The Death Sculptor

Twenty-Two

Hunter spent the rest of the day back in the office. His mind was swirling with questions, but he couldn’t stop chewing over what Miguel Jalmar had said.

Was that really it? he thought. Was that what this killer was trying to tell them with that sculpture? Could he be so arrogant, so delusional, to think he was God? To think that he could do whatever he wanted without being stopped?

Hunter knew that the answer to that question was a resounding ‘yes’. It happened a lot more often than most criminal-behavior psychologists would like to admit. Some call it the ‘homicidal God complex’. In most cases it’s triggered by the moment a killer realizes that he or she has a power usually attributed only to God – the power to decide who lives and who dies. The power to become the supreme ruler of death. And that power can be a thousand times more addictive than any drug. It elevates their frequently damaged egos to heights they’d never imagined. And at that moment, it equates them to God. Once hooked, it is more than likely they’ll come back for more.

The sculpture was back by the pictures board, and Hunter still couldn’t stir his attention from it for more than a minute or so. It was starting to play with his mind.

Alice was tucked away in the corner, working on a laptop. Her task was to break down the list of perpetrators Derek Nicholson had put away into several separate categories. After his meeting with DA Bradley, Hunter also asked her to compile a new list – all the cases Derek Nicholson should’ve won but lost because of a technicality, or a mistake by someone involved with the arrest or the collection of evidence. He needed to know who the victims were, if they blamed Nicholson for losing the case, and if they were capable of any type of retaliation.

Garcia had spent the entire day checking with drugstores and pharmacists. So far, none had sold a prescription for all three of the drugs used by the killer to reduce Derek Nicholson’s heart rate. The problem was, Garcia discovered, obtaining any of those drugs through illegal Internet outlets was as easy as ordering candy.

Hunter checked his watch. It was getting late. He got up and approached the sculpture for what seemed like the hundredth time. ‘Carlos, do you still have your digital camera here with you?’

‘Uh-huh.’ Garcia opened his top drawer and pulled out an ultra-slim, cellphone-sized camera. ‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. I wanna photograph this thing from different angles.’ Hunter nodded at the sculpture. ‘See what I get.’

‘Not really convinced by what the expert told you?’

‘Maybe he’s right. Maybe the killer is delusional enough to think he’s God. After all, it was his decision, not God’s, to end Derek Nicholson’s life. And that’s a mind-boggling power to come to terms with. But I still think we’re missing something, somewhere. The problem is, the more I look at this thing, the less sense it makes. Maybe the camera eye can help.’

‘I guess it’s worth a shot,’ Garcia said, moving towards the board.

‘OK, let’s start from here,’ Hunter indicated a spot directly in front of the sculpture. ‘Let’s take three pictures – one standing up in a downward angle, one leveled with it, and one from a crouched position sort of looking up. Then take a step to your left and do the same again. Let’s go around it once.’

‘OK.’ Garcia started clicking away, the glare of his camera flash filling the room every couple of seconds.

From her desk, Alice flinched a little too abruptly.

Hunter noticed it. ‘Are you OK?’

Alice didn’t reply.

‘Alice, are you OK?’ Hunter persisted.

‘Yes, I’m fine. Camera flashes sort of bother me a little.’

Hunter could see that it was more than a little. She looked rattled, but he decided not to ask.

Garcia had taken about seventeen pictures when Hunter saw something that took his breath away and made him shiver.

‘Stop,’ he called out, lifting his hand.

Alice raised her eyes from her laptop.

Garcia stopped clicking.

‘Don’t move,’ Hunter said. ‘Take another picture from that exact position, don’t move an inch.’

‘What . . . ? Why . . . ?’

‘Just do it again, Carlos. Trust me.’

‘OK.’ Garcia took another picture.

Hunter’s heart skipped a beat as adrenaline rushed through his veins. ‘No way,’ he whispered.

Alice got up and approached them.

‘One more, Carlos.’

Garcia pointed the camera at the sculpture and fired away.

‘Jesus!’

‘What’s going on, Robert?’

Hunter paused and looked at his partner. ‘I guess I just found out what the killer wants to tell us with that sculpture.’