Текст книги "The Death Sculptor"

Автор книги: Chris (2) Carter

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Eighty

Captain Blake pushed the door to Hunter’s office open just minutes after he and Garcia got back. Alice Beaumont was already in there.

‘The victim was a psychologist this time?’ the captain asked, reading from a single-sheet printout she had with her.

‘That’s correct,’ Garcia said. ‘Nathan Littlewood, fifty-two years old, divorced, lived alone. His ex-wife lives in Chicago with her new husband. They had one kid, Harry Littlewood, who lives in Las Vegas. He goes to college there. Nathan himself was a graduate from UCLA. Been on the board of psychologists for the city of Los Angeles for twenty-five years. His practice was based in Silver Lake. He’d been there for eighteen years. He lived in a two-bedroom apartment in Los Feliz, which we’ll be checking later on today. As a psychologist he dealt mostly with regular everyday problems – depression, relationship issues, feelings of inadequacy, low self-esteem, that kind of thing.’

Captain Blake lifted a hand, interrupting him. ‘Wait a second, how about police-related work? Has he ever helped the LAPD with any investigations?’

‘We’re on the same page as you, Captain,’ Garcia replied, clicking away on his computer. ‘If he did, that could certainly link Littlewood to the previous two victims, strengthening the probability of a revenge motive. We’re looking into it, but we’ve got twenty-five years of records to go through, and obtaining those records isn’t as easy as it may sound. We’ve only just got back from the crime-scene, but I’ve already got a small team working on it.’

The captain’s interrogating stare switched over to Alice. She was waiting for it.

‘I was just given that information,’ she said. ‘I haven’t started digging yet, but if Nathan Littlewood was ever in any way involved with a police investigation, I’ll find out.’

Captain Blake approached the pictures board and allowed her eyes to slowly go over the new crime-scene photographs. She noticed the difference straight away. ‘His body is covered in cuts and bruises. Was he tortured?’

‘Yes,’ Hunter said. ‘We’ll need to wait for the autopsy results, but Doctor Hove got the impression that this time the killer took his time with the victim until he died, before making any of the amputations.’

The captain’s attention moved to Hunter. ‘Why?’

‘We don’t know.’

‘But the killer hasn’t done that to any of the two previous victims. The amputations were the torture. Why treat this one differently?’

‘We don’t know, Captain,’ Hunter reaffirmed. ‘His anger could be escalating, but most probably he’s individualizing.’

‘And that means what?’

‘That each one of his victims will inevitably spark a whole new group of feelings inside him. Those feelings can, and will, be altered by the victim’s reaction. Some victims will be too scared to talk back. Some might think that, if they cooperate, or try to reason with the killer, it could play to their advantage. Some will try to fight back, scream, do something . . . anything, except give up. But as individuals, we all react differently to fear and danger.’

‘And the way this victim reacted might’ve really pissed the killer off,’ Captain Blake concluded.

Hunter nodded. ‘If he had a chance, and if he kept his nerve, I’m sure that Littlewood tried to talk to the killer as a psychologist, tried to dissuade him from what he was about to do. If the killer caught a hint of a patronizing tone in Littlewood’s voice, it could’ve set off an anger bomb inside him. We don’t know what went on in that room prior to the murder, captain. What we do know is that this crime scene carried a lot more anger than the previous two.’

‘More anger?’ Captain Blake looked at the two previous sets of crime-scene photographs. ‘How’s that possible?’

‘The cuts and bruises to the victim’s body suggests that the killer wanted to extend the victim’s suffering. He wanted a very slow death. One that he wouldn’t be able to achieve or control if he’d gone for the amputations too early. Littlewood’s secretary left the office at around seven-thirty in the evening. We can’t confirm it yet, but I’d say the killer got to him not much later than that. He had at least ten uninterrupted hours with the victim.’ Hunter pointed to the photograph of Littlewood’s body on the chair. ‘And he tortured him for most of them.’

‘And no one heard a peep?

‘It’s a small building full of small offices,’ Garcia replied. ‘Almost everyone had already gone home. The last one to leave was a graphic designer, whose office was on the first floor. He left at eight fifteen. The building has no CCTV security in place.’

