The Death Sculptor rh-4

by Carter Chris

  ‘Wazzup, Eddie?’

  Eddie turned and faced the shaved headed man. ‘Tito?’ He squinted as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. ‘Goddamn, cuz. Wazzup with you?’ Eddie’s lips broke into a sparkling, shining white smile and he opened his arms wide.

  Tito smiled back and they hugged like long-lost brothers.

  ‘When the hell did you get out?’ Eddie asked.

  ‘Paroled eleven months ago.’

  ‘No shit?’

  ‘No shit, homey.’

  ‘So how you doin’, dawg?’ Eddie took a step back to assess his friend. ‘By the looks of you, you’re doing well. Where the hell have you been living, in a cake shop?’

  ‘Hey, a man’s gotta eat, you know?’

  ‘Yeah, I can see that. A man’s gotta stop eating as well, before he bursts.’

  ‘Screw you. At least I don’t get to eat that goo they served back in Lanc.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that.’ Eddie lifted his glass.

  ‘What the hell?’ Tito pulled a face. ‘Champagne? Really? I guess someone is doing well.’

  ‘Hey man, only the best, cuz. Have some.’ Eddie signaled the barman over and asked for a second champagne flute.

  ‘You’re looking fly,’ Tito said, raising his glass for a toast. ‘To being out and staying out.’

  Eddie accepted with a head-nod. ‘Thanks, man.’ He ran a hand down his tie. ‘This is Armani, you know?’ He nodded at his suit. ‘I make this shit look good, don’t I?’

  ‘Yeah, very slick,’ Tito agreed.

  They shot the breeze for an hour or so, reminiscing about their time in the slammer. Eddie told Tito that he was working for a foreign outfit, being as evasive as he could. Tito had no intention of pushing it. To disguise the real reason he was at The Airliner, Tito kept dropping names sporadically, asking Eddie if he knew what became of certain inmates – Do you remember such-and-such? How about so-and-so? That sort of thing. Tito knew Eddie used to hang out with Ken Sands when he was inside. Slowly, Tito moved towards the subject.

  ‘Say, Eddie, how about Ken?’ He could swear he saw Eddie tense for an instant.

  Eddie finished the rest of his champagne, his eyes fixed on Tito. ‘Ken? The dude got out, didn’t he? No parole, served the long run too.’

  ‘Did he?’ Tito played dumb.

  ‘Yeah, got out about six months ago.’

  ‘That guy was the epitome of a bad motherfucker.’ Tito laughed nervously. ‘Have you been in touch?’

  ‘Nah, man, I just heard he was out. He’s got his own issues to deal with. Things he wanted to get done when he got out, you feel me?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Damned if I know. Maybe he wanted to get back at whoever got him inside in the first place. But I pity whoever it is he’s got a beef with.’

  ‘Damn straight. Didn’t he use to share with that Albanian badass dude? That Guri character? You know him, don’t you? I saw you talking to him a few times.’

  ‘I talked to a lot of people when I was inside, so did you. It helps pass the time.’ Eddie played it down.

  Tito nodded. ‘Do you think Ken is back dealing again? That’s what he used to do before he got busted, wasn’t it? Maybe he teamed up with the Albanians. I hear they run a tight operation.’

  Eddie reassessed Tito with a doubtful eye. ‘’Sup, cuz, you looking for a job or something? Or you just looking to score some shit?’

  ‘No, man, I’m good.’ Tito ran a hand over his shaved head.

  Eddie nodded. ‘Uh-huh. So why are you so interested in Ken? Did he owe you money or something? If he did, just let it go, bro. It ain’t worth it, you dig?’

  ‘Nah, man, just asking, you know?’

  ‘Yeah, I can see that. But asking too much can get you messed up, you know that.’

  Tito lifted his hands up in a surrender gesture. ‘Just making conversation, homes, that’s all. I couldn’t really give a rat’s fart for how he’s doing.’

  Eddie said nothing, but looked a little out of his comfort zone. Tito was sure he knew more than he was letting on, and that was good enough for him. He’d pass that information on to those two damn cops who crashed his party. Let them bring the heat onto Eddie. That was the best he could do.

