The Death Sculptor

Seventy-Five

The call came through on Hunter’s cellphone mid-morning, just as he was getting back into his car. He’d just revisited both crime scenes – Nicholson’s house and Nashorn’s boat, still looking for something he wasn’t even sure was there.

‘Carlos, what’s new?’ Hunter said, bringing the phone to his ear.

‘We’ve got another one.’

By the time Hunter got to the four-story office building in Silver Lake, it looked like a music concert was about to take place. A large crowd had gathered around the police perimeter, and no one was prepared to move an inch until they got at least a glimpse of something morbid.

Reporters and photographers were sniffing around like a pack of hungry wolves, listening to every rumor, collecting whatever information they could gather, and filling in the holes in their stories with their own imagination.

Police vehicles were scattered on the street and on the sidewalk, causing traffic chaos. Three officers were frantically trying to organize things, urging pedestrians to move along, telling them there was nothing to see, and signaling cars to drive on as they slowed down to take a peek.

Hunter rolled down his window and flashed one of the policemen his badge. The young officer took off his hat while squinting against the glare of the sun, and used his hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead and nape.

‘You can go around the side and park down in the building’s underground garage, Detective. Forensics and the other detectives parked their vans and cars there. No offense, but we don’t need any more cars up here.’

Hunter thanked the officer and drove on.

The underground garage was spacious enough, but very dark and gloomy. As Hunter maneuvered to park next to Garcia’s car, he identified three faulty light bulbs. He also saw no CCTV cameras anywhere, not even at the garage’s entrance. He parked, stepped out of the car and quickly studied the ample space – nothing but a cement box with pillars, parking lines on the ground, and dark corners everywhere. At the center of it, a square block with a wide metal door that led to the underground landing. From there one could choose to take the elevator or the stairs up. Hunter took the stairs. On his way to the fourth floor he passed four more uniformed police officers.

The stairwell door dropped Hunter at the end of a long corridor, alive with movement – more officers, uniformed and plain-clothed, and forensic agents.

‘Robert,’ Garcia called from just over halfway down the hallway, as he pulled down the hood on his white coverall.

Hunter walked over, frowning at the number of people crowding the scene. ‘What’s all this? Are we having a party?’

‘We might as well,’ Garcia replied. ‘This whole thing is a mess.’

‘I can see that, but why?’

‘I just got here, but the initial call didn’t come to us.’

Hunter started suiting up. ‘How come?’

Garcia unzipped his coverall and reached inside his pocket for his notebook. ‘The victim in question is Nathan Francis Littlewood – fifty-two years old, divorced. This is his psychology practice. According to Sheryl Sellers, his office-manager-stroke-secretary, and the person who found his body this morning, Littlewood was still in his office when she left at around seven-thirty last night.’

‘Late office hours,’ Hunter commented.

‘That’s what I thought. The reason was that Littlewood’s last patient ended her session at seven. Ms. Sellers said she always stays until the last patient of the day has left.’

Hunter nodded.

‘She found the body when she came in this morning to start her working day, at around eight-thirty. The problem is, understandably, she panicked when she saw what’s in there. A few people from the other offices on this floor had already arrived to start their day. They all heard the screams and came running. Grotesque or not, our crime scene became an early morning attraction before the cops got here.’

Hunter zipped up his coverall. ‘That’s just great.’

‘As I said, we weren’t the first ones called,’ Garcia continued. ‘Silver Lake falls under the Central Bureau’s jurisdiction – northeast division. Two of their detectives were sent over. When Doctor Hove arrived and saw the scene, she called us. Basically we have a platoon of people who’ve contaminated the scene.’

‘Where’s the doctor?’

Garcia’s head tilted towards the office. ‘Inside, working the scene.’

‘So is this your partner?’ The question came from the man who had come up behind Garcia. He was just under six feet tall, with short black hair, close-set eyes and eyebrows so thick and bushy they looked like hairy caterpillars.

‘Yes,’ Garcia nodded. ‘Robert Hunter, this is Detective Jack Winstanley from the Central Bureau’s northeast division.’

They shook hands.

‘Hunter . . .’ Winstanley said, while his brow creased for an instant. ‘You’re the guys who are investigating that cop’s murder, aren’t you? The one at the marina a few days ago. He used to be with the South Bureau, right?’

‘Andrew Nashorn,’ Hunter replied. ‘Yes.’

Winstanley rubbed the point between his caterpillar eyebrows with his index finger. Hunter and Garcia knew exactly what was coming.

‘Are we talking about the same killer here? Was he chopped up like the guy in there?’

‘I haven’t seen the scene yet,’ Hunter replied.

‘Don’t give me that horseshit. If you’re here to take over my murder scene, then you know what the hell I’m talking about. What’s in there is pure evil.’ He gestured towards the psychologist’s office. ‘The victim was chopped up like a casserole chicken. And what the fuck is that sick thing that was left on the desk? Are those his body parts?’

Hunter and Garcia exchanged a quick look. There was no point denying it.

‘Yes,’ Hunter said. ‘It probably is the same perpetrator.’

‘Mother of God.’