‘And if Doctor Hove’s suspicions are correct,’ Hunter carried on, ‘the killer changed his MO for the amputations as well.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘In the first two victims, the amputation incisions were very professional,’ Garcia explained. ‘But not with the third victim. Doctor Hove said that there were indications of hacking and tearing. A butcher’s job, not a doctor’s one.’

Captain Blake let go of a worried breath. ‘OK, so what the hell does this new sculpture give us? I’m assuming there’s a new shadow image behind it.’

‘No,’ Garcia said.

‘What?’

‘There are two.’

Eighty-One

Captain Blake looked at both detectives but there was no surprise in her eyes. After what they’ve already got from this killer, hardly anything would surprise her now.

‘We’re not sure if the killer left us two different sculptures, or one sculpture in two parts,’ Garcia said. ‘He also did something else differently this time. He used office objects to complete his work.’ Garcia proceeded to explain what they’d found on Nathan Littlewood’s desk. While he did so, Captain Blake and Alice studied the new sculpture photographs in silence. When Garcia told them that the killer had extracted one of Littlewood’s eyes, seemingly for the sole reason of indicating how one part of the sculpture should be looked at, Alice felt something dislodge in her stomach.

‘We looked at this part of the sculpture first,’ Garcia said, indicating the sculpture photograph on the board. ‘And this is what we got.’ He pinned the first shadow-image photograph onto the board, directly underneath the one belonging to its corresponding sculpture.

Captain Blake and Alice stepped closer to study the picture.

‘So what the hell is this now?’ the captain said, irritation peppering her words. ‘Someone watching someone else having a bath? Has the killer gone perv now?’

‘Or someone inside a box,’ Hunter said.

‘That’s what I was about to say,’ Alice suggested, addressing Hunter. ‘I understand what you said about the level of detail of the second sculpture being lower than the first, but it was still high.’ She pointed to the photograph of the new shadow image. ‘This isn’t a bathtub. There’s a lid.’ She compared it to the photograph of the actual sculpture. ‘If the killer wanted us to think it was a bathtub, he could’ve easily ripped the lid from the original box off.’

Those had been Hunter’s exact thoughts. If it was part of the image, there was a reason for it.

‘So it looks like someone staring at someone else lying inside a box,’ the captain corrected herself. ‘Any clues as to what this might really mean?’

‘Not yet,’ Hunter replied.

‘So it’s just another meaningless clue. Another piece of this endless puzzlebox?’

Hunter said nothing.

The captain stepped back, fidgeting. ‘So what’s the second image we got?’

With the use of the crime-scene photographs, Garcia explained that the sculptures had been placed at opposite ends of the desk. By positioning the victim’s head and his extracted eye at the appropriate spots, the killer had guided the light beam that would reveal the shadow images, like a movie director.

‘This is what we got from the second one.’ Garcia pinned the second shadow image photograph to the board.

Since the second hand sculpture was very similar to the first one, it was no surprise that the shadows cast by them were almost identical. No one had any doubts that it also depicted a person, but this time, because the killer had severed the ‘walking fingers’ at the first phalange, it looked like that person was either very short, or kneeling down. The way the thumb had been positioned – forward, with its broken tip pointing up – it looked like the person had his or her arm raised, pointing at the sky. On the floor, directly in front of the figure, there were large pieces of something unrecognizable. Their shadows were created by the carved out pieces from the victim’s thigh.

‘What the hell? He’s fucking with us, that’s what he’s doing,’ Captain Blake said, after an uneasy silence. ‘What the hell is all this now? A midget? A child? Someone kneeling down? Praying? Pointing at the sky?’ Her attention went back to the previous shadow-image photograph. ‘So we have someone staring at someone else inside a box . . .’ She stabbed her finger against the newest picture on the board, ‘. . . and a midget, a child, or someone kneeling down as if worshiping something. What does any of that have to do with this new victim?’

Everyone knew it was a rhetorical question.

‘I’ll tell you what . . .’ the captain carried on, giving no one a chance to reply anyway, ‘nothing. He’s playing us, giving us animals, horned monsters, wall messages, rock songs, and now this crap. He’s wasting our time, because he knows we’ll spend hours and hours trying to figure out what all of this junk means.’ She waved her hand in a circular motion to indicate the entire pictures board. ‘Meanwhile, he’s walking the streets, planning his next murder, staking out his next victim, and laughing at us all. Shadow puppets? We are the puppets here, and he’s manipulating us in whatever way he likes.’

