The Death Sculptor (33 page)

Depth is imperceptible in shadow images, so the open book-box, three feet away from the hand, seemed to be directly leveled with it. The composition looked like someone standing in front of a large container, pointing at it.

The twist came with the fingers that had been carved and placed inside the book-box. Their shadows created a new image that, in a strange way, resembled someone else lying inside the container. The shadow of one of the fingers created a head, resting against one end. The other two fingers, sticking out to the side of the box, created what looked like an arm and a leg. The rest of the body couldn’t be seen, as if it were submerged inside the box. The image reminded Hunter of someone leisurely lying inside a bathtub, one arm hanging out to one side, one foot up on the edge, head resting against one end.

Garcia was the first to utter a comment. ‘It looks like someone pointing at someone else sleeping inside a box, or . . . having a bath or something.’

Brindle nodded slowly. ‘Yeah, I can go with that. But why is he pointing at it?’

‘That’s part of the jigsaw,’ Garcia said. ‘We not only have to find the right angle to see the image, but we have to interpret it as well.’

‘Does it mean anything to you?’ Doctor Hove asked Hunter. ‘Does it tie in, in any way, with what you already have?’

Hunter kept his eyes on the shadow image. ‘I’m not sure, and I wouldn’t like to speculate until I’ve studied this image further.’

‘It’s quite hypnotic,’ Brindle added, tilting his head to one side and then the other, as if trying to look at the image from different angles.

‘And I’m sure that was exactly the killer’s intention,’ Garcia said. ‘OK, we’ve got to do the same thing we did inside Nashorn’s boat and photograph the shadow. We’ll need to reposition the forensics lights to where the flashlight is, that way we won’t need to use the camera flash.’

‘It’s not a problem,’ Brindle replied and started moving towards the forensics pedestal light in the corner.

‘Wait,’ Hunter said, frowning. Something wasn’t right. He turned off the flashlight and turned around, his eyes roaming the room from floor to ceiling.

‘What’s up?’ Garcia asked.

‘It doesn’t seem right.’

‘What doesn’t?’

‘The image, it’s incomplete.’

Garcia, Doctor Hove and Brindle exchanged intrigued looks. No one seemed to know what Hunter was referring to.

‘Incomplete, how?’ Doctor Hove asked.

Hunter switched the Maglite on again. The shadow image resurfaced on the wall behind the sculpture. ‘What do you see?’

‘The same as I saw just a moment ago,’ she replied. ‘Just what Carlos suggested. It looks like someone standing in front of a container that seems to be occupied by someone else. Maybe a bathtub. Why, what do you see?’

‘The same.’

Surprised looks all round.

‘So why did you say there’s something missing?’ Garcia asked. He was used to Hunter seeing things that no one else did – questioning things that no one else questioned. It was like his mind was never satisfied. He just had to keep on digging, even when the images were clear in front of his eyes.

‘The image of the container is obviously created by the fake book on the desk, and the image of the person inside it, by the torn fingers.’

‘That’s right,’ Garcia agreed. ‘And the image of the person standing in front of it is being created by the hand.’

‘OK,’ Hunter said. ‘But from this angle, we’ve got nothing from the second hand.’

Everyone looked at the victim’s right arm at the opposite end of the large desk. The one with the shorter ‘walking fingers’. In front of it the killer had laid several carved out pieces of Littlewood’s thigh.

‘The two arms are too far apart,’ Hunter continued. ‘The light beam isn’t wide enough.’

‘Maybe it isn’t part of the sculpture,’ Brindle said.

Hunter shook his head. ‘I’d agree that the legs and the severed feet aren’t part of the sculpture. They’ve been discarded by the side of the desk, but not the arm. It’s on the stage for a reason.’ Hunter’s gaze was again slowly searching the room. His eyes rested on the bookshelf lined with thick volumes to the left of the large executive desk and he paused. Three shelves from the bottom, about level with the desktop, the killer had carefully placed Littlewood’s extracted eyeball on top of a book that was lying flat. The eye was looking straight at the second sculpture from a peculiar angle.

‘Two separate images,’ Hunter said.

Everyone’s gaze followed Hunter’s.

‘Sonofabitch,’ Garcia murmured.

