Carter Chris - The Death Sculptor

‘I apologize, that wasn’t what I meant at all,’ Garcia backpedaled as fast as he could. ‘I was just wondering if maybe Mr. Nicholson mentioned anything.’

Amy offered Garcia a feeble smile, accepting his apology. ‘The truth is, not very much is ever said when visitors come around to see cancer patients. No matter how talkative people are, they tend to lose their ability to make conversation when they see what the disease has done to their friend, or family member. People usually just stand there, mostly in silence, trying their best to appear strong. When you know someone is dying, it’s hard to find words.’

Hunter said nothing but he knew exactly what Amy Dawson meant. He was only seven when his mother was diagnosed with glioblastoma multiforme, the most aggressive type of primary brain cancer. By the time her doctors discovered it, the tumor was already too advanced. Within weeks she went from being a smiling, full-of-life mother, to an unrecognizable, skin-and-bones person. Hunter would never forget the image of his father standing by her bed with tears in his eyes, but unable to utter a single word. There was nothing he could say.

‘Do you remember their names?’ Garcia pushed.

Amy thought about it for a long, hard moment. ‘My memory isn’t very good anymore, you know? But I remember thinking that the one who came first must’ve been a really important man. He came in a very large Mercedes with a driver and all.’

‘Could you describe him?’

She tilted her head from side to side. ‘Older, chunky fellow with chubby cheeks. He wasn’t very tall, either, but he was very well dressed. Liked to move his arms around a lot.’

‘DA Bradley?’ Garcia suggested, looking at Hunter who gave him a ‘probably’ nod.

‘Yes,’ Amy said with a hint of a smile. ‘I think that was his name, Bradley.’

‘How about the second visitor, can you remember anything?’

Amy searched her memory. ‘Slimmer and taller.’ She looked at Hunter. ‘I’d say he was about your height, could’ve been around the same age too. He was quite attractive. Nice dark-brown eyes.’

Garcia took notes. ‘Anything else you can remember about him.’

‘I think he had a short name. Something like Ben, Dan, or Tom, maybe.’ She hesitated, taking a breath. ‘Yeah, something like that, but I can’t be sure.’

‘Amy,’ Hunter said, leaning forward and placing his empty iced-tea glass on the coffee table between them. ‘I’m sure you and Mr. Nicholson had several conversations, especially given that you spent so much time with him.’

‘Sometimes, at the beginning,’ Amy admitted. ‘But as the weeks went by, his breathing worsened. Talking was an effort. We talked very little.’

Hunter nodded. ‘Did he tell you anything that you think can help us? Anything about his life? Anything about one of his cases? Anything about someone in particular?’

Amy frowned and shook her head. ‘I was just his nurse. Why would he confide in me of all people?’

‘In the last few weeks you spent more time with him than anyone else. Even his daughters. Nothing at all comes to mind?’

Hunter understood the intrinsic need human beings have to talk to each other. Talking has a psychological soul-cleansing effect, and that need is heightened exponentially when someone is certain of his or her death. Because she spent so much time alone with him and was caretaker to Derek Nicholson, Amy Dawson would’ve seemed like the oldest and best of friends. Someone he could talk to. Someone he could confide in.

Amy looked away for a moment, focusing her stare on the window to Hunter’s right. ‘Once he said something that got me wondering.’

‘And what was that?’

Her eyes stayed on the window. ‘He said that life was a funny thing. It doesn’t matter how much good you’ve done throughout it, or how many people you’ve helped. Your mistakes are what haunt you until your dying days.’

Neither Hunter nor Garcia replied.

‘I told him that no one was free from mistakes. He smiled and said he knew that. And then he said something about making his peace with God, and telling someone the truth.’

‘The truth about what?’ Garcia asked, scooting to the edge of his seat.

‘He didn’t say. I never asked. It wasn’t my place. But it was certainly something that was eating him inside. He wanted to clear his conscience before it was too late.’

Thirteen

Hunter had arranged to meet both of Mr. Nicholson’s daughters that afternoon. Olivia, the older of the two, whom he’d met in Mr. Nicholson’s house, had asked him to come over to her place in Westwood. Her sister, Allison, would meet them there.

Hunter and Garcia arrived at 4:35 p.m. The two-story house was modest by Westwood standards, but still, larger and more expensive-looking than most Angelinos could ever hope to afford. They climbed the few redbrick steps in front of the house and followed the short pathway through a well-kept front yard where summer flowers were already blooming. There were two cars parked in front of the two-car garage, a red BMW 3-series, and a brand-new-looking tuxedo-black Ford Edge.

Hunter rang the doorbell. They waited almost a minute before Olivia herself opened the door. She was wearing a black sleeveless knee-length dress and black shoes. Her hair was tied back into a neat and conservative ponytail. Her face was hidden behind heavy makeup, but even so, the signs of a sleepless night spent crying were clear.

At the sight of Hunter and Garcia, her eyes filled with tears again, but with some effort she held them there.

‘Thank you for agreeing to see us so soon, Ms. Nicholson,’ Hunter said.

‘I told you,’ she replied, putting on a brave smile. ‘Call me Olivia. Please come in.’

They followed her into an anteroom decorated with a lot of taste and elegance. Vases, flowers and furniture came together to create a comfortable greeting space. Olivia guided them into the first room on the right – her study. The room was spacious, with the entire south wall taken by a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. The decoration was just as elegant as the anteroom, but unlike outside, where the clear skies and the sun drew a smile on everyone’s faces, the mood inside was solemn. The place was dark and suffocating, helped by the shut windows and drawn curtains. The only light came from a pedestal lamp in one of the corners.

Standing by an imposing partner’s desk was a woman in her late twenties. She was also dressed all in black. As both detectives entered the room, she turned and faced them.

Allison Nicholson was striking, though skinny. She had straight black hair that came down to the top of her shoulders and very dark, soulful eyes that were far more knowing then they ought to have been at her age. Hers, too, were red from crying.

‘This is my sister, Allison,’ Olivia said.

Allison’s eyes moved from Hunter to Garcia, but she stood still. No offer of a handshake.

‘These are Detectives Hunter and Garcia, Ally,’ Olivia said, moving closer to her sister.

‘We’re very sorry for your loss,’ Hunter said. ‘We know how difficult this is for both of you and we appreciate your time. We won’t take much of it.’ He reached inside his pocket for his black notebook. ‘If we could ask you just a few quick questions?’

Their silence prompted Hunter to continue.

‘You both visited your father on Saturday last, is that correct?’

‘Yes,’ Olivia answered.

‘Can you remember what time you got there and what time you left?’

‘I got there before Ally,’ Olivia said. ‘I had a few things to do in the afternoon. We’re opening a new store.’

Hunter knew Olivia owned Healthy Eats, a chain of healthy-food stores with several shops downtown and around greater Los Angeles. Allison on the other hand had followed in her father’s footsteps. She was a prosecutor.