Carter Chris - The Death Sculptor

‘Damn straight. Didn’t he use to share with that Albanian badass dude? That Guri character? You know him, don’t you? I saw you talking to him a few times.’

‘I talked to a lot of people when I was inside, so did you. It helps pass the time.’ Eddie played it down.

Tito nodded. ‘Do you think Ken is back dealing again? That’s what he used to do before he got busted, wasn’t it? Maybe he teamed up with the Albanians. I hear they run a tight operation.’

Eddie reassessed Tito with a doubtful eye. ‘’Sup, cuz, you looking for a job or something? Or you just looking to score some shit?’

‘No, man, I’m good.’ Tito ran a hand over his shaved head.

Eddie nodded. ‘Uh-huh. So why are you so interested in Ken? Did he owe you money or something? If he did, just let it go, bro. It ain’t worth it, you dig?’

‘Nah, man, just asking, you know?’

‘Yeah, I can see that. But asking too much can get you messed up, you know that.’

Tito lifted his hands up in a surrender gesture. ‘Just making conversation, homes, that’s all. I couldn’t really give a rat’s fart for how he’s doing.’

Eddie said nothing, but looked a little out of his comfort zone. Tito was sure he knew more than he was letting on, and that was good enough for him. He’d pass that information on to those two damn cops who crashed his party. Let them bring the heat onto Eddie. That was the best he could do.

‘Let’s have another bottle,’ Eddie said, already beckoning the barman over.

‘Hey, man, I never say no to champagne, you know what I’m sayin’? Let me just go to the pisser first.’

As Tito made his way towards the rest room, Eddie was already heading downstairs to the smoking area, the quietest place for a phone call.

Sixty-Four

It was late and Tito had consumed another two bottles of champagne back at The Airliner with Eddie. By the time he got back to his apartment in Bell Gardens, he was well on his way to hangover hell in the morning.

Tito stumbled through his front door. Champagne had a strange way of getting him drunk very fast, but the truth was he enjoyed being drunk. And getting drunk on expensive champagne paid for by someone else felt even sweeter. His tongue was feeling a little furry, though.

He opened the door to his fridge in the kitchen, poured himself a large glass of orange juice and downed it in one. He returned to the living room and dumped his heavy body onto the old maroon sofa that smelled like an ashtray. He sat there for a minute or two before deciding that he needed a little pick-me-up, something to get the blood flowing again. Tito got up and approached the sideboard by one of the walls. He opened the bottom drawer, took out a small silver box together with a square, frameless mirror, and brought it all over to the dining table. From the box he took out a hand-folded paper envelope. He tapped out a generous amount of white powder onto the mirror and made a long, thick line of it using a razor blade. That was special stuff, finely cut. Premium Colombian powder that he never shared with any of the skanky, second-rate whores he brought back to his place. No, this was for his pleasure, and his pleasure alone.

Tito checked his pockets for a crispy bill he could use. He only had one five-dollar note, not that crispy, but it would have to do. He was too drunk to go looking for something else instead. He rolled up the bill into a tube as best he could, and snorted half of the line up one nostril and the other half up the other one.

He slumped back on his chair; eyes closed, pinching his nose tight.

‘Yep, that’s what I’m talking about,’ he murmured between clenched teeth. That was just what he needed. He threw his neck back and sat there for a moment, his eyes still closed, enjoying the crazy effect as the drug and the alcohol in his blood collided against each other.

Tito was so absorbed in his trip that he never heard the sound of his front door being opened. He’d been too drunk to remember to turn the key in the lock.

Still with his head tilted back, Tito finally opened his eyes, but instead of the ceiling, he saw a face looking down at him. And he had seen those eyes before.

Sixty-Five

In the morning Hunter sat at his desk, checking the overnight emails. He’d gotten to his office early, just five minutes after Garcia. Neither had had a good night’s sleep.

Hunter had pulled his attention away from his computer and had started looking through a few notes when Alice knocked at the door. She didn’t wait for a reply, pushing the door open and stepping inside. Her tired eyes told everyone that sleep hadn’t come easily to her either. She walked straight up to Hunter’s desk and placed a three-page printed list on it. Hunter’s eyes moved to her face.

‘The list of books Sands checked out from Lancaster’s prison library,’ she said in a half-triumphant tone.

Hunter kept his gaze locked with hers.

‘I had to go up there and get it,’ she explained.

‘You what?’ Garcia asked.

‘Their system isn’t automated, nothing is computerized yet, and there’s no book database. Their library uses the old library-card system, and they have their own bizarre way of archiving things. If I hadn’t gone up there, it could’ve been days, maybe even weeks before we got this.’

Hunter said nothing, his expression posing the question.

‘I was getting a bit fidgety here yesterday,’ Alice admitted. ‘You guys were out all day. I got tired of researching on the Internet and finding nothing. I made a few calls, and DA Bradley arranged with the prison warden to let me check the library. It took me several hours to get this.’

Hunter finally reached for the list.

‘Ken Sands pretty much read Lancaster Prison’s entire library,’ Alice said. ‘But there were several books he checked out more than once. Some way more than once. I concentrated on those.’

Hunter started skimming through the list. Alice followed his gaze.

‘You’ll notice that the first twenty-four titles are all medical,’ she said. ‘Out of those, half of them are only in the library because they belonged to Sands. They were part of his Nursing and Patient Care degree. I spent some time going over their topics. At least five of them have extensive sections on how to contain severe hemorrhages, with detailed explanations and diagrams on transfixing of arteries and ligation of large veins, including the brachial and the femoral arteries.’

Hunter’s gaze returned to Alice.

She shrugged. ‘I read the autopsy reports.’

Garcia left his desk and moved over to Hunter’s. ‘That’s nothing new, though. We already knew that Sands had medical knowledge,’ he said.

‘That’s right,’ Alice agreed. ‘But this confirms that he more than likely had the specific knowledge required to carry out the amputations that were performed on both victims, and to properly minimize the bleeding.’

Hunter was still silent, still reading the list of book titles.

‘In my view,’ Alice moved on, ‘if Sands is our man, then he obviously started developing his revenge plan while inside. But that wouldn’t have happened straight away. A plan like that takes a while to solidify in anyone’s mind. And if this was really retaliation not only for himself, but for Alfredo Ortega as well – who, you will remember, was the closest thing to a brother Sands ever had – then the plan would’ve only started taking real shape after Ortega’s death penalty was carried out, five years ago.’

‘It makes sense,’ Garcia agreed after debating it in his head for a moment.

Hunter looked over the books’ checkout dates before flipping back the page.

‘There are no checkout dates on the more-advanced medical books,’ Alice said, anticipating what Hunter was looking for. ‘The reason is because those books didn’t belong to the library at first. They were the prison’s concession to Sands, to help him with his studies. He put in a request for them, and was allowed to keep them in his cell until he completed his degree. Upon his release, the books were taken by the library. And if you remember from my previous report, he only started both of his long-distance college degrees after Ortega’s execution.’