Текст книги "The Death Sculptor"

Автор книги: Chris (2) Carter

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

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 severed 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.

Hunter frowned. Something was off.

He started moving towards the desk and realized that it wasn’t a book at all, but one of those secret boxes that are made to look like a book. From where Hunter was standing, it was very convincing.

As Hunter approached the desk, he saw that the fingers that had been placed inside the book-box had been carved and were bent out of shape. Two were hanging out the sides. The other one had been placed at the far end with its tip protruding upwards. The inside of the box was flooded with blood.

At the opposite end of the desk, Littlewood’s right arm, the one with the shorter ‘walking fingers’, had been positioned at a strange angle, facing the bookshelf on the corner. Pieces of his carved-out thigh had been placed a couple of feet away from the hand.

Doctor Hove and Mike Brindle, her most senior lead-forensic agent, were standing to the right of the desk. They had been discussing something in a hushed voice when both detectives had entered the room.

Hunter paused as he came closer to the desk. Just like the previous two sculptures, the mess of body parts and blood made no sense. The use of everyday office props made it all the more confusing. He took a step to his right and bent down to have a better look at the book-box.

‘It’s the same killer all right,’ Doctor Hove said. ‘And again, he reserved a whole new treatment for this new victim.’

Hunter kept his eyes on the sculpture.

‘What do you mean?’ Garcia asked.

The doctor stepped away from the desk. ‘With the first victim, the killer pumped him full of drugs to stabilize his heart rate and normalize the blood flow, trying to keep him from bleeding out too fast, but no anesthetizing drug. The killer tried to keep him alive for as long as possible, but due to his precarious condition, death came quite quickly. With the second victim, you will remember, the killer used a new approach.’

‘The severed spinal cord,’ Garcia said.

‘Precisely. The killer deliberately took away the victim’s sense of feeling, numbing his pain. His anguish was different – psychological. He was made to watch his own body parts being severed from his body. He could see he was dying, but he couldn’t feel it.’

‘And with his third victim?’ Hunter asked.

Doctor Hove looked away, as if scared to even think about it.

Seventy-Seven

Mike Brindle circled the desk and approached the two detectives. He was in his late-forties, stick thin and doorframe tall, with a full head of peppery hair and a pointy nose. He’d worked with Hunter and Garcia on more cases than he could remember. ‘We’re very sure that this victim died before he was dismembered, Robert,’ he said, taking over from Doctor Hove.

Hunter’s stare reverted back to the mutilated torso on the leather chair. ‘Intentionally?’

Brindle nodded. ‘It looks that way.’

Garcia looked confused for an instant.

‘From on-location analysis, it seems the killer made him suffer as much as he could before amputating any major body parts and causing severe blood loss. There are several smaller cuts to his torso and limbs. Deep enough to hurt, but not enough to kill. His left nipple looks to have been sawed off with a not-so-sharp instrument. His right nipple was severely burnt.’

That was what was different about the skin around his right nipple, Hunter realized. The leathery texture of the skin – burn marks, but they didn’t look to have been caused by fire.

‘Blood spillage suggests that the smaller cuts were all done while the victim was still alive,’ Brindle carried on.

‘But there is a lot of blood here,’ Garcia said, looking around the room. ‘This didn’t all come from small cuts.’

‘No,’ Doctor Hove confirmed. ‘The autopsy will tell me the correct chain of events, but if I had to venture a guess, I’d say the killer had all the fun he wanted to have before severing the first limb, which looks to have been the right leg. His heart was probably still beating. But if you think back to the previous two victims, the killer went out of his way to contain the bleeding – drugs, natural remedies, tying off arteries . . .’ She shook her head as her gaze moved back to the body on the chair. ‘Not here.’

‘The amputations on the first two victims were very clean,’ Brindle said. ‘These weren’t. Judging by the pattern on the skin, and the little we can tell from examining the bones in these conditions, the amputation incisions were performed brutally, in a hacking manner. The ones to both arms . . .’ He paused and ran his gloved hand over his nose and mouth. ‘It looks like he cut them almost all the way through, lost patience, and then simply ripped them off the body.’

Garcia’s eyes widened a touch.

‘I have no doubt the victim was already dead by then,’ Doctor Hove added.

Hunter’s gaze refocused on the floor and the several footprints. They were mainly by the door. ‘Has anything been touched?’

Doctor Hove gave him a timid shrug. ‘LAPD has tried to track down every curious office worker in this building who decided to have a peek at this. So far, they’ve all said they haven’t touched anything, and neither have the detectives and officers who have been in here; but it’s hard to tell.’ She faced the sculpture again. ‘We don’t really know what this is supposed to be, or look like. We can’t tell if anything has been moved out of place since it was constructed.’ The expectancy in her tone didn’t go unnoticed by Hunter. ‘I haven’t used a flashlight,’ she continued. ‘That’s your show.’

