At 7:30 a.m., he covered the seven miles between his apartment and the LA County Department of Coroner in North Mission Road in seventeen minutes flat. Garcia had arrived just a minute before him and was waiting for Hunter in the parking lot. He was clean shaven and his hair was still wet from his shower, but the bags under his eyes belied the fresh morning look.
‘I’ve gotta tell you, I’m not looking forward to this,’ Garcia said, greeting Hunter as he stepped out of his car.
Hunter looked at him curiously. ‘Have you ever looked forward to anything when you walk into this building?’
Garcia stared at the old hospital turned morgue. The building was architecturally impressive. Its façade was a stylish combination of red brick and light-gray lintels. The sumptuous steps that led to its main entrance added another touch of elegance to a structure that could easily be mistaken for a traditional European university edifice. A beautiful shell for a building that sheltered so much death.
‘Point taken,’ Garcia admitted.
Doctor Hove met both detectives by the staff entrance door on the right side of the building. Her silky black hair was tied back into a conservative-looking bun. She had no makeup on, and the whites of her eyes showed just enough red to suggest that she hadn’t had a good night of sleep either.
They greeted each other with simple head bobs, and in silence Hunter and Garcia followed her into a long and brightly lit corridor. At that time in the morning, there was no one else around, which, coupled with the bland white walls and the squeaky-clean vinyl floors, made the place look and feel much more sinister.
At the end of the hallway, they took the steps going down to the basement and onto a shorter and not so well-lit corridor.
‘I used our special autopsy theater,’ the doctor said as she came up to the last door on the right.
Special Autopsy Theater One was usually used for postmortem examinations of bodies that, for one reason or another, could still pose some sort of public threat – infection with highly contagious viral diseases, exposure to radioactive materials and/or locations, chemical-warfare agent contaminations, and so on. The room had its own separate database system and cold-storage facility. Its heavy door was secured by a six-digit electronic lock combination. The chamber was also sometimes used during high-profile murder investigations – a security provision to better prevent sensitive information from reaching the press and other unwanted parties. Hunter had been in it plenty of times.
Doctor Hove punched the code into the metal keyboard on the wall and the heavy door buzzed open.
They all stepped inside a large and winter-cold room. It was lit by two rows of florescent lights that ran the length of the ceiling. Two steel tables dominated the main floor space, one fixed, one wheeled. A blue hydraulic hoist stood next to a wall of fridges with small, square, mirror-polished doors. Both examination tables were covered by white sheets.
Doctor Hove put on a new pair of latex gloves and approached the one furthest from the door.
‘OK, let me show you what I found out.’
Garcia shifted on his feet in anticipation while Hunter reached for a surgical mask. He wasn’t afraid of contamination, but he hated the distinct odor that came with every autopsy chamber – as if something rotten had been scrubbed to high heaven with strong disinfectant. A stale scent that seemed to beckon from beyond the grave to haunt those still living.
‘The official cause of death was heart failure . . .’ Doctor Hove said, pulling the white sheet aside and revealing the dismembered torso of Derek Nicholson, ‘. . . induced by loss of blood and probably sheer pain. But he held on for a while.’
‘What do you mean?’ Garcia asked.
‘Skin and muscle trauma indicate that he’d lost his fingers and toes, his tongue, and at least one of his arms before his heart stopped beating.’
Garcia took a deep breath and shook off the uncomfortable shiver that hugged his neck.
‘We were right about the saw-like instrument used for all the amputations,’ the doctor continued. ‘Definitelyly something very sharp with a serrated edge. But the blade’s teeth weren’t as fine as one would expect. And the distance between them is certainly larger than usual when compared to the instruments usually reserved for clinical amputations.’
‘A handheld, carpenter’s saw, maybe?’ Garcia asked.
‘I don’t think so.’ The doctor shook her head. ‘The consistency of the cuts is too uniform. There’s some hacking, but mainly when the cutting instrument hit bone, which isn’t surprising, especially given that I’d expect the victim wasn’t sedated at all. Toxicology will test for any trace of drugs found in the victim’s blood, but that will take a day, maybe two, but without anesthesia the pain would’ve been unbearable. Even being held tight, the victim would’ve shrieked and writhed incessantly, making the amputation job much harder.’
Garcia sucked in a cold breath through clenched teeth.
‘But keeping the victim alive shouldn’t have been a concern. The perpetrator could’ve just chopped his arms and legs off in whichever way he wanted.’
‘But he didn’t,’ Hunter said.
‘No he didn’t,’ Doctor Hove agreed. ‘The killer wanted the victim alive for as long as possible. He wanted the suffering. The cuts were well and properly performed.’
‘Medical knowledge?’ Hunter asked.
‘Despite the fact that nowadays anyone can spend a few hours on the Internet and acquire detailed instructions and diagrams on how to perform an amputation, I’d say the killer has at least basic knowledge of medical procedures and anatomy, yes.’ Her stare focused on the second autopsy table. ‘He sure as hell knew what he was doing. Have a look at this.’
Ten
Something in Doctor Hove’s demeanor and tone of voice concerned both detectives. They followed her over to the second examination table.
‘I have no doubt everything that happened in that room was planned, and very well planned.’ She pulled back the white cover sheet. The macabre sculpture left behind by the killer had been dismantled. Derek Nicholson’s severed body parts were now carefully arranged on the cold metal slab. They’d all been washed clean of the blood that had encrusted them before. ‘Don’t worry,’ the doctor said to Hunter, noticing his concern. ‘The lab took enough pictures and measurements to create the replica you wanted. You’ll get it in a day or two.’
Hunter and Garcia’s stare stayed on the body parts.
‘Did you make anything of the sculpture, Doc?’ Garcia asked.
‘Nothing at all. And I had to dismantle that thing myself.’ She coughed to clear her throat. ‘I swabbed under the fingernails. No hairs or skin. Just regular dirt and excrement.’
‘Excrement?’ Garcia pulled a face.
‘His own,’ Doctor Hove confirmed. ‘During tremendous pain, the kind that’d come from an amputation without anesthesia, the subject will undoubtedly lose control of his bladder and bowels. And that’s the strange thing.’
‘What is?’ Garcia questioned.
‘He was clean,’ Hunter said. ‘When we got to the crime-scene, the bed sheet should’ve been saturated with urine and feces. It wasn’t.’
‘Because of his illness and his lack of mobility, going to the bathroom wasn’t such a mundane task anymore,’ Doctor Hove took over again, ‘his nurses helped him to it, but when they weren’t there, he wore adult diapers.’
‘Yeah, we saw the package in one of the drawers,’ Garcia said.
‘Forensics found a pair of dirty ones wrapped in a plastic bag inside the trashcan downstairs.’
Garcia’s eyes widened. ‘The killer cleaned him up?’