The Death Sculptor

Thirty-Nine

Mid-morning, and no one had any doubts that today would be another spectacular summer’s day. Clear blue skies had paired up with bright biting sunlight, and though it was still early, the heat had built up enough to feel almost oppressive. The A/C in Garcia’s car was back on full blast as he and Hunter made their way to the coroner’s office. Doctor Hove had finished with Andrew Nashorn’s autopsy.

Hunter sat in silence, his elbow resting against the door handle, his chin on his knuckles. Though he seemed to be observing the cacophony of morning traffic, his thoughts were somewhere else. Olivia’s heavy words were still ringing in his ears. Her anguish was as real to him as it was to her and her sister.

Just weeks after Hunter received his PhD in Criminal Behavior Analysis and Biopsychology, his father, who worked as a security guard for a downtown branch of the Bank of America, took a bullet to the chest during a robbery gone disastrously wrong. He fought for twelve weeks in a coma. And during that whole time, Hunter never left his side, believing that his companionship, the sound of his voice, or maybe even his touch, could help his father find the strength to fight back. He had been wrong.

Despite two of the robbers being shot dead at the bank, the three others who made up the rest of the gang escaped. They were never caught.

The bitter taste of knowing that his father’s killers were never brought to justice had never left Hunter’s mouth. And that knowledge kept the pain alive year after year. He didn’t want the same to happen to Olivia and Allison Nicholson.

‘Everything OK?’ Garcia asked, pulling Hunter away from his thoughts.

It took Hunter a few seconds to drag his eyes from the traffic outside and look at his partner. ‘Yeah, yeah. I was just . . .’

‘. . . Away somewhere else?’ Garcia nodded. ‘I know.’ He smiled and let the moment settle. ‘You know, the longer this killer stays at a crime scene, the higher the risk of getting caught, so I’d say he wouldn’t stay a second longer than what was needed.’

Hunter agreed.

‘But those sculptures, those shadow images, they are not the work of a beginner. I’ve never seen anything so intricate. This killer didn’t just chop and twist body parts right there and then hope he got it right first time out. He must’ve practiced, and a lot.’

‘I have no doubt he has.’

‘Using what? Dummies?’

‘Anything, really, Carlos,’ Hunter said. ‘He could create models out of wire, papier mâché, cast, even regular toy dolls with flexible rubber arms and legs. The kind you’d find in any convenience store.’

‘So this guy sits at home, playing with dolls before going out and ripping his victims apart. This city is fucked up, you know?’

‘This world is fucked up,’ Hunter corrected him.

‘Andrew Nashorn’s file finally came through. It’s on the backseat.’ Garcia quickly jerked his head back.

‘Have you read it?’

‘Yep, reads like any other detective’s résumé I’ve ever read. Nashorn was born in El Granada, San Mateo County in Northern California, where he lived until he was twelve or thirteen or something like that. His parents moved to Los Angeles then. His father was an accountant, and got offered a better job down here. His mother was a church-going housewife.’

They came up to a red traffic light. Hunter leaned over and grabbed the file from the backseat.

‘Nashorn was a regular school kid,’ Garcia continued. ‘Not the best student, but not the worst either. Though he lived in Maywood, he attended high school in Bell. He never went to college. Worked several odd jobs for a few years after high school before deciding to join the force. It took him a while to make detective.’

‘Twelve years,’ Hunter said, reading from the file. ‘Failed the exam four times.’

‘He’s a widower. No kids.’

Hunter nodded. ‘Got married when he was twenty-six,’ he said, reading from the file. ‘His wife died less than three years later.’

‘Yeah, I read that. Some odd heart condition they never even knew she had.’

‘Cardiomyopathy,’ Hunter confirmed. ‘Heart-muscle disease. He never remarried.’

‘From what I gathered he was a good cop,’ Garcia said, shifting his car into gear and turning left into North Mission Road. ‘Put plenty of dirtbags away during his detective years. And then what every cop dreads happened. He got shot on the job, pursuing some lowlife street mugger down in Inglewood.’ Garcia shook his head. ‘Poor guy. In Brazil they’d say he was born with his butt facing the sun covered in chili powder.’

Carlos Garcia was born in São Paulo, Brazil. The son of a Brazilian federal agent and an American history teacher, he and his mother moved to Los Angeles when Garcia was only ten years old, after his parents’ marriage collapsed. Even though he’d lived in America most of his life, Garcia could speak Portuguese like a true Brazilian, and he still visited the country every few years.

Hunter looked at his partner and screwed up his face. ‘What? What the hell does that mean?’

‘It means he was born unlucky, and in Nashorn’s case, I think it applies.’

‘Really? So what do Brazilians say if they think someone was born lucky? “He was born with his butt facing the moon covered in sugar”?’

‘Precisely.’ Garcia looked impressed.

‘You’re kidding?’

‘Nope, that’d be pretty much the exact translation.’

‘Interesting analogy,’ was all Hunter could say. The next couple of pages in Nashorn’s file were a brief of the latest investigations Nashorn had been involved with.

‘His captain said that he was a man of habits,’ Garcia offered. ‘Always took his vacation at the same exact time of year – first few days of summer. Always two weeks by himself out in the sea, fishing. He used all his savings to buy that boat. According to his captain, that boat was his retirement plan.’

‘No girlfriend, no partner.’ Hunter was still reading from the file. ‘Next of kin are an uncle and aunt who still live in El Granada.’

‘Yep, his captain is getting in touch with them.’

Hunter checked the file for Nashorn’s home address – an apartment in East LA. A forensic team had already been dispatched there this morning. Last night, they’d found no cellphone, computer, address book, diary, or anything of that sort in Nashorn’s boat, and according to his captain there was nothing at his desk either. No personal files in his hard drive. They were checking his work emails. Hunter was hoping something would turn up from Nashorn’s apartment search. He closed the file and returned it to the backseat as Garcia pulled into the County Coroner’s parking lot.