Текст книги "The Death Sculptor"

Автор книги: Chris (2) Carter

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Nine

In a city like Los Angeles, violent crimes aren’t uncommon. In fact, they are pretty much the norm. It’s not surprising that on average LA coroners are as busy throughout the year as any ER doctor. Work piles up like snow, and everything has to follow a schedule. Even with an urgent request, it was a whole day before Doctor Hove was able to start the autopsy on Derek Nicholson’s body.

Hunter had managed to get only four hours of sleep. In the morning his eyes felt gritty, and the headache lurking at the base of his skull was typical of a sleep hangover. Experience told him that there was nothing he could do or take to get rid of it. It’d been part of his life for over thirty years now.

Hunter was getting ready to leave for the PAB when Doctor Hove called saying that she was finally done with Derek Nicholson’s autopsy.

At 7:30 a.m., he covered the seven miles between his apartment and the LA County Department of Coroner in North Mission Road in seventeen minutes flat. Garcia had arrived just a minute before him and was waiting for Hunter in the parking lot. He was clean shaven and his hair was still wet from his shower, but the bags under his eyes belied the fresh morning look.

‘I’ve gotta tell you, I’m not looking forward to this,’ Garcia said, greeting Hunter as he stepped out of his car.

Hunter looked at him curiously. ‘Have you ever looked forward to anything when you walk into this building?’

Garcia stared at the old hospital turned morgue. The building was architecturally impressive. Its façade was a stylish combination of red brick and light-gray lintels. The sumptuous steps that led to its main entrance added another touch of elegance to a structure that could easily be mistaken for a traditional European university edifice. A beautiful shell for a building that sheltered so much death.

‘Point taken,’ Garcia admitted.

Doctor Hove met both detectives by the staff entrance door on the right side of the building. Her silky black hair was tied back into a conservative-looking bun. She had no makeup on, and the whites of her eyes showed just enough red to suggest that she hadn’t had a good night of sleep either.

They greeted each other with simple head bobs, and in silence Hunter and Garcia followed her into a long and brightly lit corridor. At that time in the morning, there was no one else around, which, coupled with the bland white walls and the squeaky-clean vinyl floors, made the place look and feel much more sinister.

At the end of the hallway, they took the steps going down to the basement and onto a shorter and not so well-lit corridor.

‘I used our special autopsy theater,’ the doctor said as she came up to the last door on the right.

Special Autopsy Theater One was usually used for postmortem examinations of bodies that, for one reason or another, could still pose some sort of public threat – infection with highly contagious viral diseases, exposure to radioactive materials and/or locations, chemical-warfare agent contaminations, and so on. The room had its own separate database system and cold-storage facility. Its heavy door was secured by a six-digit electronic lock combination. The chamber was also sometimes used during high-profile murder investigations – a security provision to better prevent sensitive information from reaching the press and other unwanted parties. Hunter had been in it plenty of times.

Doctor Hove punched the code into the metal keyboard on the wall and the heavy door buzzed open.

They all stepped inside a large and winter-cold room. It was lit by two rows of florescent lights that ran the length of the ceiling. Two steel tables dominated the main floor space, one fixed, one wheeled. A blue hydraulic hoist stood next to a wall of fridges with small, square, mirror-polished doors. Both examination tables were covered by white sheets.

Doctor Hove put on a new pair of latex gloves and approached the one furthest from the door.

‘OK, let me show you what I found out.’

Garcia shifted on his feet in anticipation while Hunter reached for a surgical mask. He wasn’t afraid of contamination, but he hated the distinct odor that came with every autopsy chamber – as if something rotten had been scrubbed to high heaven with strong disinfectant. A stale scent that seemed to beckon from beyond the grave to haunt those still living.

‘The official cause of death was heart failure . . .’ Doctor Hove said, pulling the white sheet aside and revealing the dismembered torso of Derek Nicholson, ‘. . . induced by loss of blood and probably sheer pain. But he held on for a while.’

‘What do you mean?’ Garcia asked.

‘Skin and muscle trauma indicate that he’d lost his fingers and toes, his tongue, and at least one of his arms before his heart stopped beating.’

Garcia took a deep breath and shook off the uncomfortable shiver that hugged his neck.

‘We were right about the saw-like instrument used for all the amputations,’ the doctor continued. ‘Definitelyly something very sharp with a serrated edge. But the blade’s teeth weren’t as fine as one would expect. And the distance between them is certainly larger than usual when compared to the instruments usually reserved for clinical amputations.’

