The Death Sculptor rh-4

by Carter Chris

  Rogers adjusted his cap. ‘So, who would you like us to allow up here?’

  Hunter and Garcia frowned.

  ‘Forensics, of course, but anyone else? Any other detectives?’

  Hunter subtly shook his head. ‘I don’t follow you.’

  ‘Well, soon this place will be heaving with angry cops.’

  Confusion was still stamped across both detectives’ faces.

  ‘The victim,’ Rogers explained. ‘His name was Andrew Nashorn. He was one of us. He was an LAPD cop.’

  Twenty-Six

  Hunter and Garcia slipped on a brand new pair of latex gloves and plastic shoe covers. They both pulled out their Maglites before crossing the gangplank onto the boat. As they boarded, Hunter paused and looked around the deck. He saw no footprints, no blood drippings or splatters, no signs of any struggle.

  Garcia was already on the phone to the Operations office, requesting that a basic file on Andrew Nashorn be sent to his cellphone. A more detailed file could wait until later.

  From starboard, where he was standing, Hunter could see more police vehicles with flashing lights arriving at the parking lot. Rogers was right, there was nothing that would rattle a police officer in the United States more than a cop-killer. Police bureaus in LA had their differences, sometimes even a little rivalry. Some departments didn’t really care for each other, and some of their detectives and officers didn’t see eye to eye. But every cop, every department, every bureau would come together like the closest of families whenever someone with a badge was murdered. Rage would spread through every police station in Los Angeles like celebrity gossip in Hollywood.

  ‘If this really is the same killer,’ Garcia said, coming off his cell. ‘The shit will hit the jet engine, Robert. First a DA’s prosecutor, and now a cop? Whoever this killer is, he’s got balls.’

  Garcia was right, and Hunter also knew that the pressure on them and their investigation, and the need for answers, was about to increase a hundredfold. As he turned towards the boat’s cabin, he heard footsteps coming from the boardwalk outside.

  ‘I came as fast as I could,’ Doctor Hove said, flashing her credentials at the three officers at the foot of the gangplank. Before boarding, she too slipped on a pair of latex gloves and shoe covers. ‘What have we got? Does it really look like the work of the same perp?’ She pulled her loose chestnut hair back and tied it up in a ponytail before tucking it under a surgical cap she’d retrieved from her bag.

  The initial priority on a crime scene was always the forensic investigation, but Doctor Hove knew that, whenever possible, Hunter liked to get a feel for the scene with the body in situ, before it was disturbed in any way.

  ‘We haven’t gone down to the cabin yet,’ Hunter said. ‘We’ve been here less than two minutes.’

  Just like Hunter, Doctor Hove paused and looked around the deck. She carried her own Maglite. ‘OK, let’s go look at this.’

  Five narrow wooden steps led them down into the boat’s small cabin. The door was open, and the weak light inside came from six stick candles. They had pretty much burnt down to the end.

  No one entered the room. All three of them gathered at the two last steps that led into the cabin.

  For several seconds no one said a word. Their eyes taking in the horrifying picture before them. As with the first crime scene, it was hard to know where to start. The place was bathed in blood. Large pools covered most of the floor, and thick, runny splashes decorated the walls and the sparse furniture; but this time there were several footmark-like disturbances around the entire area.

  An unpleasant sour smell seemed to hit everyone at the same time, and as if by mutual agreement, their hands moved to their faces to cover their noses.

  ‘Sweet Jesus,’ Garcia whispered. His unblinking stare was locked on the far end of the room. ‘He took off the head this time.’

  Twenty-Seven

  All eyes followed Garcia’s gaze.

  Next to the kitchenette right at back of the cabin, a naked male body sat on a wooden chair. It was headless, armless and caked in blood. His knees were slightly bent, placing his lower legs just under the chair’s seat. His feet had also been severed at the ankles.

  Hunter was the first to spot the head. It was sitting on a low coffee table, just behind a pot plant. Nashorn’s mouth was wide open, as if the last terrified scream was still to come out. His now-milky eyes had sunk deeper into his skull, indicating that he’d been dead for over an hour. But the stare was still in them. A long, distant, disbelieving and frightened stare. The stare of someone who knew he would die an agonizing death. Hunter followed it. It ended at what they were dreading. A new sculpture created with the victim’s body parts. It was sitting on a tall breakfast bar against the corner.

