe.
After a battery of dry coughs and spits, Littlewood started taking desperate gasps of air, trying to fill his lungs with oxygen and at the same time calm himself down. He started shaking, convulsing with two realizations – one: he had just come within an inch of death; two: he was still tied to a chair, and he didn’t have a clue what was going on.
Movement came from his left. Startled, Littlewood’s head snapped in that direction. Someone was there, but the shadows didn’t allow Littlewood to see.
‘Hello?’ he said, in such a weak voice he wasn’t sure it’d been audible to anyone but himself.
A few more desperate breaths to steady himself.
‘Hello?’ he tried again.
No answer.
Littlewood looked around himself. He saw a large bookshelf crowded with leather-bound volumes, a floor lamp by the side of a large desk across the room from him – the room’s only source of light. His eyes moved right and he saw a comfortable brown leather armchair. A few feet in front of it he recognized the psychologist’s couch – his psychologist’s couch. He was back in his office.
‘By the look on your face, I can see you’ve figured out where you are.’ The phrase was delivered in an even voice. Someone had come from the shadows, and was now standing about five feet in front of him, leaning against his desk.
Littlewood’s gaze refocused on the tall figure as even more confusion settled in.
‘This is your office. Four floors up from the road below. Thick windows. Thick walls. And your window faces the back alley. Outside your door there’s a large waiting room, and only then do you reach the door to the outside hallway.’ A pause and a shrug. ‘Scream if you like, but no one will hear a peep.’
Littlewood coughed again to try and clear the vile taste from his mouth. ‘I know you.’ His voice was croaked and weak. Fear cloaked every word.
A smile and a shrug. ‘Not as well as I know you.’
Littlewood’s head was still too fuzzy for him to put a name to the face. ‘What? What’s all this?’
‘Well, what you don’t know about me is that I am . . . an artist.’ A deliberate pause. ‘And I’m here to make you into a work of art.’
‘What?’ Littlewood finally noticed that the person in front of him was wearing a clear, hooded, thick plastic jumpsuit and latex gloves.
‘But I guess that what I am does not matter. What matters is what I know about you.’
‘What?’ The fog of confusion was getting denser, and Littlewood started wondering if all this wasn’t just a bad dream.
‘For example,’ the artist continued. ‘I know where you live. I know about your awful marriage all those years back. I know where your son goes to college. I know where you go when you want to let off some steam. I know what you like when it comes to sex, and all the places you go to get it. The dirtier the better, isn’t that right?’
Littlewood coughed again. Spit dribbled down his chin.
‘But best of all . . . I know what you did.’ Pure anger found its way into the artist’s voice.
‘I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
The artist took a step to the left and the light from the pedestal lamp reflected on something that’d been laid out on Littlewood’s desk. Littlewood couldn’t make out what it was, but he realized that there were several metal objects lying there. Shuddering fear traveled through every inch of his body.
‘It’s OK. I will remind you as the night goes on.’ An irreverent chuckle. ‘And for you, it will be a long, long night.’ The artist grabbed two objects from the desk and approached Littlewood.
‘Wait. What’s your name? Could I have some water, please?’
The artist stopped directly in front of Littlewood and chuckled sarcastically. ‘What, you want to try your psychology crap with me? What would that be? Let’s see . . . ah yes . . . Appeal to the assailant’s human side by asking for the simplest of things, like water, or going to the bathroom. Sympathy for those in need is a natural sentiment to most human beings. You want to call me by my name? Who knows, maybe I’ll call you by yours – which would humanize the victim in the eyes of the assailant, transposing the victim from a simple victim to a person, a human being, someone with a name, with feelings, with a heart. Someone who the assailant could maybe identify with. Someone who, outside the given situation, could be just the same as the assailant, with friends, and family, and everyday problems.’ A new chuckle. ‘Appeal to their human nature, right? It’s supposedly harder for people to hurt someone they know. So try to strike a conversation. Even a simple one can have a massive effect on the assailant’s psyche.’
Littlewood looked up with horror in his eyes.
‘That’s right. I read the same books as you did. I know hostage-situation psychology as well. Are you sure you want to try your bullshit with me?’
Littlewood swallowed dry.
‘The building is empty. We’ve got until tomorrow morning before anyone even walks past your door. Maybe we can chat while I work, what do you say? Want to give it a try? Maybe spark some sympathy inside me?’
Tears filled Littlewood’s eyes.
‘I say let’s make a start.’
Without any more warnings, the artist pinched and twisted Littlewood’s exposed nipple with a pair of metallic medical forceps, pulling it away from his body so hard that the skin almost ruptured right there and then.
Littlewood let out an agonized cry. He felt vomit starting to rise up in his throat again.
‘I really hope you don’t mind pain. This knife isn’t very sharp.’ The other instrument the artist had retrieved from the desk was a small, serrated knife. It looked old and blunt.
‘Feel free to scream if this hurts.’
‘Oh God, pl . . . , pl . . . , please, don’t do this. I beg you. I . . .’
