Carter Chris - The Death Sculptor

‘What?’ Littlewood finally noticed that the person in front of him was wearing a clear, hooded, thick plastic jumpsuit and latex gloves.

‘But I guess that what I am does not matter. What matters is what I know about you.’

‘What?’ The fog of confusion was getting denser, and Littlewood started wondering if all this wasn’t just a bad dream.

‘For example,’ the artist continued. ‘I know where you live. I know about your awful marriage all those years back. I know where your son goes to college. I know where you go when you want to let off some steam. I know what you like when it comes to sex, and all the places you go to get it. The dirtier the better, isn’t that right?’

Littlewood coughed again. Spit dribbled down his chin.

‘But best of all . . . I know what you did .’ Pure anger found its way into the artist’s voice.

‘I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

The artist took a step to the left and the light from the pedestal lamp reflected on something that’d been laid out on Littlewood’s desk. Littlewood couldn’t make out what it was, but he realized that there were several metal objects lying there. Shuddering fear traveled through every inch of his body.

‘It’s OK. I will remind you as the night goes on.’ An irreverent chuckle. ‘And for you, it will be a long, long night.’ The artist grabbed two objects from the desk and approached Littlewood.

‘Wait. What’s your name? Could I have some water, please?’

The artist stopped directly in front of Littlewood and chuckled sarcastically. ‘What, you want to try your psychology crap with me? What would that be? Let’s see . . . ah yes . . . Appeal to the assailant’s human side by asking for the simplest of things, like water, or going to the bathroom. Sympathy for those in need is a natural sentiment to most human beings. You want to call me by my name? Who knows, maybe I’ll call you by yours – which would humanize the victim in the eyes of the assailant, transposing the victim from a simple victim to a person, a human being, someone with a name, with feelings, with a heart. Someone who the assailant could maybe identify with. Someone who, outside the given situation, could be just the same as the assailant, with friends, and family, and everyday problems. ’ A new chuckle. ‘ Appeal to their human nature, right? It’s supposedly harder for people to hurt someone they know. So try to strike a conversation. Even a simple one can have a massive effect on the assailant’s psyche. ’

Littlewood looked up with horror in his eyes.

‘That’s right. I read the same books as you did. I know hostage-situation psychology as well. Are you sure you want to try your bullshit with me?’

Littlewood swallowed dry.

‘The building is empty. We’ve got until tomorrow morning before anyone even walks past your door. Maybe we can chat while I work, what do you say? Want to give it a try? Maybe spark some sympathy inside me?’

Tears filled Littlewood’s eyes.

‘I say let’s make a start.’

Without any more warnings, the artist pinched and twisted Littlewood’s exposed nipple with a pair of metallic medical forceps, pulling it away from his body so hard that the skin almost ruptured right there and then.

Littlewood let out an agonized cry. He felt vomit starting to rise up in his throat again.

‘I really hope you don’t mind pain. This knife isn’t very sharp.’ The other instrument the artist had retrieved from the desk was a small, serrated knife. It looked old and blunt.

‘Feel free to scream if this hurts.’

‘Oh God, pl . . . , pl . . . , please, don’t do this. I beg you. I . . .’

Littlewood’s next words were abruptly substituted by a soul-chilling scream as the artist slowly started sawing off his nipple.

Littlewood almost passed out. His mind was struggling with everything. He desperately wanted to believe that whatever was happening to him wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. He had to be inside the absurd world of some crazy dream. It was the only logical explanation. But the pain that shot up from his blood-and-vomit-soaked chest was very real.

The artist put down the blunt knife and watched Littlewood bleed for a while, waiting for him to catch his breath, to regain some of his strength.

‘As much as I’ve enjoyed that,’ the artist finally said, ‘I think I want to try something different now. This might hurt more.’

Those words sent Littlewood tumbling down a rabbit hole of such intense fear that his whole body tensed. He felt the muscles of his arms and legs cramp so hard it paralyzed him.

The artist moved closer.

Littlewood closed his eyes, and though he wasn’t a religious man, he found himself praying. Seconds later he noticed the smell. Something unbearably strong and intrusive. Something that immediately made him want to be sick again. But his stomach had nothing else to throw up.

The smell was instantly followed by excruciating pain. Only then did Littlewood realize that his skin and flesh were burning.

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?’