Hunter crossed to the bookshelf, held the flashlight level with the bloody eyeball and turned it on.

It took them less than five minutes to reposition the forensics lights and capture two separate snapshots of the two sculptures – or the two parts of the one sculpture, depending on how one looked at it. The body and severed body parts were already being prepared for removal.

Hunter and Garcia left Doctor Hove and Mike Brindle to carry on with their work and walked over to the next office along the corridor. It belonged to an accountant, but it was now being used by the police. Sheryl Sellers, Littlewood’s office manager, who had found his body early that morning, had been sitting in there for over an hour, accompanied by a female police officer. Sheryl still hadn’t stopped shaking or crying. The female officer practically had to force-feed her a glass of sugary water.

Sheryl had answered a few questions from Detective Jack Winstanley and his partner when they first arrived at the scene, but since then she’d been speechless, sitting in the accountant’s office, blankly staring at a wall. She’d refused the offer to speak with a police psychologist. She said that all she wanted to do was leave that place and go home.

As Hunter and Garcia stepped into the office, Hunter gave the female officer a subtle nod. The officer returned his nod and stepped outside.

Sheryl was sitting on a brown, beat-up, two-seater sofa. Her knees were locked together, her hands clasped around a half-drunk glass of water resting on her lap, her whole body looked tense and stiff. She was perched right at the edge of her seat. Tears had made her eye makeup run down her cheeks, and she hadn’t bothered wiping it off. The white of her eyes had completely disappeared, they were so bloodshot from crying.

‘Miss Sellers,’ Hunter said, crouching down to catch her eye. He was careful to settle just below her line of vision, putting him in a less challenging position.

It took her several seconds to bring her attention to the man in front of her. Hunter waited until their eyes locked.

‘How are you doing?’ he asked.

She sucked in a long breath through her nose and Hunter noticed her hands starting to shake again.

‘Would you like a new glass of water?’

It took her a moment to grasp the question. She blinked. ‘Do you have anything stronger?’ Her voice was a wavering whisper.

Hunter gave her a quick smile. ‘Coffee?’

‘Anything stronger?’

‘Double coffee?’

Her expression softened a touch. In different circumstances, she would’ve smiled. She shrugged instead, and nodded once.

Hunter stood up and whispered something in Garcia’s ear, who then left the room. Hunter went back to his crouch position.

‘My name is Robert Hunter. I’m another police officer with the LAPD. I know you’ve had to talk to a few today. I’m really sorry for what has happened, and for what you had to witness this morning.’

Sheryl felt the sincerity in his voice. Her gaze moved back to the glass in her hands.

‘I know you’ve done this already. And I apologize for asking you to do it again, but could you run me through the chain of events since yesterday. From Dr. Littlewood’s last session to when you got here this morning.’

Slowly and in a quivering voice, Sheryl Sellers recounted all the events she’d already told the first two detectives at the scene. Hunter listened without interrupting. The story was consistent with what he’d already heard.

‘I really need your help, Ms. Sellers,’ Hunter said when she was done. Her silence prompted him to go on. ‘Could I ask you how long you’ve been Dr. Littlewood’s office manager?’

She looked at him again. ‘I started last spring. It’s been just over a year now.’

‘Can you remember if Dr. Littlewood seemed agitated or nervous at all after any of his sessions with any of his patients lately?’

She thought about it for an instant. ‘Not that I can remember. He was always the same at the end of a session and at the end of the day – calm, relaxed, funny, most of the time . . .’

‘Have any of his patients ever gotten violent or angry during a session?’

‘No, never. At least not since I’ve been working here.’

‘Do you know if any of his clients has ever threatened him in any way?’

Sheryl shook her head. ‘Not that I know of. If anyone has, Nathan never mentioned anything to me.’

Hunter nodded. ‘Inside Dr. Littlewood’s office we found a secret book-box. Do you know what I’m talking about?’

She nodded but no fear returned to her eyes, which told Hunter what he already expected. When Sheryl opened the door to Littlewood’s office earlier that morning, the first thing she saw was his dismembered body on the chair and all the blood. That was enough to send her into a panic. Everything else around her would’ve become a blur. Hunter doubted she had even noticed the desk and the sculpture. Instead of entering the office, she ran for help.

