The Death Sculptor (17 page)

It didn’t take long for Hunter to spot her. Olivia Nicholson was sitting in one of the many fixed-row plastic seats near the building’s floor-to-ceiling glass entrance doors. Dressed in a conservative black ruffle chiffon dress and black stiletto-heel court shoes, she stood out from the much rougher-looking crowds around her like a bright laser beam. Her oversized sunglasses were perched high on her small and pointy nose.

‘Ms. Nicholson,’ Hunter said, offering his hand.

She stood up but didn’t reciprocate the gesture. ‘Detective, could we talk?’ Her voice was as steady as she could manage.

‘Of course.’ Hunter lowered his hand and quickly scanned the hall. ‘If you follow me, I’ll find us a quiet spot.’ He guided her through the crowd and used his security card to green-light one of the magnetic turnstiles, allowing them deeper into the building. As they stepped into an elevator, Olivia moved her sunglasses to her head, pinning her loose blonde hair back, away from her face. Her eyes were still bloodshot. Hunter identified it as the compound effect of crying and lack of sleep. Her makeup expertly hid the dark circles under her eyes, but she still looked exhausted. Not knowing who her father’s killer was was eating at her. Hunter could tell.

Hunter pressed the button for the first floor, where the press-conference and meeting rooms were located. With the pictures board, the replica sculpture, and case files strewn about everywhere, his office was definitely out of bounds. The interrogation rooms on the second floor were too ominous, with their metal tables, bland walls, large two-way mirrors and no windows. Either the main press-conference room, or any of the smaller meeting rooms were a much better choice.

They rode the elevator up in silence and exited into a long, wide and brightly lit corridor. Hunter took the lead, and tried the door to the first meeting room on the right. It was unlocked and empty. He flicked on the lights and showed Olivia inside.

‘How can I help you, Ms. Nicholson?’ he asked, indicating one of the five seats around the small, oblong-shaped table.

Olivia didn’t sit down. Instead, she unzipped her handbag, retrieved a copy of the morning paper and placed it on the table. ‘Is this what happened to my father?’ Her lower eyelids looked like water dams overflowing with tears, and it was only a matter of seconds before they burst. ‘Did the person who killed him use his body parts to create some sort of sick sculpture?’

Hunter kept his hands by his side and his voice even. ‘That article isn’t about your father’s murder.’

‘But it’s about a very similar murder,’ Olivia snapped back like a sharp switchblade. ‘A murder that, according to this article, you are investigating. Is that true?’

Hunter held her stare. ‘Yes.’

‘DA Bradley assured me that everyone was doing everything they could to bring the monster who broke into my father’s home to justice. He assured me that the case detectives were the best in the force, and that they were working
exclusively
on my father’s murder investigation. So the only logical conclusion is that these murders must be connected.’ She searched Hunter’s face for an answer. Found none. ‘Please don’t insult me by saying that those questions you asked me and my sister the other day about sculptures were because you found a metal piece from a broken sculpture in my father’s house.’

Hunter’s face didn’t give anything away, but he knew the game was up. ‘Please, Ms. Nicholson, have a seat.’ This time he pulled a chair out for her, moving into Stage One in dealing with an individual whose emotions have taken over: take simple, unchallenging steps to reduce their anxiety. If possible sit them down – a seating position is always more relaxing than a standing one – physically and emotionally.

‘Please,’ Hunter insisted.

Olivia finally sat down.

Hunter approached the cooler in the corner, filled two plastic cups with ice-cold water, and brought them back to the table before sitting down opposite her.

Stage Two was to give the person a drink. This would get the digestive system working, giving the body one more activity to occupy itself with and distract from an approaching panic attack. A cold drink on a hot day cools the body down, which is a very comforting feeling.

Hunter had a sip of his water first, leading the way. Seconds later Olivia did the same.

‘I apologize if I gave you the impression that I was lying to you and your sister,’ Hunter said, maintaining eye contact. ‘It really wasn’t my intention.’

‘But you did lie about the sculpture piece found in my dad’s room.’ Her words were shadowed by hurt.