‘A handheld, carpenter’s saw, maybe?’ Garcia asked.

‘I don’t think so.’ The doctor shook her head. ‘The consistency of the cuts is too uniform. There’s some hacking, but mainly when the cutting instrument hit bone, which isn’t surprising, especially given that I’d expect the victim wasn’t sedated at all. Toxicology will test for any trace of drugs found in the victim’s blood, but that will take a day, maybe two, but without anesthesia the pain would’ve been unbearable. Even being held tight, the victim would’ve shrieked and writhed incessantly, making the amputation job much harder.’

Garcia sucked in a cold breath through clenched teeth.

‘But keeping the victim alive shouldn’t have been a concern. The perpetrator could’ve just chopped his arms and legs off in whichever way he wanted.’

‘But he didn’t,’ Hunter said.

‘No he didn’t,’ Doctor Hove agreed. ‘The killer wanted the victim alive for as long as possible. He wanted the suffering. The cuts were well and properly performed.’

‘Medical knowledge?’ Hunter asked.

‘Despite the fact that nowadays anyone can spend a few hours on the Internet and acquire detailed instructions and diagrams on how to perform an amputation, I’d say the killer has at least basic knowledge of medical procedures and anatomy, yes.’ Her stare focused on the second autopsy table. ‘He sure as hell knew what he was doing. Have a look at this.’

Ten

Something in Doctor Hove’s demeanor and tone of voice concerned both detectives. They followed her over to the second examination table.

‘I have no doubt everything that happened in that room was planned, and very well planned.’ She pulled back the white cover sheet. The macabre sculpture left behind by the killer had been dismantled. Derek Nicholson’s severed body parts were now carefully arranged on the cold metal slab. They’d all been washed clean of the blood that had encrusted them before. ‘Don’t worry,’ the doctor said to Hunter, noticing his concern. ‘The lab took enough pictures and measurements to create the replica you wanted. You’ll get it in a day or two.’

Hunter and Garcia’s stare stayed on the body parts.

‘Did you make anything of the sculpture, Doc?’ Garcia asked.

‘Nothing at all. And I had to dismantle that thing myself.’ She coughed to clear her throat. ‘I swabbed under the fingernails. No hairs or skin. Just regular dirt and excrement.’

‘Excrement?’ Garcia pulled a face.

‘His own,’ Doctor Hove confirmed. ‘During tremendous pain, the kind that’d come from an amputation without anesthesia, the subject will undoubtedly lose control of his bladder and bowels. And that’s the strange thing.’

‘What is?’ Garcia questioned.

‘He was clean,’ Hunter said. ‘When we got to the crime-scene, the bed sheet should’ve been saturated with urine and feces. It wasn’t.’

‘Because of his illness and his lack of mobility, going to the bathroom wasn’t such a mundane task anymore,’ Doctor Hove took over again, ‘his nurses helped him to it, but when they weren’t there, he wore adult diapers.’

‘Yeah, we saw the package in one of the drawers,’ Garcia said.

‘Forensics found a pair of dirty ones wrapped in a plastic bag inside the trashcan downstairs.’

Garcia’s eyes widened. ‘The killer cleaned him up?’

‘Not so much cleaned him up, but someone did dispose of the dirty diaper.’

No one said anything for several seconds, so Doctor Hove moved on. ‘The reason I believe the killer has knowledge of medical procedures is because I found these.’ She pointed to the upper portion of one of the severed arms, just around where the cut had been made. ‘I only saw them when I washed the blood off the arms and legs.’

Hunter and Garcia stepped closer. The faint outline of a black marker pen could be seen on the rubbery-looking skin. It created an incomplete circle going around the arm just about where the cut had been made.

‘In complicated medical procedures such as amputations, where the incision point needs to be very accurate, it is not uncommon for doctors, or whoever is performing the surgery, to mark the correct location with a pen.’

‘But so would someone who found the information in a book, or over the Internet, as you said, Doc,’ Garcia countered.

‘That’s also true,’ she agreed, ‘but check this out.’ She walked back to the first examination table and Derek Nicholson’s torso. Hunter and Garcia followed. ‘During an amputation, it’s vital that all major blood vessels, like the brachial artery in the arms and the femoral artery in the legs, are properly tied off, or else the patient will bleed out in no time.’