  It took Garcia and Doctor Hove a few seconds to notice it.

  ‘Oh shit!’ Garcia whispered, focusing his flashlight on the sculpture.

  ‘I guess the answer to my previous question is – yes, it’s got to be the same perpetrator,’ the doctor said.

  Hunter moved the focus of his Maglite to the floor, and one by one they entered the room, being careful to avoid the blood pools as much as they could. Hunter picked up a strange, stinging smell in the air. He knew he’d smelled it before, but with the cocktail of scents inside that cabin, it was impossible for him to identify it.

  ‘OK to turn on the lights, doc?’ Garcia asked.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ She nodded.

  Garcia hit the switch.

  The ceiling light flickered twice before coming on. Its intensity just slightly stronger than the candles.

  Doctor Hove crouched down by the door, her attention on the first large pool of blood. She dipped the tip of her index finger in it, and then rubbed it against her thumb to check for viscosity. Its strong, metallic smell burned at her nose but she didn’t even flinch. Standing up, she walked around the outer perimeter towards the chair and the decapitated and dismembered body.

  Hunter made his way to the coffee table where the head had been left. Intense, unsettling fear was etched all over the victim’s face, while streaks of splashed blood colored it like war paint. Hunter bent over and examined the mouth. Unlike the first victim, Nashorn’s tongue hadn’t been cut off. It had recoiled back, almost touching the tonsils, but it was still there. There was enormous damage to the left side of the face. An exposed fracture showed at the jaw, with a piece of bone, a quarter of an inch wide and covered in blood, protruding through the skin.

  ‘Rigor mortis hasn’t really started yet,’ the doctor said. ‘I’d say he’s been dead for less than three hours.’

  ‘That’s because the killer wanted us to find the victim fast,’ Hunter said.

  Doctor Hove looked at him curiously.

  ‘The officer first at the scene said that the stereo was on, blasting rock music.’

  ‘The killer left it on?’

  ‘Who else?’ Garcia said. ‘He wanted to call attention to the boat. He knew someone would soon complain, come knocking or something.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Hunter doubled back to the cabin’s entrance. Just like Officer Rogers had said, a small, black remote control sat on a chair by the door. ‘The officer said track three was on a loop.’

  ‘Just track three?’ The doctor looked around and found the stereo at the back, on the small bar.

  ‘That’s what he said.’

  ‘Let’s hear it,’ she said.

  Hunter queued song three and pressed play.

  Extremely loud music filled the boat. First a bass guitar, then a drum beat, quickly followed by keyboards. A few bars later vocals and electric guitars kicked in.

  ‘Damn that’s loud,’ Garcia said, covering his ears.

  Doctor Hove winced.

  Hunter turned it down, but let it play.

  ‘I know this song,’ the doctor said, frowning and searching her mind.

  Hunter nodded. ‘It’s a rock band called Faith No More. It looks like our killer has a sense of humor.’
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br />   ‘Why?’ Garcia asked.

  ‘This is one of their most famous songs,’ Hunter explained. ‘Quite old – late 1980s I think. It’s called “Falling to Pieces”. And the chorus talks about someone falling to pieces and asking to be put back together again. Metaphorically, of course.’

  Garcia and Doctor Hove looked at each other.

  ‘Here it comes,’ Hunter said. ‘You can listen to it yourselves.’

  Instinctively Garcia and Doctor Hove turned towards the stereo and listened. When the chorus finished, Hunter pressed stop.

  Silence took over for an instant.

  ‘How did you know that?’ the doctor asked. ‘And don’t tell me that you read a lot.’

  Hunter shrugged. ‘I like rock music. I used to love this album.’

  ‘This guy’s gotta be deranged or something,’ Garcia said, taking a step back. ‘How sick does anyone have to be to do something like this . . .’ he lifted his hands and looked around the place, ‘. . . and have a sense of humor about it?’