Hunter nodded once. ‘Knowing the details of a crime scene, or the exact cruelty used by sociopaths, never helped anyone deal with their grief. It often has the opposite effect. Trust me on this, Ms. Nicholson. I’ve seen it many times. Me questioning you and your sister that day was already hard enough for you. There was no reason for me to add to your pain. Your answers wouldn’t have changed if I’d told you the truth about the sculpture.’

Olivia had another sip of her water, returned the cup to the table and kept her gaze on it, obviously measuring her next words. ‘What was it?’ she finally said.

Hunter made a face as if he didn’t understand.

‘What was the sculpture? What was created with my father’s . . .’ She couldn’t finish the sentence. Tears were stalking her eyes again.

‘Nothing identifiable,’ Hunter replied. ‘It was a shapeless form.’

‘Was there a meaning to it?’

The last thing Hunter wanted to do was to contribute any more to Olivia’s pain, but he saw no way out of it, he had to lie again; he couldn’t compromise the investigation, and he had no proof that what Alice had found was the real meaning behind the shadow puppets. ‘If there is, we haven’t found it yet.’

Olivia was studying Hunter’s face. She kept her large green eyes locked on his for five long seconds before deciding that he was telling the truth. She reached for her cup but didn’t bring it to her mouth. Just a nervous reaction to keep her hands from shaking. It didn’t work.

‘I haven’t been able to sleep for the past couple of days,’ Olivia said, looking away, finding a neutral spot on the far wall and holding it for a moment. ‘I’d rather stay awake than close my eyes and deal with what my dreams have brought me.’

Hunter said nothing. He doubted it would be any comfort to Olivia if she knew that he’d been living that exact way for most of his life.

‘We knew Dad didn’t have long to live, and as hard as it might’ve been, I thought Allison and I had prepared ourselves for it.’ She shook her head and her bottom lip quivered. ‘It turns out that we weren’t as prepared as we thought. But having to find out details of what really happened this way.’ She pushed the newspaper towards Hunter and said nothing else.

‘Once again, I’m sorry,’ Hunter said, not even glancing at the paper. ‘I had to make a decision. And I made it based on my experience in dealing with grieving families of homicide victims.’

Hunter’s words were delivered in a tender and non-patronizing tone, and Olivia seemed to pick up on it.

‘What happened yesterday . . .’ Her gaze quickly moved to the newspaper on the table, and then back to Hunter. ‘Is there really a connection?’

Olivia’s question simply brought forward something that Hunter had no way of avoiding.

‘From what we’ve been able to gather so far, we believe that both crimes were committed by the same person, yes,’ he replied and quickly followed it up. ‘You obviously read the article.’ He nodded at the paper.

‘Yes.’

‘Does the name Andrew Nashorn ring any bells?’

‘No,’ she replied with a subtle headshake.

‘You don’t recognize him at all from the newspaper photo?’

‘When I read the article this morning, I asked myself that exact same question, Detective.’ Olivia shook her head and looked away again. ‘Neither his name nor his face ring any bells. If my father knew him, I don’t recall him ever mentioning him. And I certainly don’t recall seeing him anywhere.’

Hunter acknowledged it with a slight tilt of his head.

Olivia finished her water and pinned Hunter down with a pleading stare. ‘You don’t have much so far, do you, Detective?’ She paused for a fraction of a second. ‘And please don’t lie to me again.’ Her voice almost croaked.

Hunter waited, debating what to tell her. The anticipation in Olivia’s demeanor was almost electric. ‘At the moment we have bits and pieces that we’re trying to piece together. But we
are
making progress,’ he assured her. ‘I can’t really reveal much more than that. I’m sorry. I hope you understand.’

Olivia sat in silence for a long, uncomfortable moment. ‘I know that nothing will ever bring my father back, Detective, but the thought that the monster who took him is still out there . . . still killing . . . and he might never be brought to justice, makes me sick. Please don’t let that happen.’

Mid-morning, and no one had any doubts that today would be another spectacular summer’s day. Clear blue skies had paired up with bright biting sunlight, and though it was still early, the heat had built up enough to feel almost oppressive. The A/C in Garcia’s car was back on full blast as he and Hunter made their way to the coroner’s office. Doctor Hove had finished with Andrew Nashorn’s autopsy.

