The Death Sculptor

‘That could help. Could you send them over?’

‘No problem, you’ll have them first thing in the morning. OK, I’m going home now to a much-needed rest and a nice glass of wine,’ Doctor Hove said.

‘That sounds like a great idea to me,’ Garcia replied, while fixing Hunter down with a stare.

‘Yeah, you’re right, Doc,’ Hunter agreed, nodding at Garcia. ‘We need some rest before we fry.’

‘I’ll email you the autopsy results right now, and any lab results as soon as I get them, but you know the drill, it might be another day or two, even with an urgent request.’

‘That’s fine, Doc. Thank you for giving this high priority.’

Eighty-Four

Eleesha Holt woke up with the first rays of sunlight. No alarm needed. Her mind’s clock was as fine-tuned as a precision Swiss timepiece. But this morning, instead of getting up straight away as she always did, Eleesha lay in bed for an extra ten minutes, staring at the ceiling of her small bedroom. Thoughts of the long day ahead raced through her mind, and all of a sudden she was engulfed by terrible sadness and a feeling of helplessness. Slowly, she dragged herself off the bed, into the bathroom, and into a warm shower.

After the shower, Eleesha wrapped a towel around her head and slipped into her pale yellow bathrobe. She cleared a circular patch on the misty mirror and stared at her reflection for a long minute. Her sunken eyes, tired skin and weak gums were the result of a young life eaten away by drugs and alcohol. The scar on her left cheek was the result of sleeping with so many men and women – some of them could, and would, get violent. Her black skin did a great job of naturally disguising the dark circles under her eyes. Her hair had lost a lot of its natural shine and life, but with some effort, and a very hot hair iron, she could still make it look nice when she needed to.

Eleesha took a step back from the mirror, undid her bathrobe and let it fall to the floor. She tentatively ran a hand over her stomach, allowing the tips of her fingers to caress the three stabbing scars on it. Tears started to form in her eyes and she quickly reached for her bathrobe again, shaking the memories of her early life away from her mind.

After a quick breakfast, Eleesha returned to her bedroom, applied some light makeup, got dressed in jeans, a long-sleeve shirt, and comfortable, everyday shoes, before making her way to the subway station. From Norwalk, where she lived, it was only four stops to Compton, with a subway-line change at Imperial/Wilmington.

At that time in the morning, Norwalk Station wasn’t busy yet. Eleesha knew that if she tried to leave her apartment around the morning rush hour, she would have to endure a hell of a journey – overcrowded station, overcrowded train, and not a chance in hell of getting a seat. No, Eleesha would rather get to her job half an hour earlier than venture into the city’s transport system at rush hour. There was always something to do at her desk anyway.

Eleesha had never gone to college. In fact, she’d dropped out of school midway through eighth grade, but her earlier life made her an expert in what she did. Eleesha was part of the Specialized Supportive Services branch of the Los Angeles Department of Public Social Services. The Specialized Supportive Services was created to help anyone dealing with domestic violence, substance abuse, mental-health problems, violence against women, and broken families.

Eleesha dealt exclusively with women struggling with substance abuse and domestic violence, and street workers who wanted to get out of the game. Her days were tough, long, and filled with sadness, frustration and other people’s suffering. There had been so many women she thought she’d helped, for whom she thought she’d made a difference, only for them to fall straight back into their old life just a few months later. But every now and again, Eleesha would succeed in getting someone off the streets and keeping her off. She had seen a few of the women she had helped go on to find a good job, raise a family, and start a brand new life, away from all the suffering and the addiction. Those moments made her job worthwhile.

Eleesha got into the train and grabbed a seat towards the back of the car. An attractive thirty-something man sat two seats to her right, wearing a navy-blue suit and holding a paper coffee cup that could probably hold a gallon. He nodded a cordial ‘hello’ as he boarded. Eleesha returned the gesture, and followed it with a smile. The man started to smile back, when he caught a glimpse of the scar on her left cheek. He quickly looked away and pretended to be searching for something inside his briefcase.

Eleesha’s smile faded. She had lost count of how many times she’d been through that exact situation. She pretended she didn’t care, but deep inside her battered ego, another scar was created.

In Lakewood, the next stop along, several people boarded the car. A woman of about twenty-five sat directly in front of Eleesha. She was wearing a light-brown trouser suit and beige, suede flat-heeled shoes, and carrying a lawyer’s leather briefcase. The man to Eleesha’s right had already finished his gallon of coffee, and after adjusting his tie gave the young woman his best smile. The woman never even noticed him. She took her seat and retrieved a newspaper from her briefcase. Eleesha smiled internally.

As the woman sat back and started reading her newspaper, something on the front page caught Eleesha’s attention. Her eyes narrowed. The headline read ‘SCULPTOR SERIAL KILLER CLAIMS THIRD VICTIM’. Eleesha leaned forward and squinted even harder at the woman’s paper. The first paragraph of the article went on to describe how a new, sadistic serial killer had torn the arms and legs off his victims’ bodies, only to use them to create grotesque, human-flesh sculptures, left at the scene. The article speculated that acts of cannibalism and perhaps black-magic rituals had also been performed. Eleesha pulled a disgusted face but carried on reading. The next line sent her memory swirling like a tornado.

No, she thought, it can’t be the same.

Only then did her eyes register the photographs at the bottom of the article. Her heart stuttered as all doubt quickly vanished from her mind.

Eighty-Five

‘Have you seen this pile of shit?’ Captain Blake blurted as she stormed into Hunter and Garcia’s office, holding a copy of the morning’s edition of the LA Times.

Hunter, Garcia and Alice Beaumont had all read the article. In keeping with the best practices of shocking journalism, the LA Times went on to create its own pseudonym for the killer. It called him, fittingly enough, ‘the Sculptor’.

There were four pictures in total. One showed the building where Nathan Littlewood’s body was found. The other three were portrait photographs of each of the three victims. The article ended by saying that even after three ‘respectable members of the community’ (an attorney for the state of California, who had been diagnosed with terminal cancer; a police officer; and a psychologist) had become victims of the most terrifying killer the city of Los Angeles had seen in decades, the LAPD were still chasing their tails like silly dogs. They had no tangible leads.

‘Yes, we’ve seen it, Captain,’ Hunter replied.

‘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