The Death Sculptor

Nineteen

Before Hunter could say anything, there was a new knock at the door.

‘Busy here this morning,’ Garcia joked before calling out. ‘Come in.’

‘Sorry, sir,’ a male voice replied from outside. ‘Not enough hands.’

Everyone in the room frowned. Garcia stepped up to the door and pulled it open.

A rookie officer, barely out of his teens, was standing outside in a crisp, straight-out-of-the-bag police uniform. Both of his arms were wrapped around a large package, covered by thick black plastic sheets held in place by duct tape.

‘Forensics lab just delivered this for you, Detective.’

‘OK, thanks. I can take it from here,’ Garcia said, reaching for it. The package was a lot lighter than it looked. Its base was flat and easy to grab hold of. ‘Over by the board?’ Garcia asked Hunter, after allowing the door to close behind him.

‘Yeah, I think that’ll do.’ Hunter cleared a space on a small table and pushed it closer to the pictures board. Garcia carefully deposited the package on it.

‘What is that?’ Alice asked, moving around to the other side.

‘A life-sized replica of this,’ Garcia replied, pointing to the photograph on the board.

Hunter saw Alice hold her breath for a beat. ‘Have you ever worked this closely with a homicide investigating team?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Alice replied firmly. No embarrassment.

Hunter took a penknife out of his pocket and flicked it open. ‘As I said before, this isn’t Club Med.’ He skillfully cut through the duct tape. ‘You can stay if you want. But this will be no picnic.’

‘I hate picnics.’ Alice stood her ground.

Hunter and Garcia pulled down the black plastic cover, letting it drop to the floor. For a long moment, the only sound in the room came from the pedestal fan behind Garcia’s desk. Doctor Hove was right; forensics had done a fantastic job in replicating the morbid piece, despite the short amount of time. The replica was done in white plaster, cast over a light wooden base, no color finish, but it still made the hairs at the back of Garcia’s neck stand on end, and it had knocked the air out of Alice’s lungs.

Hunter found it hard to tear his eyes away from it. Images of the real thing flashed at the back of his mind like fireworks, going off every few seconds. With it, his subconscious brought back the same sensations he experienced two days ago when he walked into that crime scene for the first time. He could smell the pungent odor of that room. He could see the blood splattered all over the walls and floors, and the way it trickled down from the human flesh sculpture. For a second he could even see the bloody words painted onto the far wall ‘GOOD JOB YOU DIDN’T TURN ON THE LIGHTS’.

‘Do you mind if I pour myself a glass of water?’ Alice said, finally breaking the silence. Her words seemed to have interrupted some sort of group trance. Hunter and Garcia blinked almost at the same time.

‘Please do,’ Hunter replied, folding his arms over his chest. His attention was still on the piece. He walked over to the other side to look at it from a different angle.

Garcia moved a few steps back, as if trying to see a bigger picture.

There was nothing there. The piece resembled nothing else they’d ever seen. It didn’t trigger anything in either of their minds.

‘That has got to be the most grotesque thing I’ve ever seen,’ Alice said, after downing a glass of water as if to put out a fire inside her. ‘And judging by the way you two are looking at it, you have no idea what it means, do you?’

‘We’re working on it,’ Hunter replied.

She refilled her glass. ‘Well, I know someone who might be able to help.’