‘They weren’t tied off,’ Hunter said, bending down to have a better look. ‘I checked it at the crime-scene. No suture, no knot.’

‘That’s because the killer didn’t use a thread to stop the blood flow, as most doctors would. The brachial artery in the right arm was clamped. The marks can be seen under a microscope. He used medical forceps.’

Hunter straightened up his body. ‘Only in the right arm?’

Doctor Hove adjusted her surgical cap. ‘That’s right. And the reason is probably because the victim’s heart gave in before the killer could amputate anything else. The fact of the matter, Robert, is that the killer prolonged the victim’s life and suffering for as long as he could. But to do that without a surgical team to help him, he had to perform the cuts as quickly and as cleanly as possible, and contain the hemorrhaging as best as he could,’ Doctor Hove concluded.

‘And you’re sure there’s no chance he could’ve used a professional saw like the ones used here at the morgue?’ Garcia pushed.

‘No,’ she replied, reaching for the Mopec autopsy saw on the worktop behind her. ‘Portable autopsy saws use small, circular blades with extremely fine teeth.’ She showed them the instrument. ‘The finer the blade’s teeth, the more accurate the cut, and the easier it is to cut through tougher surfaces like bones and muscles in full rigor mortis.’

Both detectives quickly examined the saw and its blade.

‘But an autopsy blade isn’t wide enough. You need something that transcends the entire width of the body part being amputated. Circular saws also leave a very distinct cut pattern, smoother than most.’

‘And that’s not what we have,’ Hunter guessed.

‘Nope. We have a friction pattern. Two very sharp blades, side-by-side, moving back and forth in opposite directions to create a sawing action.’

Hunter handed the autopsy saw back to her. ‘You mean . . . something like an electric kitchen carving knife?’

‘You’re kidding,’ Garcia interjected.

‘That’s exactly what I think the killer used,’ Doctor Hove said. ‘A large, powerful, electric kitchen carving knife.’

‘Will those cut through bone?’ Garcia asked.

‘The most powerful ones will cut through a frozen joint of beef,’ the doctor said, ‘especially with brand new blades.’

‘Do we know if the victim had one in the house?’ Garcia asked.

‘If that’s what the killer used,’ Hunter said. ‘The knife didn’t come from the victim’s kitchen. The killer brought it with him.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because not having the amputating instrument with him would suggest that the amputations were unplanned and that the killer came into the house unprepared.’

‘And that’s something this killer certainly wasn’t,’ Doctor Hove said. ‘And that reminds me. To keep the pieces of his sculpture together, the killer didn’t use only metal wire, he also used a super-fast bonder, like superglue.’

‘Superglue?’ Garcia almost chuckled.

The doctor nodded. ‘Perfect for the job, really – easy to use, dries in seconds, easily adheres to skin and creates an extremely firm hold. But what gets me is that this seems like a totally pointless killing.’

‘Aren’t they all?’ Hunter commented.

‘True, but what I mean is that there was very little achievement in killing this victim.’ She walked towards a chart on the west wall that itemized the weights of the deceased’s brain, heart, lungs, liver, kidneys and spleen. On the counter next to it there was a plastic bag filled with several of the victim’s organs. She reached for it and lifted it up. ‘Cancer had pretty much obliterated his lungs. He probably would’ve survived another week, maybe two. And this kind of lung damage means pain, a lot of it. He was already dying and going through unimaginable suffering. Why kill him like this?’

No one said anything.

No one knew what to say.

Eleven

Los Angeles County District Attorney Dwayne Bradley was a tough-as-nails man who displayed no patience for anyone who even contemplated breaking the law. At sixty-one, he’d been a prosecutor for thirty years, and the Los Angeles DA since his election in the year 2000. Upon being sworn into office, he told his staff to show no fear in pursuing the criminal element, and to seek justice always and at all costs. Dwayne Bradley lived by that rule.

Bradley was short and stocky, with just enough white hair left to cover his temples. His chubby cheeks went bright pink and jiggled ferociously whenever he argued a point. His temper had the shortest of fuses, and if gesticulation was the name of the game, Dwayne Bradley certainly was a champion at it. In short, he looked like an overexcited Mafia Don who’d decided to go straight.

This morning, instead of driving to his office in West Temple Street, he made his way to the PAB and into Captain Blake’s office. He’d been there for five minutes when Hunter knocked at the door.

‘Come in,’ the captain called from her desk.

Hunter stepped into her office and closed the door behind him. ‘You wanted to see me?’