Garcia looked at Hunter as if to ask, How do you want to play it?

Hunter knew they couldn’t move the sculpture from that desk without disturbing it. As he had told Alice, the killer had been very meticulous about the first sculpture, but less so about the second one. He had no idea what the killer was aiming for with this third one, and something was telling him they were running out of time – fast. They couldn’t wait for the forensics lab to create another replica. ‘Do we have a flashlight?’ he asked.

‘Right here,’ Brindle said, handing him a medium-sized Maglite.

‘Let’s have a look,’ Hunter replied, taking the flashlight. He looked back at what remained of Littlewood’s body on the chair. In the second crime scene, the victim’s decapitated head had been placed in the exact location where the killer wanted the beam of light to be shone from, so that his work could be seen as he intended. One of Littlewood’s eyes was missing, but the remaining one was looking straight at the sculpture. That had to be a hint. Hunter checked the floor again.

‘Has all this been photographed, Doc?’ There was no way he could assume the same position as Littlewood’s one-eyed gaze without stepping on some blood, and maybe rolling the chair with the body a little out of the way.

Doctor Hove didn’t have to ask. She had followed Hunter’s stare and knew what was on his mind. ‘Yes, it’s all OK,’ she replied.

The window shades were already drawn shut. Brindle killed the strong forensic power lights while Hunter positioned himself directly in front of the body, being careful to level the flashlight with Littlewood’s line of sight.

Everyone seemed to take in a deep breath at the same time.

Hunter steadied himself and turned the flashlight on.

Seventy-Eight

Everyone had moved over to where Hunter was standing. Garcia was to his right, Doctor Hove and Brindle to his left. All eyes were on the images projected onto the wall behind the sculpture. Brindle shifted nervously on his feet.

‘This is freaky,’ he whispered weakly. When Doctor Hove had told him about the shadow images cast by the sculptures, he’d imagined something very creepy; but being there and seeing it with his own eyes was a whole new ball game. It had been a long time since he’d felt that uncomfortable at a crime scene.

Instinctively everyone squinted at the images, but no one had to ask. These were the clearest images so far – no animals, no horned creatures.

Littlewood’s ‘walking fingers’ of the left hand projected an image that looked just like a person standing up. The thumb that had been pushed a little forward created an arm. The dislocated knuckle at the top created a head shape. The combined image was that of a person either walking or standing still and pointing at something in front of him or her. The opened book-box projected a shadow that looked like some sort of large container with its lid open.

Depth is imperceptible in shadow images, so the open book-box, three feet away from the hand, seemed to be directly leveled with it. The composition looked like someone standing in front of a large container, pointing at it.

The twist came with the fingers that had been carved and placed inside the book-box. Their shadows created a new image that, in a strange way, resembled someone else lying inside the container. The shadow of one of the fingers created a head, resting against one end. The other two fingers, sticking out to the side of the box, created what looked like an arm and a leg. The rest of the body couldn’t be seen, as if it were submerged inside the box. The image reminded Hunter of someone leisurely lying inside a bathtub, one arm hanging out to one side, one foot up on the edge, head resting against one end.

Garcia was the first to utter a comment. ‘It looks like someone pointing at someone else sleeping inside a box, or . . . having a bath or something.’

Brindle nodded slowly. ‘Yeah, I can go with that. But why is he pointing at it?’

‘That’s part of the jigsaw,’ Garcia said. ‘We not only have to find the right angle to see the image, but we have to interpret it as well.’

‘Does it mean anything to you?’ Doctor Hove asked Hunter. ‘Does it tie in, in any way, with what you already have?’

Hunter kept his eyes on the shadow image. ‘I’m not sure, and I wouldn’t like to speculate until I’ve studied this image further.’

‘It’s quite hypnotic,’ Brindle added, tilting his head to one side and then the other, as if trying to look at the image from different angles.

‘And I’m sure that was exactly the killer’s intention,’ Garcia said. ‘OK, we’ve got to do the same thing we did inside Nashorn’s boat and photograph the shadow. We’ll need to reposition the forensics lights to where the flashlight is, that way we won’t need to use the camera flash.’

‘It’s not a problem,’ Brindle replied and started moving towards the forensics pedestal light in the corner.

‘Wait,’ Hunter said, frowning. Something wasn’t right. He turned off the flashlight and turned around, his eyes roaming the room from floor to ceiling.