‘Do you know if Dr. Littlewood had one of those in his office? A black-and-white one bearing the title
Subconscious Mind
?’

Sheryl frowned, finding the question a little odd. ‘Yes. He kept it on his desk. But he never really used it as a secret box. That was where he always left his cellphone and car keys when he was in the office.’

Hunter wrote a few notes down in his notebook. ‘Am I right in assuming that every patient booking for a new session had to go through you?’

She nodded.

‘New clients as well?’

She nodded again.

Their eyes moved to the door as Garcia walked back into the room holding a cup of coffee. He smiled and handed it to Sheryl. ‘I hope it’s strong enough,’ he said.

She took it from him, and without caring if it was too hot or not, had a large sip. The coffee was cool enough not to burn her mouth, but she recognized the powerful taste straight away and looked up at both detectives, surprised.

‘One of the guys outside is Irish,’ Garcia explained. ‘The only coffee he knows how to prepare is an Irish coffee.’ He shrugged. ‘So I asked him.’ He smiled again. ‘It calms the nerves like nothing else.’

Her lips spread about three millimeters each side. Under the circumstances, that was the best smile she could give them. Hunter waited while Sheryl had two more sips. Her hands steadied a little and she looked back at Hunter.

‘Ms. Sellers, I know Dr. Littlewood was a very busy man. Can you tell me if he was able to accommodate any new clients in the past two, three months?’

She kept her gaze on Hunter, but her focus became distant while she searched her memory. ‘Yes, I think maybe three new clients. I need to check my records. I can’t be sure. My mind just can’t think straight right now.’

Hunter nodded, understandingly. ‘I assume your records are in your computer.’

Sheryl nodded.

‘It’s really important that we find out how many new clients Dr. Littlewood had in the last few months, how many sessions they had, and who they were.’

Sheryl hesitated. ‘I can’t give you their names. That information is confidential.’

‘I know you’re a great office manager, Ms. Sellers,’ Hunter said in an even voice. ‘And I know exactly what you’re talking about. I know I don’t look like one, but I’m also a psychologist. I understand the code of ethics and what it means. What I’m asking you for will not break that code. You will not be breaking Dr. Littlewood’s trust. The proceedings of the sessions are confidential and not our concern. I just need to know about the new clients. It’s very important.’

Sheryl had one more sip of her coffee. She’d heard about the code of ethics, but she wasn’t a psychologist. She’d never sworn to it. And if she could do anything to help catch whoever it was who had done what she’d just seen to Nathan Littlewood, by God she would.

‘I need my computer,’ she finally said. ‘But I can’t go back in there. I just can’t walk back into that room.’

‘It’s not a problem,’ Hunter said, nodding at Garcia. ‘We’ll bring your computer to you.’

Captain Blake pushed the door to Hunter’s office open just minutes after he and Garcia got back. Alice Beaumont was already in there.

‘The victim was a psychologist this time?’ the captain asked, reading from a single-sheet printout she had with her.

‘That’s correct,’ Garcia said. ‘Nathan Littlewood, fifty-two years old, divorced, lived alone. His ex-wife lives in Chicago with her new husband. They had one kid, Harry Littlewood, who lives in Las Vegas. He goes to college there. Nathan himself was a graduate from UCLA. Been on the board of psychologists for the city of Los Angeles for twenty-five years. His practice was based in Silver Lake. He’d been there for eighteen years. He lived in a two-bedroom apartment in Los Feliz, which we’ll be checking later on today. As a psychologist he dealt mostly with regular everyday problems – depression, relationship issues, feelings of inadequacy, low self-esteem, that kind of thing.’

Captain Blake lifted a hand, interrupting him. ‘Wait a second, how about police-related work? Has he ever helped the LAPD with any investigations?’

‘We’re on the same page as you, Captain,’ Garcia replied, clicking away on his computer. ‘If he did, that could certainly link Littlewood to the previous two victims, strengthening the probability of a revenge motive. We’re looking into it, but we’ve got twenty-five years of records to go through, and obtaining those records isn’t as easy as it may sound. We’ve only just got back from the crime-scene, but I’ve already got a small team working on it.’

The captain’s interrogating stare switched over to Alice. She was waiting for it.