Eighty-Two

During the afternoon, together with Garcia and Captain Blake, Hunter had faced a press conference that seemed more like a firing squad than anything else. Reporters had talked to everyone in Nathan Littlewood’s office building, and the stories they’d got ranged from dismemberment and decapitation, to ritualistic, real-voodoo-doll creation and cannibalism. One woman had even mentioned the word vampire.

Hunter, Garcia, and Captain Blake did their best to persuade the reporters that none of the stories they heard was true. But one thing was for sure: the news of a new serial killer was about to break.

After the press conference, Hunter and Garcia got to work on the names Littlewood’s secretary had given them. In the past three months, due to his already full roster, Nathan Littlewood had only been able to taken on three new clients – Kelli Whyte, Denise Forde, and David Jones.

Kelli Whyte and Denise Forde both started their therapy sessions last month, and each had had four in total. David Jones had called enquiring about a consultation two weeks ago. He had come in for his first ever session at the beginning of the week. Sheryl said that Jones was a tall man, maybe six two, six three, with broad shoulders and an average body. She wasn’t able to tell Hunter very much about his looks, though. She said that Jones had turned up for his only session a few minutes late, clearly concerned about concealing his appearance. He was wearing sunglasses and a baseball hat pulled low on his forehead; according to Sheryl, though, this wasn’t uncommon among clients, especially the Hollywood types.

Hunter found out that Kelli Whyte was a 45-year-old recent divorcee who lived in Hancock Park. She managed a stock-trade company based in downtown LA’s financial district, and since her divorce six months earlier, she had been struggling to cope with life in general.

Denise Forde was a 27-year-old computer analyst who lived alone in South Pasadena, and worked in a software company in Silver Lake. All they’d found out about her so far was that she was very shy, lacked confidence, and didn’t seem to have many friends.

Neither Kelli nor Denise struck Hunter as possible suspects. David Jones, on the other hand, had proven to be an enigma so far. The address Sheryl had for him on file was wrong. It turned out to be a small sandwich shop in West Hollywood. The cellphone number on file rang indefinitely without being answered. And David Jones was too common a name for its owner to be easily traced. A quick search showed that in downtown Los Angeles alone there were over forty-five of them. In any case, Hunter had no doubt that the name was false. He was sure the killer had visited Littlewood’s office before the day of the murder. This killer was too thorough not to have done any reconnaissance. The killer knew that Littlewood’s office building was deserted at night. He knew that the building had a very low security level, with no night watchmen and no CCTV. He knew that gaining access to the building was child’s play. But most of all, he knew he didn’t have to bring a small box to complete his sculpture. He knew Littlewood kept that secret book-box on his desk. This killer was too bold, too arrogant. He would’ve wanted to sit face to face with Littlewood in his office before the day he killed him. Maybe just for the fun of it. And what better way to do it than to pose as a client? Anonymity would be a very easy thing to accomplish. Maybe Captain Blake was right – the killer was playing everyone like a puppet.

Eighty-Three

It was late when the phone on Hunter’s desk rang. He reluctantly dragged his attention away from the pictures board and reached for it.

‘Robert, I’ve got a few results for you,’ came Doctor Hove’s tired voice.

Hunter consulted his watch and was surprised at how late it was. Once again he had lost track of time. ‘You still working, Doc?’ He gestured for Garcia to pick up his extension.

‘Yeah, you should talk. And I bet Carlos is still in the office as well.’

‘Yeah, I’m here,’ Garcia said, pulling a face.

‘You won’t catch this guy by frying your brains, Robert. You know that.’

‘Yeah, we were just about to pack it all up for the day here, Doc.’

‘Of course you were.’

Hunter smiled. ‘So what have you got for us?’

Hunter and Garcia heard the sound of pages turning. ‘As we expected, all the cuts and bruises to the victim’s torso were done while he was still alive. I put the time of death somewhere between three and five in the morning.’

‘That would’ve given the killer at least three hours to create his sculpture,’ Hunter said.

‘That’s right,’ Doctor Hove agreed. ‘Like the previous two victims, this one also died from major-organ failure, mainly heart and kidneys, induced by severe loss of blood. The victim also had burn marks to his right nipple, torso, arms, genitals, and to his back. I am positive they were made with a hair iron.’