‘It was I who wanted to see you,’ Bradley said from the corner of the room.

If Hunter was surprised by the DA’s presence, he didn’t show it. ‘DA Bradley,’ Hunter greeted him with a polite head nod, but no handshake.

‘Detective.’ Bradley returned the gesture.

Hunter’s stare moved to Captain Blake for a couple of seconds before reverting back to the DA.

‘Well, I’m not here to waste your time or mine with bullshit,’ Bradley said, cutting straight to the chase. ‘We’re all very busy and I appreciate that.’ He paused for effect – force of habit. ‘Derek Nicholson. You have been appointed as the lead detective in his murder investigation. An investigation that I will be personally overseeing.’ He tilted his head in the direction of the file on Captain Blake’s desk. ‘I read your initial report, detective. I also saw the crime-scene pictures.’ Bradley started pacing the room. ‘In thirty years as a prosecutor I’ve never seen anything quite like that, and I’ve seen a lot of sick shit, believe me. That wasn’t murder. That was an atrocity without precedent. A cowardly, deranged act of unimaginable violence by some scumbag who isn’t fit to call himself human. And I, for one, want the death penalty for that motherfucker. Hell, I’ll bring back the fucking guillotine just for this sack of shit. And I’ll be sitting pretty and smiling when his head hits the floor.’ His cheeks were starting to go pink. ‘And what the hell was that freaky thing he left behind?’

No one answered.

‘Now, the crime-scene photographs show a totally chaotic scene, totally consistent with a rage outburst of immense proportions. But your report suggests the whole thing was premeditated and thought through. You’re saying the killer planned to lose control?’

‘He didn’t,’ Hunter said.

Bradley frowned. ‘Didn’t what?’

‘Lose control.’

Bradley waited but Hunter didn’t say anything else. ‘Do you have a speech impediment? Are you capable of forming full sentences?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes, what?’ Bradley looked at Captain Blake as if asking ‘Is this really the person you’re putting in charge of this investigation?’

‘Yes, I am able to form full sentences.’

‘So please, burst a nut. Form as many as you like and do develop on your statement of a moment ago.’

‘Which statement was that?’

‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.’ Spit was starting to accumulate at the edges of the DA’s mouth. ‘The one where you said that the killer did not lose control.’

Hunter shrugged. ‘The perp used an unusual weapon to dismember the victim, possibly an everyday household electric carving knife. Before doing that, he used a marker pen to plot the incision lines on the victim’s arms and legs. After at least one of the amputations, the killer used medical clamps or forceps to tie off the arteries and restrict the bleeding, prolonging the victim’s life for several minutes. To create his sculpture, he needed several pieces of metal wire and a super bonder – superglue. And there was no blood anywhere else in that house except in that bedroom.’ Hunter allowed his suggestion to hang in the air.

DA Bradley was still looking at him with the same ‘I don’t get your point’ look on his face.

‘The perp had all of that equipment with him,’ Captain Blake explained. ‘He entered that house completely prepared to do what he did. Also, with the tremendous distribution of blood at the crime scene, there was no way the perp wasn’t completely covered in it when he finished. The lack of any blood traces anywhere else in the house suggests that the killer got changed before leaving the bedroom. Probably stuck his blood-soaked clothes into a plastic bag.’ She tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear. ‘Despite the chaotic state of the crime scene, there is nothing chaotic about our killer, Dwayne. It was all planned, to the last detail.’

Bradley took a deep breath and ran a hand over his mouth. ‘Derek was a friend as well as a colleague.’ His tone had changed in a flash. He now sounded like he was addressing a jury with his opening remarks. ‘I’d known him for over twenty years. I had dinner and drinks in his house many times, and he in mine. I knew his wife. I know his daughters. I’m the one who will accompany them to the morgue for the official identification.’ A muscle tensed in his jaw. ‘And they still don’t know all the sadistic details of their father’s murder. They don’t know about the sculpture. And I’m not sure if they should know. It would destroy them inside.’ His gazed moved around the room before returning to Hunter. ‘Derek was an excellent prosecutor and a devoted family man. We all felt saddened and robbed of an extraordinary person when he was diagnosed with terminal cancer of the lung just a few months ago, but this . . .’ His eyes stole a new peek at the file and photographs on Captain Blake’s desk. ‘This beggars belief.’

If DA Bradley was expecting anyone to make some sort of comment, he was disappointed.

‘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.’