Carter Chris - The Death Sculptor

‘Silly dogs?’ The captain threw the paper on Hunter’s desk. ‘Goddamnit. Did they hear a fucking word we told them in that press conference yesterday? This makes us look like incompetent clowns. And the worst of it all is that they are right. Three victims in two weeks and we don’t have shit, except shadow puppets.’ The captain turned and faced Alice. ‘And if you are right about the meaning behind the second sculpture, than that’s one more victim off his list. That means he’s only got one more to go.’ Using both hands she tucked her hair behind each ear as she drew a deep breath. ‘Any luck with linking this third victim to the previous two?’

‘No,’ Alice said, sounding a little defeated. ‘I found nothing that linked Nathan Littlewood to any police investigation. He never helped the LAPD with a case. He has never testified in court, nor has he ever been called for jury service. I’m working as fast as I can. Right now I’m trying to find out if he has ever acted as a counselor to any crime victims. I was thinking that maybe he’d helped a victim of a case in which either Nicholson or Nashorn were involved. If so, maybe that case might relate to Ken Sands in some way. But obtaining information on Littlewood’s old clients has proven a little harder than I’d anticipated. But just because we haven’t found it yet, doesn’t mean that Nathan Littlewood wasn’t in some way related to either Ken Sands’s or Alfredo Ortega’s case.’

‘That’s just fantastic,’ the captain shot back. ‘So if this new victim doesn’t tie in with the only theory you guys have managed to come up with so far – Ken Sands’s revenge – then we really have diddly-squat.’ Captain Blake turned to address Hunter. ‘Maybe it’s time that big brain of yours cooked up something new, Robert. I just had my ear chewed off by the Chief of Police and the mayor twenty minutes ago. They’re sick of this “Sculptor” killer terrifying the city and laughing at us. DA Bradley already considers this whole investigation a fiasco, and I won’t repeat what he’s been saying about the detectives running it. This article just did it for everyone. If we don’t come up with something solid in the next twenty-four hours, we’re off the case.’

‘What?’ Garcia practically jumped off his seat.

‘Look. Right now, we’re drowning in sewage. It’s been twelve days since the first murder, and though we’ve all been working nonstop, we have nothing solid. If we don’t come up with something concrete by tomorrow morning, the DA will be asking the FBI to take over. Our job will simply be to assist them.’

‘Assist them?’ Garcia said. ‘By doing what, wiping their asses for them? Making them coffee?’

Hunter had worked with the FBI on a case once before, several years ago, and he had hated the experience. He kept his mouth shut, but there was no way in hell he would babysit the Feds or hand them his investigation on a silver platter.

‘With the story making the news as it did, the Feds contacted the Chief of Police, the mayor, the DA, and myself, offering their assistance. They said, and I quote “Just remember we’re here in case you need us”. And out of that bunch, I’m the only one who thinks we don’t.’

‘That’s just a great big pile of bullshit, Captain.’

‘Find me something concrete or get used to it, because in twenty-four hours we are the ones who’ll be neck deep, shoveling that big pile of bullshit for the Feds.’

Eighty-Six

By late afternoon, the sunny blue sky over Los Angeles had given way to dark and menacing clouds. They’d come to announce that the first downpour of the summer was imminent.

Hunter got to Los Feliz, a hilly neighborhood north of East Hollywood, just as the first roar of thunder cracked the sky. Garcia had gone back to Nathan Littlewood’s office. He wanted to re-interview a few of the people he’d already talked to, and have another look at the crime scene.

Littlewood’s apartment was located on the tenth floor of a fourteen-story building on the corner of Los Feliz Boulevard and Hillhurst Avenue. Hunter had acquired a spare set of keys from his secretary. The building’s entrance lobby was large, well lit, and very clean and welcoming. The porter, a black man of about sixty with a carefully trimmed goatee, was sitting behind a semi-circular reception counter. He raised his eyes from the paperback he was reading, as Hunter entered the building and pressed the elevator button.

‘Visiting someone?’ he asked without getting up.

‘Not today, sir,’ Hunter replied, displaying his badge. ‘Official business.’

The porter lowered his book, intrigued. ‘Has there been a burglary I’m not aware of?’ He started rummaging through a few sheets of paper around the confined space where he was sitting. ‘Has someone just called 911?’

‘No, there’s been no burglary, sir. No one has called 911. Just routine.’ That was all Hunter offered as the elevator doors slid open and he got inside it.

The corridor on the tenth floor was long, wide, well illuminated, and it carried a nice exotic air-freshener smell. The walls were cream with a light-brown skirting board, the carpet beige with triangular patterns. Apartment 1011 was towards the end of the corridor. His secretary had told Hunter that Littlewood had no home-security alarm. He unlocked the door and slowly turned the handle. It opened onto a dark entrance vestibule.

Hunter switched on his flashlight and checked the small space from outside. There was a medium-sized mirror fixed halfway up the wall, just above a narrow, see-through console table with an empty wooden bowl on it. Probably the place where Littlewood deposited his keys once he got in. To the left of the mirror a set of three wooden coat hooks was mounted on the wall. A gray blazer hung from the last hook.

Hunter pushed the door all the way open, stepped inside and flicked the light switch on. The entrance vestibule led into a small kitchen directly ahead, and an average-sized living room on the left.

Hunter quickly checked the pockets on the gray blazer. All he found was a credit card receipt for a Chinese restaurant. It was dated a week ago. According to the address on the receipt, the place was just a block away.

Hunter placed the receipt back into the blazer’s pocket and moved carefully towards the center of the living room, taking everything in. The centerpiece was a large plasma TV on a shiny black module against the south wall. Underneath it, on a shelf, a DVD player and a satellite-receiving box. The space to the right of the DVD player was occupied by a micro-stereo system. The rest of the shiny module was taken up by CDs and DVDs. The module shared the room with a dining table for four, a plush black leather sofa, two matching armchairs, a glass coffee table, a wooden sideboard unit, and a huge bookcase overflowing with books. The room wasn’t messy, but it wasn’t excessively tidy either. There were no feminine touches to anything, or any overly masculine details. Neutral , average , were the words that came to mind. The curtains were drawn, filling the space with dark shadows.

In the living room Hunter saw only one photo frame, half hidden in the corner, behind some CDs on the shiny module. The picture was of Littlewood with his arm around a kid no older than eighteen. The kid was dressed in a graduation gown, and he and Littlewood were sporting great big, proud smiles. Hunter had two similar pictures of him and his father back in his apartment – one after his high-school graduation, the other after his college one.

‘What the hell are you looking for, Robert?’ he whispered to himself.

Eighty-Seven

Lightning lit up the dark sky outside. A monstrous thunderclap followed just a split second later, with a crash that rattled the building. Rain came pelting down, smashing against the windowpanes.