  ‘Let’s have another bottle,’ Eddie said, already beckoning the barman over.

  ‘Hey, man, I never say no to champagne, you know what I’m sayin’? Let me just go to the pisser first.’

  As Tito made his way towards the rest room, Eddie was already heading downstairs to the smoking area, the quietest place for a phone call.

  Sixty-Four

  It was late and Tito had consumed another two bottles of champagne back at The Airliner with Eddie. By the time he got back to his apartment in Bell Gardens, he was well on his way to hangover hell in the morning.

  Tito stumbled through his front door. Champagne had a strange way of getting him drunk very fast, but the truth was he enjoyed being drunk. And getting drunk on expensive champagne paid for by someone else felt even sweeter. His tongue was feeling a little furry, though.

  He opened the door to his fridge in the kitchen, poured himself a large glass of orange juice and downed it in one. He returned to the living room and dumped his heavy body onto the old maroon sofa that smelled like an ashtray. He sat there for a minute or two before deciding that he needed a little pick-me-up, something to get the blood flowing again. Tito got up and approached the sideboard by one of the walls. He opened the bottom drawer, took out a small silver box together with a square, frameless mirror, and brought it all over to the dining table. From the box he took out a hand-folded paper envelope. He tapped out a generous amount of white powder onto the mirror and made a long, thick line of it using a razor blade. That was special stuff, finely cut. Premium Colombian powder that he never shared with any of the skanky, second-rate whores he brought back to his place. No, this was for his pleasure, and his pleasure alone.

  Tito checked his pockets for a crispy bill he could use. He only had one five-dollar note, not that crispy, but it would have to do. He was too drunk to go looking for something else instead. He rolled up the bill into a tube as best he could, and snorted half of the line up one nostril and the other half up the other one.

  He slumped back on his chair; eyes closed, pinching his nose tight.

  ‘Yep, that’s what I’m talking about,’ he murmured between clenched teeth. That was just what he needed. He threw his neck back and sat there for a moment, his eyes still closed, enjoying the crazy effect as the drug and the alcohol in his blood collided against each other.

  Tito was so absorbed in his trip that he never heard the sound of his front door being opened. He’d been too drunk to remember to turn the key in the lock.

  Still with his head tilted back, Tito finally opened his eyes, but instead of the ceiling, he saw a face looking down at him. And he had seen those eyes before.

  Sixty-Five

  In the morning Hunter sat at his desk, checking the overnight emails. He’d gotten to his office early, just five minutes after Garcia. Neither had had a good night’s sleep.

  Hunter had pulled his attention away from his computer and had started looking through a few notes when Alice knocked at the door. She didn’t wait for a reply, pushing the door open and stepping inside. Her tired eyes told everyone that sleep hadn’t come easily to her either. She walked straight up to Hunter’s desk and placed a three-page printed list on it. Hunter’s eyes moved to her face.

  ‘The list of books Sands checked out from Lancaster’s prison library,’ she said in a half-triumphant tone.

  Hunter kept his gaze locked with hers.

  ‘I had to go up there and get it,’ she explained.

  ‘You what?’ Garcia asked.

  ‘Their system isn’t automated, nothing is computerized yet, and there’s no book database. Their library uses the old library-card system, and they have their own bizarre way of archiving things. If I hadn’t gone up there, it could’ve been days, maybe ev
en weeks before we got this.’

  Hunter said nothing, his expression posing the question.

  ‘I was getting a bit fidgety here yesterday,’ Alice admitted. ‘You guys were out all day. I got tired of researching on the Internet and finding nothing. I made a few calls, and DA Bradley arranged with the prison warden to let me check the library. It took me several hours to get this.’

  Hunter finally reached for the list.

  ‘Ken Sands pretty much read Lancaster Prison’s entire library,’ Alice said. ‘But there were several books he checked out more than once. Some way more than once. I concentrated on those.’

  Hunter started skimming through the list. Alice followed his gaze.