Hunter sat in silence, his elbow resting against the door handle, his chin on his knuckles. Though he seemed to be observing the cacophony of morning traffic, his thoughts were somewhere else. Olivia’s heavy words were still ringing in his ears. Her anguish was as real to him as it was to her and her sister.

Just weeks after Hunter received his PhD in Criminal Behavior Analysis and Biopsychology, his father, who worked as a security guard for a downtown branch of the Bank of America, took a bullet to the chest during a robbery gone disastrously wrong. He fought for twelve weeks in a coma. And during that whole time, Hunter never left his side, believing that his companionship, the sound of his voice, or maybe even his touch, could help his father find the strength to fight back. He had been wrong.

Despite two of the robbers being shot dead at the bank, the three others who made up the rest of the gang escaped. They were never caught.

The bitter taste of knowing that his father’s killers were never brought to justice had never left Hunter’s mouth. And that knowledge kept the pain alive year after year. He didn’t want the same to happen to Olivia and Allison Nicholson.

‘Everything OK?’ Garcia asked, pulling Hunter away from his thoughts.

It took Hunter a few seconds to drag his eyes from the traffic outside and look at his partner. ‘Yeah, yeah. I was just . . .’

‘. . . Away somewhere else?’ Garcia nodded. ‘I know.’ He smiled and let the moment settle. ‘You know, the longer this killer stays at a crime scene, the higher the risk of getting caught, so I’d say he wouldn’t stay a second longer than what was needed.’

Hunter agreed.

‘But those sculptures, those shadow images, they are not the work of a beginner. I’ve never seen anything so intricate. This killer didn’t just chop and twist body parts right there and then hope he got it right first time out. He must’ve practiced, and a lot.’

‘I have no doubt he has.’

‘Using what? Dummies?’

‘Anything, really, Carlos,’ Hunter said. ‘He could create models out of wire, papier mâché, cast, even regular toy dolls with flexible rubber arms and legs. The kind you’d find in any convenience store.’

‘So this guy sits at home, playing with dolls before going out and ripping his victims apart. This city is fucked up, you know?’

‘This world is fucked up,’ Hunter corrected him.

‘Andrew Nashorn’s file finally came through. It’s on the backseat.’ Garcia quickly jerked his head back.

‘Have you read it?’

‘Yep, reads like any other detective’s résumé I’ve ever read. Nashorn was born in El Granada, San Mateo County in Northern California, where he lived until he was twelve or thirteen or something like that. His parents moved to Los Angeles then. His father was an accountant, and got offered a better job down here. His mother was a church-going housewife.’

They came up to a red traffic light. Hunter leaned over and grabbed the file from the backseat.

‘Nashorn was a regular school kid,’ Garcia continued. ‘Not the best student, but not the worst either. Though he lived in Maywood, he attended high school in Bell. He never went to college. Worked several odd jobs for a few years after high school before deciding to join the force. It took him a while to make detective.’

‘Twelve years,’ Hunter said, reading from the file. ‘Failed the exam four times.’

‘He’s a widower. No kids.’

Hunter nodded. ‘Got married when he was twenty-six,’ he said, reading from the file. ‘His wife died less than three years later.’

‘Yeah, I read that. Some odd heart condition they never even knew she had.’

‘Cardiomyopathy,’ Hunter confirmed. ‘Heart-muscle disease. He never remarried.’

‘From what I gathered he was a good cop,’ Garcia said, shifting his car into gear and turning left into North Mission Road. ‘Put plenty of dirtbags away during his detective years. And then what every cop dreads happened. He got shot on the job, pursuing some lowlife street mugger down in Inglewood.’ Garcia shook his head. ‘Poor guy. In Brazil they’d say he was born with his butt facing the sun covered in chili powder.’

Carlos Garcia was born in São Paulo, Brazil. The son of a Brazilian federal agent and an American history teacher, he and his mother moved to Los Angeles when Garcia was only ten years old, after his parents’ marriage collapsed. Even though he’d lived in America most of his life, Garcia could speak Portuguese like a true Brazilian, and he still visited the country every few years.

Hunter looked at his partner and screwed up his face. ‘What? What the hell does that mean?’

‘It means he was born unlucky, and in Nashorn’s case, I think it applies.’

‘Really? So what do Brazilians say if they think someone was born lucky? “He was born with his butt facing the moon covered in sugar”?’