‘What’s up?’ Garcia asked.

‘It doesn’t seem right.’

‘What doesn’t?’

‘The image, it’s incomplete.’

Garcia, Doctor Hove and Brindle exchanged intrigued looks. No one seemed to know what Hunter was referring to.

‘Incomplete, how?’ Doctor Hove asked.

Hunter switched the Maglite on again. The shadow image resurfaced on the wall behind the sculpture. ‘What do you see?’

‘The same as I saw just a moment ago,’ she replied. ‘Just what Carlos suggested. It looks like someone standing in front of a container that seems to be occupied by someone else. Maybe a bathtub. Why, what do you see?’

‘The same.’

Surprised looks all round.

‘So why did you say there’s something missing?’ Garcia asked. He was used to Hunter seeing things that no one else did – questioning things that no one else questioned. It was like his mind was never satisfied. He just had to keep on digging, even when the images were clear in front of his eyes.

‘The image of the container is obviously created by the fake book on the desk, and the image of the person inside it, by the torn fingers.’

‘That’s right,’ Garcia agreed. ‘And the image of the person standing in front of it is being created by the hand.’

‘OK,’ Hunter said. ‘But from this angle, we’ve got nothing from the second hand.’

Everyone looked at the victim’s right arm at the opposite end of the large desk. The one with the shorter ‘walking fingers’. In front of it the killer had laid several carved out pieces of Littlewood’s thigh.

‘The two arms are too far apart,’ Hunter continued. ‘The light beam isn’t wide enough.’

‘Maybe it isn’t part of the sculpture,’ Brindle said.

Hunter shook his head. ‘I’d agree that the legs and the severed feet aren’t part of the sculpture. They’ve been discarded by the side of the desk, but not the arm. It’s on the stage for a reason.’ Hunter’s gaze was again slowly searching the room. His eyes rested on the bookshelf lined with thick volumes to the left of the large executive desk and he paused. Three shelves from the bottom, about level with the desktop, the killer had carefully placed Littlewood’s extracted eyeball on top of a book that was lying flat. The eye was looking straight at the second sculpture from a peculiar angle.

‘Two separate images,’ Hunter said.

Everyone’s gaze followed Hunter’s.

‘Sonofabitch,’ Garcia murmured.

Hunter crossed to the bookshelf, held the flashlight level with the bloody eyeball and turned it on.

Seventy-Nine

It took them less than five minutes to reposition the forensics lights and capture two separate snapshots of the two sculptures – or the two parts of the one sculpture, depending on how one looked at it. The body and severed body parts were already being prepared for removal.

Hunter and Garcia left Doctor Hove and Mike Brindle to carry on with their work and walked over to the next office along the corridor. It belonged to an accountant, but it was now being used by the police. Sheryl Sellers, Littlewood’s office manager, who had found his body early that morning, had been sitting in there for over an hour, accompanied by a female police officer. Sheryl still hadn’t stopped shaking or crying. The female officer practically had to force-feed her a glass of sugary water.

Sheryl had answered a few questions from Detective Jack Winstanley and his partner when they first arrived at the scene, but since then she’d been speechless, sitting in the accountant’s office, blankly staring at a wall. She’d refused the offer to speak with a police psychologist. She said that all she wanted to do was leave that place and go home.

As Hunter and Garcia stepped into the office, Hunter gave the female officer a subtle nod. The officer returned his nod and stepped outside.

Sheryl was sitting on a brown, beat-up, two-seater sofa. Her knees were locked together, her hands clasped around a half-drunk glass of water resting on her lap, her whole body looked tense and stiff. She was perched right at the edge of her seat. Tears had made her eye makeup run down her cheeks, and she hadn’t bothered wiping it off. The white of her eyes had completely disappeared, they were so bloodshot from crying.

‘Miss Sellers,’ Hunter said, crouching down to catch her eye. He was careful to settle just below her line of vision, putting him in a less challenging position.

It took her several seconds to bring her attention to the man in front of her. Hunter waited until their eyes locked.

‘How are you doing?’ he asked.

She sucked in a long breath through her nose and Hunter noticed her hands starting to shake again.

‘Would you like a new glass of water?’

It took her a moment to grasp the question. She blinked. ‘Do you have anything stronger?’ Her voice was a wavering whisper.

Hunter gave her a quick smile. ‘Coffee?’

‘Anything stronger?’

‘Double coffee?’

Her expression softened a touch. In different circumstances, she would’ve smiled. She shrugged instead, and nodded once.

Hunter stood up and whispered something in Garcia’s ear, who then left the room. Hunter went back to his crouch position.