‘What?’ Garcia asked.

‘Some call them hair straighteners.’

‘Yes, I know what they are, Doc. Are you sure?’

‘As positive as I can be. The burn-marks are very uniform, with asymmetric straight-line edge. The ones to his nipple were what gave it away. The nipple tip isn’t burnt. The marks start just a few millimeters to each side of it, as if the nipple had been pinched away from the body, and then clamped through the side with a pair of red-hot clampers.’

Garcia ground his teeth and crossed his left arm over his chest.

‘The burn-marks were made by three-centimeter-wide plates, give or take a millimeter or two, which is pretty standard for several hair-iron brands. When the killer was done torturing the victim, he moved on to the amputations. The left leg was amputated first. The victim was still alive, but I’d say barely. That answers the question of why there was so much blood at the crime-scene. As I said, this time the killer wasn’t concerned with containing the hemorrhaging. There was no tying off or clipping of major arteries or large veins and vessels. The killer was happy to allow the victim to bleed out, and for that reason I don’t think we’re going to get much from toxicology this time. Or at least no heart-rate reducing drugs.’

‘But maybe some other type of drug?’ Hunter asked, picking up on Doctor Hove’s uncertain tone.

‘Maybe. I found a needle prick bruise to the right side of the victim’s neck. It looks like the killer injected the victim with something, we just don’t know what exactly, yet.’

Hunter scribbled a few notes on a piece of paper.

‘We were also correct about the killer’s lack of concern with the quality of the amputation incisions this time,’ Doctor Hove continued. ‘The instrument used was the same . . .’

‘An electric kitchen knife,’ Garcia said.

‘Uh-huh. But this time he used it more like a butcher, hacking and twisting it as if carving a roast. Also, I found no visible incision-line marks as on the previous two victims. The killer wasn’t worried about a correct cut point.’

‘He’s started enjoying this too much,’ Garcia commented.

‘We also found ligature marks on the wrists, forearms and ankles. Unlike the previous two, this victim was restrained. And that constitutes yet another departure from the initial MO. We didn’t find the restraining rope at the crime scene.’ More pages turning. ‘The wire used on the sculpture was the same as used on the previous two, and so was the bonding agent – superglue. As expected, forensics found several sets of latent prints in the office and reception room.’

‘The office cleaner came twice a week,’ Hunter said. ‘Last time was two days ago. She was due back tomorrow, early morning. We’ll run the prints anyway, but I’m sure they will belong to legitimate clients.’

Doctor Hove sighed. ‘That’s all I can tell you from the autopsy examination.’

‘Thanks, Doc.’

‘Any progress with the new shadow images? Any links with the previous two?’

‘We’re still studying them, Doc,’ Hunter replied. This time his voice sounded tired.

‘Just out of curiosity, let me know if you get something, will you?’

‘Sure thing. By the way, Littlewood’s secretary told me that he used that secret book-box for his car keys and cellphone when he was in the office. Did forensics find them?’

‘Give me a sec.’ Fifteen silent seconds went by. ‘No, it’s not in the inventory. I’m looking at it right now. But they did find his last few cellphone bills. He kept them in a drawer in his desk.’

‘That could help. Could you send them over?’

‘No problem, you’ll have them first thing in the morning. OK, I’m going home now to a much-needed rest and a nice glass of wine,’ Doctor Hove said.

‘That sounds like a great idea to me,’ Garcia replied, while fixing Hunter down with a stare.

‘Yeah, you’re right, Doc,’ Hunter agreed, nodding at Garcia. ‘We need some rest before we fry.’

‘I’ll email you the autopsy results right now, and any lab results as soon as I get them, but you know the drill, it might be another day or two, even with an urgent request.’

‘That’s fine, Doc. Thank you for giving this high priority.’

Eighty-Four

Eleesha Holt woke up with the first rays of sunlight. No alarm needed. Her mind’s clock was as fine-tuned as a precision Swiss timepiece. But this morning, instead of getting up straight away as she always did, Eleesha lay in bed for an extra ten minutes, staring at the ceiling of her small bedroom. Thoughts of the long day ahead raced through her mind, and all of a sudden she was engulfed by terrible sadness and a feeling of helplessness. Slowly, she dragged herself off the bed, into the bathroom, and into a warm shower.