  Neither Hunter nor Doctor Hove said a word.

  Twenty-Eight

  The long silence was interrupted by footsteps and voices coming from outside. Hunter, Garcia and Doctor Hove turned and faced the cabin’s entrance. A second later two forensic agents dressed in white, hooded coveralls and carrying metal briefcases appeared at the door.

  ‘Can you give us a minute, Glen,’ Doctor Hove said, lifting her right hand before the agents entered the cabin.

  Glen Egan and Shawna Ross stopped by the steps.

  ‘We just want to check a few things in here first,’ the doctor continued. ‘You can start up on the deck if you want.’

  ‘No problem, doc.’ They turned and went back up to the deck above.

  ‘Deranged or not,’ Doctor Hove continued. ‘This killer knows what he’s doing.’ Her attention had returned to the mutilated body on the chair. ‘This time he used needle and thread to close both brachial arteries and contain the bleeding, and it looks like he did a good job too.’ She looked under the chair. Both of Nashorn’s legs had been bandaged at the ankles, where his feet had been cut off. ‘And for some reason, the killer dressed the leg wounds.’

  Hunter moved closer to have a better look. ‘That’s strange,’ he commented, and all of a sudden caught another noseful of the strange, stinging smell.

  ‘Yes, that’s very strange,’ the doctor agreed.

  Garcia retrieved the CD from the stereo and placed it in a plastic evidence bag. The CD case was on a shelf together with other CDs. Garcia quickly looked through them. They were mostly from rock bands from the eighties and nineties.

  Hunter finally moved towards the new sculpture. It was even more sinister and creepy than the first one.

  This time the arms had been severed from the body just below the shoulders, and then again at the elbow joints to produce four distinct pieces. Both forearms had been bundled together with wire, inside wrist against inside wrist, and placed in an upright position. The hands were opened outwards awkwardly, palms up, giving the impression that they were ready to catch a flying baseball. The thumbs were twisted out of shape, clearly broken. All the other fingers were missing. They’d been severed at the knuckles and tightly bundled together two by two, using wire and a strong bonding agent to form four separate pieces. But the killer made the pieces look almost identical by carving them into strange figures – chunky and round at the top, curved at the center, and skinny at the bottom. They were then placed on the breakfast bar, about a foot away from the hands. Two of the figures were standing upright. The other two were lying down, one on top of each other.

  ‘So what you think that is this time?’ Garcia asked, stepping closer. ‘A crocodile?’

  Doctor Hove’s eyebrows arched, surprised. ‘This time . . . ? You figured out what the first sculpture means?’

  ‘We haven’t figured out its meaning yet,’ Hunter said.

  ‘But we now know what the sculpture is supposed to create,’ Garcia added.

  ‘Create . . . ?’

  Garcia stole a peek at Hunter before pulling a face. ‘The sculpture creates shadow puppets on the wall.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  Garcia nodded. ‘Yep, you heard it right, doc,’ he confirmed. ‘Shadow puppets. Quite neatly done, too. The one from the first crime scene cast a dog and a bird shadow onto the wall.’ He paused. ‘Or something to that effect.’

  Doctor Hove looked like she was waiting for one of the detectives to burst out laughing.

  Neither did.

  ‘We discovered it by chance,’ Hunter said. ‘Just minutes before we got the call to come to the marina. We haven’t had a chance to properly analyze it yet.’ He quickly ran Doctor Hove through what had happened back in his office.

  ‘And it looks like a dog and a bird?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Her green eyes moved to the sculpture on the breakfast bar. ‘And you’re sure that wasn’t just a fluke?’

  Both detectives shook their heads.

  ‘The images are too perfect for it to have been a fluke or a coincidence,’ Hunter said.

  ‘So now you have to figure out what this dog and this bird mean?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Garcia said. ‘The killer is playing charades with us, doc. Giving us a riddle within a riddle. Something that could mean absolutely nothing. He could be laughing at us right now. Making us go around in circles trying to figure out if there really is a meaning behind Scooby-Doo and Tweety Bird. Meanwhile, he’s off on his dismembering rampage.’

