Carter Chris - The Death Sculptor

Hunter and Garcia went back to Amy Dawson’s house – Derek Nicholson’s weekday nurse. She had seen the newspapers front pages and the photographs of all three victims. She couldn’t understand why a serial killer would go after Mr. Nicholson.

Hunter revisited the subject of Derek Nicholson wanting to make peace with God and tell someone the truth about something, but Amy told him that that had been all he’d said. He’d never mentioned anything else or any names. She had no idea what truth he had referred to, and she remembered nothing new about the second person who’d visited Mr. Nicholson that day.

Speaking to Melinda Wallis, Nicholson’s weekend nurse and the person who had found his body that morning, was a much more delicate affair. Since the murder, she had moved back into her parents’ house in La Habra Heights, a rural canyon community located on the border of Orange and Los Angeles Counties. Even with Hunter’s experience, interviewing her proved almost impossible. The trauma caused by what she had seen in that room, and the knowledge that she’d been a breath away from a ruthless killer, and the bloody message he had left on the wall specifically for her, had spread its roots deep into her conscious and subconscious mind. Even with years of psychotherapy, which her family couldn’t afford, she would never be the same person again. Sadly, Melinda had become another victim of the Sculptor.

One Hundred and One

Before returning to the PAB, Hunter and Garcia had one more stop – Allison Nicholson’s apartment in Pico-Robertson, just south of Beverly Hills.

Derek Nicholson’s youngest daughter lived in a luxurious two-bedroom apartment in the much sought-after Hillcrest development, adjacent to the famous Hillcrest Country Club. Hunter had contacted both of Nicholson’s daughters by phone earlier in the day. They’d arranged to meet at 7:15 p.m. at Allison’s apartment.

The Hillcrest development looked and felt more like a holiday resort than a residential complex. Its residents enjoyed a very large fitness center with a cardio island, dry sauna, two resort-style pools, two beauty spas, towering palm trees, waterfalls, and an outdoor fireplace with lounge area and barbeque grills. After signing in with the security guard at the complex’s electronic gates, both detectives were given instructions for finding the visitors’ parking lot.

The concierge at Allison’s apartment block’s entry lobby showed Hunter and Garcia to the elevator, and told them that Miss Nicholson’s apartment was located on the top floor.

The luxury that had started right at the electronic gates reached its peak inside Allison’s flat. The living room was almost the size of a basketball court, with Karndean flooring, impressive chandeliers, Persian rugs, and even a granite fireplace. The furniture was nearly entirely antique, and expensive paintings hung on the walls. But the décor was charming, giving the place a very relaxing atmosphere.

Allison invited both detectives in with a polite but sad smile. Her deep brown eyes were sorrowful. Her sadness had undoubtedly taken a bite at her beauty. Olivia looked just as worn out. Allison was still in her work clothes – a perfectly fitting dark suit, complemented by a gray, frilled, V-neck blouse. She’d taken her high heels off, and without them she stood at around five foot five.

‘Please have a seat,’ she said, indicating a pair of light brown leather Chesterfields.

Olivia was standing by the window, her long hair pulled back and clipped at the edge of her neck.

‘We’re sorry to disturb you,’ Hunter said, taking his seat. ‘We’ll take very little of your time.’ Hunter showed both sisters the photographs of Nashorn and Littlewood that had appeared on the front page of the LA Times . Neither Allison nor Olivia could confirm if their father were friends with either of the other two victims. Neither their faces nor their names rang any bells.

‘Who are these people?’ Olivia asked.

‘Friends of your father,’ Hunter said. ‘From a long time ago. We’re not sure if they were still friends.’

Allison looked perplexed.

‘A long time ago?’ Olivia questioned again. ‘How long?’

‘Around thirty years,’ Garcia answered.

‘What?’ Allison’s gaze moved from both detectives to her sister and then back to Garcia. ‘I wasn’t even born then. What do my father and some friends from thirty years ago have to do with any of this?’

‘We believe these killings aren’t random, and that the killer is targeting that specific group of friends,’ Hunter said.

‘A specific group of friends?’ Olivia joined in. ‘How many?’

‘We believe that there were at least four of them.’

Hunter’s words hung in the air for a moment.

‘Why?’ Olivia moved closer. ‘Why is this killer after these people?’

‘We’re not sure.’ Hunter saw no point in telling Olivia and Allison about his theory at the moment.

‘And you believe this killer is going to kill again.’

Hunter saw the glint in Olivia’s eyes.

Neither detective answered her question.

‘So you think this killer is after a specific group of people,’ Olivia carried on. ‘But you’re not sure how many. People who were friends thirty years ago, but you’re not sure if they are still friends. And you’re not even sure why the killer is targeting them. You guys don’t know much, do you?’

Hunter could see that Allison was getting tearful again. He had noticed a wooden sideboard behind the Chesterfields, which held a collection of picture frames of all different sizes. All the photos were of her family.

‘I was wondering if you have a photograph of your father when he was young that we could borrow,’ Hunter said to Allison. ‘It could really help us. You’ll get it back.’

Allison nodded. ‘I have an old wedding picture.’ She gestured towards the sideboard Olivia was standing next to.

Olivia turned, looked at all the portraits and hesitated for a moment, emotion running through her again. She reached for a frame and stared at it for a second before handing it to Hunter. The six-by-four-inch portrait showed a close-up of Derek Nicholson and his wife, their smiles reflecting how happy they were. Allison looked just like her mother, especially her eyes. Hunter remembered a picture he had obtained of Nicholson a year before he was diagnosed with terminal cancer; other than a receding hairline and the addition of the mandatory age wrinkles, he hadn’t changed much.

Back in Garcia’s car, just as he turned the key in the ignition, Hunter’s cellphone rang – Restricted Call .

‘Detective Hunter,’ he answered.

‘Detective, this is Tammy from Operations Crimeline. I have someone on hold who’d like to speak with the detective in charge of the Sculptor investigation.’

Hunter knew that the Crimeline team was trained to filter all bogus calls. Every time a high-profile investigation made the news, they received tens of those a day – people looking for rewards, drunks, druggies, cranks, pranks, tricksters, attention seekers, or simply people who liked to waste police time. If the investigation was related to a possible serial killer , the call-volume would multiply tenfold, easily going into the hundreds, sometimes even thousands, every day. Since this investigation had started, this was the first call Operations Crimeline had put through to either Hunter or Garcia. ‘She says she has some information,’ Tammy said.

‘What kind of information?’ Hunter asked, signaling Garcia to wait a moment.

Tammy cleared her throat. ‘She says she knew all three victims.’

One Hundred and Two

The greasy café sat at the corner of Ratliffe Street and Gridley Road in Norwalk, southeast Los Angeles. All tables but one were taken. Sitting alone, facing the shop’s front window, was a black woman in her early fifties. On the table in front of her, a half-drunk cup of coffee had been pushed to one side. Twice now, in the fifteen minutes she’d been sitting there, she’d thought about getting up and leaving. She still wasn’t sure if she was making something of nothing, but it seemed like way too much of a coincidence to be just a coincidence.