Littlewood’s next words were abruptly substituted by a soul-chilling scream as the artist slowly started sawing off his nipple.
Littlewood almost passed out. His mind was struggling with everything. He desperately wanted to believe that whatever was happening to him wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. He had to be inside the absurd world of some crazy dream. It was the only logical explanation. But the pain that shot up from his blood-and-vomit-soaked chest was very real.
The artist put down the blunt knife and watched Littlewood bleed for a while, waiting for him to catch his breath, to regain some of his strength.
‘As much as I’ve enjoyed that,’ the artist finally said, ‘I think I want to try something different now. This might hurt more.’
Those words sent Littlewood tumbling down a rabbit hole of such intense fear that his whole body tensed. He felt the muscles of his arms and legs cramp so hard it paralyzed him.
The artist moved closer.
Littlewood closed his eyes, and though he wasn’t a religious man, he found himself praying. Seconds later he noticed the smell. Something unbearably strong and intrusive. Something that immediately made him want to be sick again. But his stomach had nothing else to throw up.
The smell was instantly followed by excruciating pain. Only then did Littlewood realize that his skin and flesh were burning.
Seventy-Five
The call came through on Hunter’s cellphone mid-morning, just as he was getting back into his car. He’d just revisited both crime scenes – Nicholson’s house and Nashorn’s boat, still looking for something he wasn’t
even sure was there.
‘Carlos, what’s new?’ Hunter said, bringing the phone to his ear.
‘We’ve got another one.’
By the time Hunter got to the four-story office building in Silver Lake, it looked like a music concert was about to take place. A large crowd had gathered around the police perimeter, and no one was prepared to move an inch until they got at least a glimpse of something morbid.
Reporters and photographers were sniffing around like a pack of hungry wolves, listening to every rumor, collecting whatever information they could gather, and filling in the holes in their stories with their own imagination.
Police vehicles were scattered on the street and on the sidewalk, causing traffic chaos. Three officers were frantically trying to organize things, urging pedestrians to move along, telling them there was nothing to see, and signaling cars to drive on as they slowed down to take a peek.
Hunter rolled down his window and flashed one of the policemen his badge. The young officer took off his hat while squinting against the glare of the sun, and used his hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead and nape.
‘You can go around the side and park down in the building’s underground garage, Detective. Forensics and the other detectives parked their vans and cars there. No offense, but we don’t need any more cars up here.’
Hunter thanked the officer and drove on.
The underground garage was spacious enough, but very dark and gloomy. As Hunter maneuvered to park next to Garcia’s car, he identified three faulty light bulbs. He also saw no CCTV cameras anywhere, not even at the garage’s entrance. He parked, stepped out of the car and quickly studied the ample space – nothing but a cement box with pillars, parking lines on the ground, and dark corners everywhere. At the center of it, a square block with a wide metal door that led to the underground landing. From there one could choose to take the elevator or the stairs up. Hunter took the stairs. On his way to the fourth floor he passed four more uniformed police officers.
The stairwell door dropped Hunter at the end of a long corridor, alive with movement – more officers, uniformed and plain-clothed, and forensic agents.
‘Robert,’ Garcia called from just over halfway down the hallway, as he pulled down the hood on his white coverall.
Hunter walked over, frowning at the number of people crowding the scene. ‘What’s all this? Are we having a party?’
‘We might as well,’ Garcia replied. ‘This whole thing is a mess.’
‘I can see that, but why?’
‘I just got here, but the initial call didn’t come to us.’
Hunter started suiting up. ‘How come?’
Garcia unzipped his coverall and reached inside his pocket for his notebook. ‘The victim in question is Nathan Francis Littlewood – fifty-two years old, divorced. This is his psychology practice. According to Sheryl Sellers, his office-manager-stroke-secretary, and the person who found his body this morning, Littlewood was still in his office when she left at around seven-thirty last night.’
‘Late office hours,’ Hunter commented.
‘That’s what I thought. The reason was that Littlewood’s last patient ended her session at seven. Ms. Sellers said she always stays until the last patient of the day has left.’
Hunter nodded.
‘She found the body when she came in this morning to start her working day, at around eight-thirty. The problem is, understandably, she panicked when she saw what’s in there. A few people from the other offices on this floor had already arrived to start their day. They all heard the screams and came running. Grotesque or not, our crime scene became an early morning attraction before the cops got here.’
Hunter zipped up his coverall. ‘That’s just great.’
‘As I said, we weren’t the first ones called,’ Garcia continued. ‘Silver Lake falls under the Central Bureau’s jurisdiction – northeast division. Two of their detectives were sent over. When Doctor Hove arrived and saw the scene, she called us. Basically we have a platoon of people who’ve contaminated the scene.’
‘Where’s the doctor?’
Garcia’s head tilted towards the office. ‘Inside, working the scene.’
‘So is this your partner?’ The question came from the man who had come up behind Garcia. He was just under six feet tall, with short black hair, close-set eyes and eyebrows so thick and bushy they looked like hairy caterpillars.