  ‘Wait.’ Doctor Hove lifted a hand. ‘The images look like cartoons?’

  ‘No they don’t,’ Garcia clarified. ‘I apologize for my crap sense of humor.’

  The doctor looked at Hunter and pointed at the sculpture. ‘So if you’re right, that thing should give us another shadow puppet.’

  ‘Probably.’

  If there were a device inside that boat cabin that could measure tension, its gauge would have gone through the roof.

  ‘OK, let’s check it out right now, then,’ the doctor said, her curiosity so intense it was almost visible. She clicked her flashlight back on before walking over to the light switch and flicking it off.

  Hunter and Garcia also turned their Maglites back on. They spent the next few minutes going around the sickening sculpture, illuminating it from all sides and checking the shadows it projected against the wall.

  They got nothing – no animals, no objects, no words.

  That was when Hunter’s gaze went back to Nashorn’s head on the coffee table. Something about the way it had been positioned caught his attention. It was looking directly at the sculpture, but from a low, diagonal angle, looking up at it.

  ‘Let me try something.’ Hunter turned his Maglite back on and repositioned himself, directing his flashlight beam back at the sculpture but from the exact same angle as Nashorn’s stare.

  ‘Maybe the killer is showing us how to look at it.’

  ‘By positioning the victim’s head?’ the doctor asked, looking a little dubious.

  ‘Who knows? I wouldn’t put anything past this monster.’

  They all paused and contemplated the strange shadows that were now cast onto the wall behind the sculpture.

  Doctor Hove’s entire body tingled as if it’d been electrified, turning her skin into gooseflesh.

  ‘I’ll be damned.’

  Twenty-Nine

  There must’ve been at least a dozen police vehicles parked around the lot behind the New World Cinema building in Marina Harbor. The curious crowd that had gathered was now substantial, and the number of news vans and reporters had doubled in the last hour.

  ‘Excuse me,’ a young woman in her mid-twenties asked the mechanic, who was standing towards the back of the crowd, leisurely observing the police and media circus unfold. ‘Do you know what happened here?’ She spoke with a Midwestern accent. Maybe Missouri or Wisconsin. ‘Has a boat been stolen?’

  The mechanic chuckled at the w
oman’s naivety and turned to face her.

  ‘I don’t think you’d get this many cops and TV vans around here just for a stolen boat. Not even in Los Angeles.’

  The woman’s eyes widened a fraction. ‘Someone was murdered?’ Her voice lifted with excitement.

  The mechanic held the suspense for a moment and then nodded. ‘Yeah. Inside that last boat right at the end of the dock.’

  The woman went on tiptoe in an effort to catch a glimpse of the boat. She saw nothing other than the backs of the heads of fellow curious onlookers. ‘Have they brought the body out yet?’ she asked, moving from side to side, still trying to see something.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Have you been here long?’

  The mechanic nodded. ‘I guess you could say that.’

  ‘Gee, I wonder what happened.’

  The mechanic had read somewhere once that most people were fascinated with death. The more vicious and gruesome, the more they wanted to know about it and the more they wanted to see. Some scientists attributed it to a violent primal instinct – dormant in some, but very active in many. Some psychologists believed it was related to the obsession humans have with trying to understand death and what happens afterwards.

  ‘I heard he was decapitated,’ the mechanic said, testing the woman’s morbid curiosity.

  ‘No way.’ She got more agitated, going up on the tips of her toes and craning her neck like a meerkat as she tried to see beyond the crowd.

  ‘That’s what I heard,’ the mechanic continued. ‘And that the whole boat was washed with blood. Pretty sick, apparently.’

  ‘Mother of God,’ the woman said, bringing a hand to her mouth.

  ‘Yeah, welcome to LA.’

  She looked disgusted for a couple of seconds, until her eyes caught a glimpse of a police officer just ahead of them. She then bounced on her toes with enthusiasm like a kid who’d just been told she’d be going to Disneyworld for the first time. ‘Oh, there’s a cop, let’s go ask him.’

  ‘No, I’m OK. My work here is done. I’ve got to go anyway.’