  ‘You’ll notice that the first twenty-four titles are all medical,’ she said. ‘Out of those, half of them are only in the library because they belonged to Sands. They were part of his Nursing and Patient Care degree. I spent some time going over their topics. At least five of them have extensive sections on how to contain severe hemorrhages, with detailed explanations and diagrams on transfixing of arteries and ligation of large veins, including the brachial and the femoral arteries.’

  Hunter’s gaze returned to Alice.

  She shrugged. ‘I read the autopsy reports.’

  Garcia left his desk and moved over to Hunter’s. ‘That’s nothing new, though. We already knew that Sands had medical knowledge,’ he said.

  ‘That’s right,’ Alice agreed. ‘But this confirms that he more than likely had the specific knowledge required to carry out the amputations that were performed on both victims, and to properly minimize the bleeding.’

  Hunter was still silent, still reading the list of book titles.

  ‘In my view,’ Alice moved on, ‘if Sands is our man, then he obviously started developing his revenge plan while inside. But that wouldn’t have happened straight away. A plan like that takes a while to solidify in anyone’s mind. And if this was really retaliation not only for himself, but for Alfredo Ortega as well – who, you will remember, was the closest thing to a brother Sands ever had – then the plan would’ve only started taking real shape after Ortega’s death penalty was carried out, five years ago.’

  ‘It makes sense,’ Garcia agreed after debating it in his head for a moment.

  Hunter looked over the books’ checkout dates before flipping back the page.

  ‘There are no checkout dates on the more-advanced medical books,’ Alice said, anticipating what Hunter was looking for. ‘The reason is because those books didn’t belong to the library at first. They were the prison’s concession to Sands, to help him with his studies. He put in a request for them, and was allowed to keep them in his cell until he completed his degree. Upon his release, the books were taken by the library. And if you remember from my previous report, he only started both of his long-distance college degrees after Ortega’s execution.’

  Hunter carried on reading through the list.

  Alice was still tracking his gaze. ‘The next bunch of books are all on psychology – his other degree. Again, a concession from the prison warden to allow Sands to conclude his studies. But one book in particular grabbed my attention. Something that hadn’t even crossed my mind until I saw it.’

  Hunter’s eye movement paused halfway down the page. She knew he had recognized it.

  Sixty-Six

  Standing behind Hunter, Garcia was reading as fast as he could, but nothing stood out. ‘OK, what am I missing?’

  Hunter tapped his finger over a title – ‘Principles of Rorschach Interpretation’.

  Garcia pulled a face. ‘Pardon my dumbass question, but what’s Rorschach?’

  ‘Hermann Rorschach was a Swiss Freudian psychiatrist and psychoanalyst,’ Hunter said. ‘He’s best known for developing a psychological projective test – the Rorschach inkblot test.’

  They could almost hear Garcia thinking. ‘I’ll be damned. Isn’t that that crazy test when you get shown a white card with just a big ink smudge on it? They ask you to tell them what you think you can see. A little like looking at clouds’ shapes in the sky.’

  ‘In a nutshell, that’s the test, yes,’ Hunter agreed.

  ‘And in a not-nutshell way, what is the test?’ Garcia pushed.

  Hunter left the list on his desk and leaned back on his chair. ‘The official test consists of ten cards. Each of the blots on them has near-perfect bilateral symmetry. Five inkblots are of black ink, two are of black-and-red ink and three are multicolored. But over the years psychologists have modified the test, creating their own cards with their own inkblots. Some even completely disregard the original bilateral symmetry of the blots.’

  ‘OK, but what the hell is it for? What does it test?’

  Hunter’s head tilted slightly to one side as if not totally convinced. ‘The test is supposed to measure a multitude of personality traits and psychological ills like sense of self-worth, depression, inadequate coping, problem-solving deficits . . .’ He gestured with his hand to indicate that the list went on and on. ‘Basically the test tries to assess an individual’s intellectual functioning and social integration.’

  ‘From an inkblot?’ Garcia questioned.

  Hunter shrugged and nodded once. He completely understood his partner’s skepticism.

  ‘Yes, but forget what the test is supposed to measure,’ Alice cut in, ‘and think of what we have. The shadows cast by the sculptures could be seen as Sands’s own inkblot type of test.’