After the shower, Eleesha wrapped a towel around her head and slipped into her pale yellow bathrobe. She cleared a circular patch on the misty mirror and stared at her reflection for a long minute. Her sunken eyes, tired skin and weak gums were the result of a young life eaten away by drugs and alcohol. The scar on her left cheek was the result of sleeping with so many men and women – some of them could, and would, get violent. Her black skin did a great job of naturally disguising the dark circles under her eyes. Her hair had lost a lot of its natural shine and life, but with some effort, and a very hot hair iron, she could still make it look nice when she needed to.

Eleesha took a step back from the mirror, undid her bathrobe and let it fall to the floor. She tentatively ran a hand over her stomach, allowing the tips of her fingers to caress the three stabbing scars on it. Tears started to form in her eyes and she quickly reached for her bathrobe again, shaking the memories of her early life away from her mind.

After a quick breakfast, Eleesha returned to her bedroom, applied some light makeup, got dressed in jeans, a long-sleeve shirt, and comfortable, everyday shoes, before making her way to the subway station. From Norwalk, where she lived, it was only four stops to Compton, with a subway-line change at Imperial/Wilmington.

At that time in the morning, Norwalk Station wasn’t busy yet. Eleesha knew that if she tried to leave her apartment around the morning rush hour, she would have to endure a hell of a journey – overcrowded station, overcrowded train, and not a chance in hell of getting a seat. No, Eleesha would rather get to her job half an hour earlier than venture into the city’s transport system at rush hour. There was always something to do at her desk anyway.

Eleesha had never gone to college. In fact, she’d dropped out of school midway through eighth grade, but her earlier life made her an expert in what she did. Eleesha was part of the Specialized Supportive Services branch of the Los Angeles Department of Public Social Services. The Specialized Supportive Services was created to help anyone dealing with domestic violence, substance abuse, mental-health problems, violence against women, and broken families.

Eleesha dealt exclusively with women struggling with substance abuse and domestic violence, and street workers who wanted to get out of the game. Her days were tough, long, and filled with sadness, frustration and other people’s suffering. There had been so many women she thought she’d helped, for whom she thought she’d made a difference, only for them to fall straight back into their old life just a few months later. But every now and again, Eleesha would succeed in getting someone off the streets and keeping her off. She had seen a few of the women she had helped go on to find a good job, raise a family, and start a brand new life, away from all the suffering and the addiction. Those moments made her job worthwhile.

Eleesha got into the train and grabbed a seat towards the back of the car. An attractive thirty-something man sat two seats to her right, wearing a navy-blue suit and holding a paper coffee cup that could probably hold a gallon. He nodded a cordial ‘hello’ as he boarded. Eleesha returned the gesture, and followed it with a smile. The man started to smile back, when he caught a glimpse of the scar on her left cheek. He quickly looked away and pretended to be searching for something inside his briefcase.

Eleesha’s smile faded. She had lost count of how many times she’d been through that exact situation. She pretended she didn’t care, but deep inside her battered ego, another scar was created.

In Lakewood, the next stop along, several people boarded the car. A woman of about twenty-five sat directly in front of Eleesha. She was wearing a light-brown trouser suit and beige, suede flat-heeled shoes, and carrying a lawyer’s leather briefcase. The man to Eleesha’s right had already finished his gallon of coffee, and after adjusting his tie gave the young woman his best smile. The woman never even noticed him. She took her seat and retrieved a newspaper from her briefcase. Eleesha smiled internally.

As the woman sat back and started reading her newspaper, something on the front page caught Eleesha’s attention. Her eyes narrowed. The headline read ‘SCULPTOR SERIAL KILLER CLAIMS THIRD VICTIM’. Eleesha leaned forward and squinted even harder at the woman’s paper. The first paragraph of the article went on to describe how a new, sadistic serial killer had torn the arms and legs off his victims’ bodies, only to use them to create grotesque, human-flesh sculptures, left at the scene. The article speculated that acts of cannibalism and perhaps black-magic rituals had also been performed. Eleesha pulled a disgusted face but carried on reading. The next line sent her memory swirling like a tornado.

No, she thought, it can’t be the same.

Only then did her eyes register the photographs at the bottom of the article. Her heart stuttered as all doubt quickly vanished from her mind.