The Death Sculptor

Forty-Six

Alice let a subtle smile curve the ends of her lips before retrieving four copies of a printed mugshot from her green plastic folder.

‘This is Alfredo Ortega.’

She handed everyone a copy. The photo looked old. Its subject had an asymmetrical face with a squared jaw, a pointy nose, ears that looked too small for his head, crooked teeth, and thick lips – not exactly an attractive man. His hair was midnight black and long, falling past his shoulders.

‘OK,’ the captain said. ‘He’s sinister-looking enough. What’s his story?’

‘Well, Mr. Ortega was an American citizen of Mexican origin. He used to work as a stacker and forklift driver in a warehouse in southeast LA. He was a big guy – six foot four, and two hundred and forty pounds. The kind of guy you don’t really mess with. One rainy day in August, he wasn’t feeling too good, apparently something he ate. In the afternoon, his boss took pity on him and told him to take the rest of the day off. Ortega had been married for two years then – no kids. He got home earlier than usual to find his wife, Pam, in bed with another man. Actually, a drinking buddy of his.’

Garcia screwed up his face. ‘Damn, that can’t be good.’

Alice shifted her weight from foot to foot before continuing. ‘Instead of freaking out and losing his temper, he left them alone, drove several towns over to his wife’s family’s house in San Bernardino, killed her mother, her father, her grandmother, and her younger brother. He didn’t touch their dog. After the bloodbath, he decapitated them and left their heads on the dining table.’

Four pairs of concerned eyes moved from the photo printout to Alice. She let the suspense stretch for a moment.

‘Ortega then drove back to LA and to his friend’s house, the one who’d been sleeping with his wife. By then, his friend was back home with his own wife and kid, who was only five.’ Alice paused and took a deep breath. ‘He killed them all the same way he killed his wife’s family – with a machete. Left their heads on the kitchen worktop. After that, he calmly took a shower in their house and had some food from their fridge. Only then did he return home. He made love to his wife before hacking her head off.’

Everyone was staring at Alice almost catatonically.

‘Wow . . . that’s an inspiring story,’ Garcia said with a deflated breath. ‘How long ago was this?’

‘Twenty-one years ago. He didn’t resist the arrest or anything. When he was caught, he pleaded innocent by reason of temporary insanity. That’s why there was a jury court. Derek Nicholson was the prosecutor.’

Stunned silence.

‘I remember the case,’ DA Bradley announced.

‘Was Nashorn the arresting officer?’ Garcia asked.

‘He couldn’t have been,’ Hunter said, shaking his head. ‘That was twenty-one years ago, Carlos. Nashorn wasn’t a detective then.’

‘Wait a second.’ Captain Blake placed the printout down on her desk. ‘You said that in your search criteria you requested people released or paroled in the past five years. Are you telling me that this charmer has been released? How?’

‘No.’ Alice shook her head. ‘The jury was unanimous. Ortega got the death penalty. He was on death row for sixteen years. He died by lethal injection five years ago.’

Puzzled looks all round.

That was the last of Captain Blake’s patience. ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ She slammed the printout against her desk as she got up, her gaze making rounds between Alice and the DA. ‘First a list of names that you think we shouldn’t really look into, now a photo of someone who’s already dead. What the hell is this, “waste the LAPD’s time” day? What sort of morons do you have working for you, Dwayne?’

‘The kind that could dance circles around the morons you have in your department, Barbara.’ DA Bradley motioned his head in Hunter and Garcia’s direction.

‘Alfredo Ortega is the link I found on Nicholson’s side,’ Alice replied in an even voice, not allowing the argument to heat up any further, and fetching a new photo printout from her folder. She handed a copy around to everyone once again. ‘Now let me introduce you to Ken Sands.’

The new mugshot looked a lot more recent than the one from Ortega. The man on it looked to be in his mid-twenties. His skin had a golden tone attributed more to heavy sunbathing than ethnicity. His cheeks were pitted like a sponge from acne scars, probably dating back to his teens. His eyes were so dark they were almost black. He had the spaced-out stare of an intravenous drug user, but there was something else in those challenging eyes – something cold and frightening. Something evil. His dark hair was cropped short, and he had the confident smile of someone who knew he’d get revenge some day.

‘OK, and what does this Ken Sands bring to the party?’ Garcia asked.

Alice smiled a cheeky smile. ‘Quite a lot.’