‘OK to turn on the lights, doc?’ Garcia asked.
‘Uh-huh.’ She nodded.
Garcia hit the switch.
The ceiling light flickered twice before coming on. Its intensity just slightly stronger than the candles.
Doctor Hove crouched down by the door, her attention on the first large pool of blood. She dipped the tip of her index finger in it, and then rubbed it against her thumb to check for viscosity. Its strong, metallic smell burned at her nose but she didn’t even flinch. Standing up, she walked around the outer perimeter towards the chair and the decapitated and dismembered body.
Hunter made his way to the coffee table where the head had been left. Intense, unsettling fear was etched all over the victim’s face, while streaks of splashed blood colored it like war paint. Hunter bent over and examined the mouth. Unlike the first victim, Nashorn’s tongue hadn’t been cut off. It had recoiled back, almost touching the tonsils, but it was still there. There was enormous damage to the left side of the face. An exposed fracture showed at the jaw, with a piece of bone, a quarter of an inch wide and covered in blood, protruding through the skin.
‘Rigor mortis hasn’t really started yet,’ the doctor said. ‘I’d say he’s been dead for less than three hours.’
‘That’s because the killer wanted us to find the victim fast,’ Hunter said.
Doctor Hove looked at him curiously.
‘The officer first at the scene said that the stereo was on, blasting rock music.’
‘The killer left it on?’
‘Who else?’ Garcia said. ‘He wanted to call attention to the boat. He knew someone would soon complain, come knocking or something.’
‘That’s right.’ Hunter doubled back to the cabin’s entrance. Just like Officer Rogers had said, a small, black remote control sat on a chair by the door. ‘The officer said track three was on a loop.’
‘Just track three?’ The doctor looked around and found the stereo at the back, on the small bar.
‘That’s what he said.’
‘Let’s hear it,’ she said.
Hunter queued song three and pressed play.
Extremely loud music filled the boat. First a bass guitar, then a drum beat, quickly followed by keyboards. A few bars later vocals and electric guitars kicked in.
‘Damn that’s loud,’ Garcia said, covering his ears.
Doctor Hove winced.
Hunter turned it down, but let it play.
‘I know this song,’ the doctor said, frowning and searching her mind.
Hunter nodded. ‘It’s a rock band called Faith No More. It looks like our killer has a sense of humor.’
‘Why?’ Garcia asked.
‘This is one of their most famous songs,’ Hunter explained. ‘Quite old – late 1980s I think. It’s called “Falling to Pieces”. And the chorus talks about someone falling to pieces and asking to be put back together again. Metaphorically, of course.’
Garcia and Doctor Hove looked at each other.
‘Here it comes,’ Hunter said. ‘You can listen to it yourselves.’
Instinctively Garcia and Doctor Hove turned towards the stereo and listened. When the chorus finished, Hunter pressed stop.
Silence took over for an instant.
‘How did you know that?’ the doctor asked. ‘And don’t tell me that you read a lot.’
Hunter shrugged. ‘I like rock music. I used to love this album.’
‘This guy’s gotta be deranged or something,’ Garcia said, taking a step back. ‘How sick does anyone have to be to do something like this . . .’ he lifted his hands and looked around the place, ‘. . . and have a sense of humor about it?’
Neither Hunter nor Doctor Hove said a word.
Twenty-Eight
The long silence was interrupted by footsteps and voices coming from outside. Hunter, Garcia and Doctor Hove turned and faced the cabin’s entrance. A second later two forensic agents dressed in white, hooded coveralls and carrying metal briefcases appeared at the door.
‘Can you give us a minute, Glen,’ Doctor Hove said, lifting her right hand before the agents entered the cabin.
Glen Egan and Shawna Ross stopped by the steps.
‘We just want to check a few things in here first,’ the doctor continued. ‘You can start up on the deck if you want.’
‘No problem, doc.’ They turned and went back up to the deck above.
‘Deranged or not,’ Doctor Hove continued. ‘This killer knows what he’s doing.’ Her attention had returned to the mutilated body on the chair. ‘This time he used needle and thread to close both brachial arteries and contain the bleeding, and it looks like he did a good job too.’ She looked under the chair. Both of Nashorn’s legs had been bandaged at the ankles, where his feet had been cut off. ‘And for some reason, the killer dressed the leg wounds.’
Hunter moved closer to have a better look. ‘That’s strange,’ he commented, and all of a sudden caught another noseful of the strange, stinging smell.
‘Yes, that’s very strange,’ the doctor agreed.
Garcia retrieved the CD from the stereo and placed it in a plastic evidence bag. The CD case was on a shelf together with other CDs. Garcia quickly looked through them. They were mostly from rock bands from the eighties and nineties.
Hunter finally moved towards the new sculpture. It was even more sinister and creepy than the first one.
This time the arms had been severed from the body just below the shoulders, and then again at the elbow joints to produce four distinct pieces. Both forearms had been bundled together with wire, inside wrist against inside wrist, and placed in an upright position. The hands were opened outwards awkwardly, palms up, giving the impression that they were ready to catch a flying baseball. The thumbs were twisted out of shape, clearly broken. All the other fingers were missing. They’d been severed at the knuckles and tightly bundled together two by two, using wire and a strong bonding agent to form four separate pieces. But the killer made the pieces look almost identical by carving them into strange figures – chunky and round at the top, curved at the center, and skinny at the bottom. They were then placed on the breakfast bar, about a foot away from the hands. Two of the figures were standing upright. The other two were lying down, one on top of each other.
‘So what you think that is this time?’ Garcia asked, stepping closer. ‘A crocodile?’
Doctor Hove’s eyebrows arched, surprised. ‘This time . . . ? You figured out what the first sculpture means?’
‘We haven’t figured out its meaning yet,’ Hunter said.
‘But we now know what the sculpture is supposed to create,’ Garcia added.
‘Create . . . ?’
Garcia stole a peek at Hunter before pulling a face. ‘The sculpture creates shadow puppets on the wall.’
‘I’m sorry?’
Garcia nodded. ‘Yep, you heard it right, doc,’ he confirmed. ‘Shadow puppets. Quite neatly done, too. The one from the first crime scene cast a dog and a bird shadow onto the wall.’ He paused. ‘Or something to that effect.’
Doctor Hove looked like she was waiting for one of the detectives to burst out laughing.
Neither did.
‘We discovered it by chance,’ Hunter said. ‘Just minutes before we got the call to come to the marina. We haven’t had a chance to properly analyze it yet.’ He quickly ran Doctor Hove through what had happened back in his office.
‘And it looks like a dog and a bird?’
‘That’s right.’
Her green eyes moved to the sculpture on the breakfast bar. ‘And you’re sure that wasn’t just a fluke?’