  Hunter shook his head firmly. ‘The killer is testing us, that’s for sure, but not with inkblots.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘As Garcia said, the inkblots are exactly that, blots, smudges with no real shape. What the killer has given us has perfect shape. A coyote and a raven on the first one, and though we’re still not entirely sure of the meaning of the second image, it certainly isn’t a shapeless blot.’

  ‘OK, I’ll go with that, but it still comes down to interpretation, doesn’t it? What we think we can see,’ Alice countered. ‘Most people would never have known that, mythologically, a coyote and a raven together mean a betrayer, a liar.’

  ‘We didn’t know that either,’ Hunter said. ‘Until you looked it up, remember? To a certain extent, most images are open to interpretation. The way someone looks at a piece of art might well be very different from what the artist intended.’

  ‘That isn’t art, Robert.’ Alice pointed at the replica sculpture.

  ‘To us it isn’t, but to the killer . . . ?’ He left the sentence hanging in the air for a second. ‘It’s his work, his creation, his art, gruesome or not. And I bet you he saw something completely different from what we are seeing when he put that thing together. Different frame of mind makes you see different things.’

  Alice stared at the sculpture. ‘Different frame of mind?’

  Hunter stood up and approached the pictures board. ‘Interpretation is directly related to a person’s frame of mind. Looking at the same image, a person could see two completely different things depending on the mood that person is in at the time. And that’s the problem with the Rorschach test.’

  ‘How can the same person see two different things?’ Alice’s gaze had moved to the shadow photograph pinned to the board. ‘Every time I look at that, I see exactly the same thing – a devil figure looking down at what might possibly be his victims.’

  ‘Then you’re not keeping your options open,’ Hunter came back. ‘Look, let’s say you have a shapeless image that resembles a face with its mouth wide open. You then show it to someone who, at that moment in time, is feeling happy. That person might interpret that image as someone laughing out loud.’

  Garcia immediately caught on. ‘But if that same person were in a darker frame of mind for some reason, that same image could be seen as someone screaming in agony.’

  ‘Correct. Your mood alters your outlook. And that’s always been the biggest argument against the Rorschach test. Many say that it measures a subject’s frame of mind at tha
t point in time more than anything else. But I agree with you, Alice. Whatever the meanings behind those images are,’ Hunter pointed to the shadow photograph. ‘It has all to do with how we interpret it, and that’s the key to this jigsaw. If we read it wrong, if we don’t figure out exactly what the killer is trying to tell us through those shadows,’ Hunter shook his head, ‘I don’t think we’ll ever catch him.’

  Sixty-Seven

  She had been jittery all night, needing a hit more than she needed food. Regina Campos didn’t care what kind of drug she took, she just needed to get high on something – anything. She had no money, but that wasn’t too much of a problem. She knew exactly what to do to get her fix. By the age of sixteen, Regina had already learnt that any man would melt like butter if you knew what to do to him in bed.

  Regina was only eighteen, and if you asked the few people who knew her, they’d probably describe her as average. She was of average height, with an average body and average looks. In a crowd, no one would give her a second glance. Her hair was neither long nor short, and in high school she’d been an average student, until she dropped out. But she was charming, and she sure knew how to get what she wanted out of people.

  Regina had had a string of good-for-nothing lovers and casual encounters. Actually, they were good-for-one-thing lovers – drugs. Her newest good-for-one-thing lover, if she could even call him a lover, was a slob, an ex-convict, who lived in a housing project in Bell Gardens. He was overweight, had the stamina of a 90-year-old man in bed, and got his kicks by wearing women’s panties. Regina couldn’t give a dry spit for how he got turned on. All she knew was that he could get her drugs.

  She’d called him late last night, desperate, but he told her over the phone he wouldn’t be in all night. She could come over in the morning if she wanted to.

  It had been a long night of waiting for Regina.

  She took the stairs up to the third floor like a marathon runner. By now she was so frantic for a hit she was grinding her teeth like a bunny. She didn’t even think twice about the fact that the door to apartment 311 was unlocked, although her lover never left his door unlocked.