The Death Sculptor

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.’

‘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.