The Death Sculptor

Thirty-Seven

The famous Parker Center building had been the headquarters of the Los Angeles Police Department since 1954. In 2009, the entire operation was moved from the old building, located at 150 North Los Angeles Street, to its new, half-a-million-square-feet site just south of City Hall. The new Police Administration Building houses over ten different LAPD divisions, including Vice, Juvenile, Commercial Crimes, Narcotics and the Robbery Homicide Division. It’s no wonder that its reception hall is always overflowing with people – civilians and officers alike.

It didn’t take long for Hunter to spot her. Olivia Nicholson was sitting in one of the many fixed-row plastic seats near the building’s floor-to-ceiling glass entrance doors. Dressed in a conservative black ruffle chiffon dress and black stiletto-heel court shoes, she stood out from the much rougher-looking crowds around her like a bright laser beam. Her oversized sunglasses were perched high on her small and pointy nose.

‘Ms. Nicholson,’ Hunter said, offering his hand.

She stood up but didn’t reciprocate the gesture. ‘Detective, could we talk?’ Her voice was as steady as she could manage.

‘Of course.’ Hunter lowered his hand and quickly scanned the hall. ‘If you follow me, I’ll find us a quiet spot.’ He guided her through the crowd and used his security card to green-light one of the magnetic turnstiles, allowing them deeper into the building. As they stepped into an elevator, Olivia moved her sunglasses to her head, pinning her loose blonde hair back, away from her face. Her eyes were still bloodshot. Hunter identified it as the compound effect of crying and lack of sleep. Her makeup expertly hid the dark circles under her eyes, but she still looked exhausted. Not knowing who her father’s killer was was eating at her. Hunter could tell.

Hunter pressed the button for the first floor, where the press-conference and meeting rooms were located. With the pictures board, the replica sculpture, and case files strewn about everywhere, his office was definitely out of bounds. The interrogation rooms on the second floor were too ominous, with their metal tables, bland walls, large two-way mirrors and no windows. Either the main press-conference room, or any of the smaller meeting rooms were a much better choice.

They rode the elevator up in silence and exited into a long, wide and brightly lit corridor. Hunter took the lead, and tried the door to the first meeting room on the right. It was unlocked and empty. He flicked on the lights and showed Olivia inside.

‘How can I help you, Ms. Nicholson?’ he asked, indicating one of the five seats around the small, oblong-shaped table.

Olivia didn’t sit down. Instead, she unzipped her handbag, retrieved a copy of the morning paper and placed it on the table. ‘Is this what happened to my father?’ Her lower eyelids looked like water dams overflowing with tears, and it was only a matter of seconds before they burst. ‘Did the person who killed him use his body parts to create some sort of sick sculpture?’

Hunter kept his hands by his side and his voice even. ‘That article isn’t about your father’s murder.’

‘But it’s about a very similar murder,’ Olivia snapped back like a sharp switchblade. ‘A murder that, according to this article, you are investigating. Is that true?’

Hunter held her stare. ‘Yes.’

‘DA Bradley assured me that everyone was doing everything they could to bring the monster who broke into my father’s home to justice. He assured me that the case detectives were the best in the force, and that they were working exclusively on my father’s murder investigation. So the only logical conclusion is that these murders must be connected.’ She searched Hunter’s face for an answer. Found none. ‘Please don’t insult me by saying that those questions you asked me and my sister the other day about sculptures were because you found a metal piece from a broken sculpture in my father’s house.’

Hunter’s face didn’t give anything away, but he knew the game was up. ‘Please, Ms. Nicholson, have a seat.’ This time he pulled a chair out for her, moving into Stage One in dealing with an individual whose emotions have taken over: take simple, unchallenging steps to reduce their anxiety. If possible sit them down – a seating position is always more relaxing than a standing one – physically and emotionally.

‘Please,’ Hunter insisted.

Olivia finally sat down.

Hunter approached the cooler in the corner, filled two plastic cups with ice-cold water, and brought them back to the table before sitting down opposite her.

Stage Two was to give the person a drink. This would get the digestive system working, giving the body one more activity to occupy itself with and distract from an approaching panic attack. A cold drink on a hot day cools the body down, which is a very comforting feeling.

Hunter had a sip of his water first, leading the way. Seconds later Olivia did the same.

‘I apologize if I gave you the impression that I was lying to you and your sister,’ Hunter said, maintaining eye contact. ‘It really wasn’t my intention.’

‘But you did lie about the sculpture piece found in my dad’s room.’ Her words were shadowed by hurt.

Hunter nodded once. ‘Knowing the details of a crime scene, or the exact cruelty used by sociopaths, never helped anyone deal with their grief. It often has the opposite effect. Trust me on this, Ms. Nicholson. I’ve seen it many times. Me questioning you and your sister that day was already hard enough for you. There was no reason for me to add to your pain. Your answers wouldn’t have changed if I’d told you the truth about the sculpture.’

Olivia had another sip of her water, returned the cup to the table and kept her gaze on it, obviously measuring her next words. ‘What was it?’ she finally said.

Hunter made a face as if he didn’t understand.

‘What was the sculpture? What was created with my father’s . . .’ She couldn’t finish the sentence. Tears were stalking her eyes again.

‘Nothing identifiable,’ Hunter replied. ‘It was a shapeless form.’

‘Was there a meaning to it?’

The last thing Hunter wanted to do was to contribute any more to Olivia’s pain, but he saw no way out of it, he had to lie again; he couldn’t compromise the investigation, and he had no proof that what Alice had found was the real meaning behind the shadow puppets. ‘If there is, we haven’t found it yet.’