The Death Sculptor

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.’