‘My name is Robert Hunter. I’m another police officer with the LAPD. I know you’ve had to talk to a few today. I’m really sorry for what has happened, and for what you had to witness this morning.’

Sheryl felt the sincerity in his voice. Her gaze moved back to the glass in her hands.

‘I know you’ve done this already. And I apologize for asking you to do it again, but could you run me through the chain of events since yesterday. From Dr. Littlewood’s last session to when you got here this morning.’

Slowly and in a quivering voice, Sheryl Sellers recounted all the events she’d already told the first two detectives at the scene. Hunter listened without interrupting. The story was consistent with what he’d already heard.

‘I really need your help, Ms. Sellers,’ Hunter said when she was done. Her silence prompted him to go on. ‘Could I ask you how long you’ve been Dr. Littlewood’s office manager?’

She looked at him again. ‘I started last spring. It’s been just over a year now.’

‘Can you remember if Dr. Littlewood seemed agitated or nervous at all after any of his sessions with any of his patients lately?’

She thought about it for an instant. ‘Not that I can remember. He was always the same at the end of a session and at the end of the day – calm, relaxed, funny, most of the time . . .’

‘Have any of his patients ever gotten violent or angry during a session?’

‘No, never. At least not since I’ve been working here.’

‘Do you know if any of his clients has ever threatened him in any way?’

Sheryl shook her head. ‘Not that I know of. If anyone has, Nathan never mentioned anything to me.’

Hunter nodded. ‘Inside Dr. Littlewood’s office we found a secret book-box. Do you know what I’m talking about?’

She nodded but no fear returned to her eyes, which told Hunter what he already expected. When Sheryl opened the door to Littlewood’s office earlier that morning, the first thing she saw was his dismembered body on the chair and all the blood. That was enough to send her into a panic. Everything else around her would’ve become a blur. Hunter doubted she had even noticed the desk and the sculpture. Instead of entering the office, she ran for help.

‘Do you know if Dr. Littlewood had one of those in his office? A black-and-white one bearing the title Subconscious Mind?’

Sheryl frowned, finding the question a little odd. ‘Yes. He kept it on his desk. But he never really used it as a secret box. That was where he always left his cellphone and car keys when he was in the office.’

Hunter wrote a few notes down in his notebook. ‘Am I right in assuming that every patient booking for a new session had to go through you?’

She nodded.

‘New clients as well?’

She nodded again.

Their eyes moved to the door as Garcia walked back into the room holding a cup of coffee. He smiled and handed it to Sheryl. ‘I hope it’s strong enough,’ he said.

She took it from him, and without caring if it was too hot or not, had a large sip. The coffee was cool enough not to burn her mouth, but she recognized the powerful taste straight away and looked up at both detectives, surprised.

‘One of the guys outside is Irish,’ Garcia explained. ‘The only coffee he knows how to prepare is an Irish coffee.’ He shrugged. ‘So I asked him.’ He smiled again. ‘It calms the nerves like nothing else.’

Her lips spread about three millimeters each side. Under the circumstances, that was the best smile she could give them. Hunter waited while Sheryl had two more sips. Her hands steadied a little and she looked back at Hunter.

‘Ms. Sellers, I know Dr. Littlewood was a very busy man. Can you tell me if he was able to accommodate any new clients in the past two, three months?’

She kept her gaze on Hunter, but her focus became distant while she searched her memory. ‘Yes, I think maybe three new clients. I need to check my records. I can’t be sure. My mind just can’t think straight right now.’

Hunter nodded, understandingly. ‘I assume your records are in your computer.’

Sheryl nodded.

‘It’s really important that we find out how many new clients Dr. Littlewood had in the last few months, how many sessions they had, and who they were.’

Sheryl hesitated. ‘I can’t give you their names. That information is confidential.’

‘I know you’re a great office manager, Ms. Sellers,’ Hunter said in an even voice. ‘And I know exactly what you’re talking about. I know I don’t look like one, but I’m also a psychologist. I understand the code of ethics and what it means. What I’m asking you for will not break that code. You will not be breaking Dr. Littlewood’s trust. The proceedings of the sessions are confidential and not our concern. I just need to know about the new clients. It’s very important.’

Sheryl had one more sip of her coffee. She’d heard about the code of ethics, but she wasn’t a psychologist. She’d never sworn to it. And if she could do anything to help catch whoever it was who had done what she’d just seen to Nathan Littlewood, by God she would.

‘I need my computer,’ she finally said. ‘But I can’t go back in there. I just can’t walk back into that room.’

‘It’s not a problem,’ Hunter said, nodding at Garcia. ‘We’ll bring your computer to you.’