‘Yes,’ Garcia nodded. ‘Robert Hunter, this is Detective Jack Winstanley from the Central Bureau’s northeast division.’
They shook hands.
‘Hunter . . .’ Winstanley said, while his brow creased for an instant. ‘You’re the guys who are investigating that cop’s murder, aren’t you? The one at the marina a few days ago. He used to be with the South Bureau, right?’
‘Andrew Nashorn,’ Hunter replied. ‘Yes.’
Winstanley rubbed the point between his caterpillar eyebrows with his index finger. Hunter and Garcia knew exactly what was coming.
‘Are we talking about the same killer here? Was he chopped up like the guy in there?’
‘I haven’t seen the scene yet,’ Hunter replied.
‘Don’t give me that horseshit. If you’re here to take over my murder scene, then you know what the hell I’m talking about. What’s in there is pure evil.’ He gestured towards the psychologist’s office. ‘The victim was chopped up like a casserole chicken. And what the fuck is that sick thing that was left on the desk? Are those his body parts?’
Hunter and Garcia exchanged a quick look. There was no point denying it.
‘Yes,’ Hunter said. ‘It probably is the same perpetrator.’
‘Mother of God.’
Seventy-Six
Though the first room was, in essence, a waiting room, it’d been done up to look like a residential living area – a comfortable sofa, two comfortable armchairs, a low, glass-and-chrome coffee table, a fluffy oval rug, and framed paintings on the walls. A receptionist’s desk sat half-hidden in the corner, expertly positioned so as not to intrude. Two forensics agents were silently working the room. Hunter noticed that the door wasn’t alarmed and it didn’t look to have been forced; no CCTV cameras were visible. There were no footprints on the rug or carpet. He and Garcia crossed to the door on the other side, to the right of the desk.
As with the previous two crime scenes, the first thing Hunter noticed once he pushed the door open was the blood – large, thick pools of it that had stained most of the carpet, and thin, arterial sprays that crisscrossed each other on the walls and furniture. Hunter and Garcia paused by the door for an instant, as if the horror of what was before them had produced a force field, keeping them from stepping into the room.
What was left of Littlewood’s dismembered body was resting on a blood-soaked, wheeled office chair that had been positioned about five feet in front of a large, rosewood executive desk. No arms, no legs. Just a disfigured torso and head, covered in sticky, crimson blood. His mouth was open, frozen in a scream that no one heard. By the amount of dried-up dark blood that had spilled from his mouth and now caked his chin and chest, Hunter knew his tongue had been taken from him. There were deep cuts all over his torso – clear evidence of torture. His left nipple had been cut off. Through all the blood, Hunter couldn’t really tell, but there seemed to be something different about the skin around his right nipple. Both eyelids were open. His right eye looked straight ahead in horror, but there was no left eye, just a mutilated, empty dark hole. Despite the heat in the room, Hunter’s blood ran cold.
His eyes slowly traveled the five feet between the body and the executive desk. The computer monitor, the books, and everything else that once occupied it were now on a messy pile on the floor. The desk had become the stage for the killer’s new repulsive sculpture.
Both of Littlewood’s arms had been severed at the elbow joints and placed at opposite ends on the stage, one facing north, the other facing south. The wrists had been clearly broken, but they hadn’t been sever
ed from the arms. The index and middle fingers on both hands had been pulled apart from each other to form a common V-sign. The other fingers, with the exception of the thumbs, had been severed from both hands.
Both index fingers’ knuckles had been dislocated, creating a horrible lump, which protruded outward from the hands like a tumor. The wrists were twisted forward, as if the palms were trying to touch the inside of the forearms. On the left hand, the fingers in a V-shape were fully extended, their tips touching the stage. From a distance, it looked just like what kids do when they play ‘walking fingers’. The fingers in a V-shape looked like legs, the hand like a body. The left thumb had been dislocated and pushed slightly forward.
On the right hand, the ‘walking fingers’ were also touching the stage, but their tips had been cut off at the first phalange, making them look like shorter legs. As with the left hand, the thumb looked dislocated and it had been pushed forward, but its tip was obviously broken, as it was awkwardly pointing up towards the ceiling.
Hunter looked up, checking if the disjointed tip was pointing at anything specific. Nothing. There were a few blood splatters on the ceiling, but that was all.
Neither of Littlewood’s legs was on the desk, they were both on the floor, by the computer monitor – no feet, just the defaced stumps. Part of the right thigh had been carved out. The legs didn’t look to be part of the sculpture on the desk. But this time there was something else, something different. The sculpture wasn’t made only of body parts. The killer had used common office objects to complete the work. Just inches from one of the desk corners, about three feet away from Littlewood’s left hand, the one with the longer walking fingers, a hardcover book lay flat on the desk. It was a thick volume. Its pages were drenched in blood. Its cover was fully open. Three of Littlewood’s severed fingers had been oddly placed inside the book.