The Death Sculptor

Eighty-One

Captain Blake looked at both detectives but there was no surprise in her eyes. After what they’ve already got from this killer, hardly anything would surprise her now.

‘We’re not sure if the killer left us two different sculptures, or one sculpture in two parts,’ Garcia said. ‘He also did something else differently this time. He used office objects to complete his work.’ Garcia proceeded to explain what they’d found on Nathan Littlewood’s desk. While he did so, Captain Blake and Alice studied the new sculpture photographs in silence. When Garcia told them that the killer had extracted one of Littlewood’s eyes, seemingly for the sole reason of indicating how one part of the sculpture should be looked at, Alice felt something dislodge in her stomach.

‘We looked at this part of the sculpture first,’ Garcia said, indicating the sculpture photograph on the board. ‘And this is what we got.’ He pinned the first shadow-image photograph onto the board, directly underneath the one belonging to its corresponding sculpture.

Captain Blake and Alice stepped closer to study the picture.

‘So what the hell is this now?’ the captain said, irritation peppering her words. ‘Someone watching someone else having a bath? Has the killer gone perv now?’

‘Or someone inside a box,’ Hunter said.

‘That’s what I was about to say,’ Alice suggested, addressing Hunter. ‘I understand what you said about the level of detail of the second sculpture being lower than the first, but it was still high.’ She pointed to the photograph of the new shadow image. ‘This isn’t a bathtub. There’s a lid.’ She compared it to the photograph of the actual sculpture. ‘If the killer wanted us to think it was a bathtub, he could’ve easily ripped the lid from the original box off.’

Those had been Hunter’s exact thoughts. If it was part of the image, there was a reason for it.

‘So it looks like someone staring at someone else lying inside a box,’ the captain corrected herself. ‘Any clues as to what this might really mean?’

‘Not yet,’ Hunter replied.

‘So it’s just another meaningless clue. Another piece of this endless puzzlebox?’

Hunter said nothing.

The captain stepped back, fidgeting. ‘So what’s the second image we got?’

With the use of the crime-scene photographs, Garcia explained that the sculptures had been placed at opposite ends of the desk. By positioning the victim’s head and his extracted eye at the appropriate spots, the killer had guided the light beam that would reveal the shadow images, like a movie director.

‘This is what we got from the second one.’ Garcia pinned the second shadow image photograph to the board.

Since the second hand sculpture was very similar to the first one, it was no surprise that the shadows cast by them were almost identical. No one had any doubts that it also depicted a person, but this time, because the killer had severed the ‘walking fingers’ at the first phalange, it looked like that person was either very short, or kneeling down. The way the thumb had been positioned – forward, with its broken tip pointing up – it looked like the person had his or her arm raised, pointing at the sky. On the floor, directly in front of the figure, there were large pieces of something unrecognizable. Their shadows were created by the carved out pieces from the victim’s thigh.

‘What the hell? He’s fucking with us, that’s what he’s doing,’ Captain Blake said, after an uneasy silence. ‘What the hell is all this now? A midget? A child? Someone kneeling down? Praying? Pointing at the sky?’ Her attention went back to the previous shadow-image photograph. ‘So we have someone staring at someone else inside a box . . .’ She stabbed her finger against the newest picture on the board, ‘. . . and a midget, a child, or someone kneeling down as if worshiping something. What does any of that have to do with this new victim?’

Everyone knew it was a rhetorical question.

‘I’ll tell you what . . .’ the captain carried on, giving no one a chance to reply anyway, ‘nothing. He’s playing us, giving us animals, horned monsters, wall messages, rock songs, and now this crap. He’s wasting our time, because he knows we’ll spend hours and hours trying to figure out what all of this junk means.’ She waved her hand in a circular motion to indicate the entire pictures board. ‘Meanwhile, he’s walking the streets, planning his next murder, staking out his next victim, and laughing at us all. Shadow puppets? We are the puppets here, and he’s manipulating us in whatever way he likes.’