‘They weren’t tied off,’ Hunter said, bending down to have a better look. ‘I checked it at the crime-scene. No suture, no knot.’

‘That’s because the killer didn’t use a thread to stop the blood flow, as most doctors would. The brachial artery in the right arm was clamped. The marks can be seen under a microscope. He used medical forceps.’

Hunter straightened up his body. ‘Only in the right arm?’

Doctor Hove adjusted her surgical cap. ‘That’s right. And the reason is probably because the victim’s heart gave in before the killer could amputate anything else. The fact of the matter, Robert, is that the killer prolonged the victim’s life and suffering for as long as he could. But to do that without a surgical team to help him, he had to perform the cuts as quickly and as cleanly as possible, and contain the hemorrhaging as best as he could,’ Doctor Hove concluded.

‘And you’re sure there’s no chance he could’ve used a professional saw like the ones used here at the morgue?’ Garcia pushed.

‘No,’ she replied, reaching for the Mopec autopsy saw on the worktop behind her. ‘Portable autopsy saws use small, circular blades with extremely fine teeth.’ She showed them the instrument. ‘The finer the blade’s teeth, the more accurate the cut, and the easier it is to cut through tougher surfaces like bones and muscles in full rigor mortis.’

Both detectives quickly examined the saw and its blade.

‘But an autopsy blade isn’t wide enough. You need something that transcends the entire width of the body part being amputated. Circular saws also leave a very distinct cut pattern, smoother than most.’

‘And that’s not what we have,’ Hunter guessed.

‘Nope. We have a friction pattern. Two very sharp blades, side-by-side, moving back and forth in opposite directions to create a sawing action.’

Hunter handed the autopsy saw back to her. ‘You mean . . . something like an electric kitchen carving knife?’

‘You’re kidding,’ Garcia interjected.

‘That’s exactly what I think the killer used,’ Doctor Hove said. ‘A large, powerful, electric kitchen carving knife.’

‘Will those cut through bone?’ Garcia asked.

‘The most powerful ones will cut through a frozen joint of beef,’ the doctor said, ‘especially with brand new blades.’

‘Do we know if the victim had one in the house?’ Garcia asked.

‘If that’s what the killer used,’ Hunter said. ‘The knife didn’t come from the victim’s kitchen. The killer brought it with him.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because not having the amputating instrument with him would suggest that the amputations were unplanned and that the killer came into the house unprepared.’

‘And that’s something this killer certainly wasn’t,’ Doctor Hove said. ‘And that reminds me. To keep the pieces of his sculpture together, the killer didn’t use only metal wire, he also used a super-fast bonder, like superglue.’

‘Superglue?’ Garcia almost chuckled.

The doctor nodded. ‘Perfect for the job, really – easy to use, dries in seconds, easily adheres to skin and creates an extremely firm hold. But what gets me is that this seems like a totally pointless killing.’

‘Aren’t they all?’ Hunter commented.

‘True, but what I mean is that there was very little achievement in killing this victim.’ She walked towards a chart on the west wall that itemized the weights of the deceased’s brain, heart, lungs, liver, kidneys and spleen. On the counter next to it there was a plastic bag filled with several of the victim’s organs. She reached for it and lifted it up. ‘Cancer had pretty much obliterated his lungs. He probably would’ve survived another week, maybe two. And this kind of lung damage means pain, a lot of it. He was already dying and going through unimaginable suffering. Why kill him like this?’

No one said anything.

No one knew what to say.

Eleven

Los Angeles County District Attorney Dwayne Bradley was a tough-as-nails man who displayed no patience for anyone who even contemplated breaking the law. At sixty-one, he’d been a prosecutor for thirty years, and the Los Angeles DA since his election in the year 2000. Upon being sworn into office, he told his staff to show no fear in pursuing the criminal element, and to seek justice always and at all costs. Dwayne Bradley lived by that rule.

Bradley was short and stocky, with just enough white hair left to cover his temples. His chubby cheeks went bright pink and jiggled ferociously whenever he argued a point. His temper had the shortest of fuses, and if gesticulation was the name of the game, Dwayne Bradley certainly was a champion at it. In short, he looked like an overexcited Mafia Don who’d decided to go straight.

This morning, instead of driving to his office in West Temple Street, he made his way to the PAB and into Captain Blake’s office. He’d been there for five minutes when Hunter knocked at the door.

‘Come in,’ the captain called from her desk.

Hunter stepped into her office and closed the door behind him. ‘You wanted to see me?’

‘It was I who wanted to see you,’ Bradley said from the corner of the room.

If Hunter was surprised by the DA’s presence, he didn’t show it. ‘DA Bradley,’ Hunter greeted him with a polite head nod, but no handshake.

‘Detective.’ Bradley returned the gesture.

Hunter’s stare moved to Captain Blake for a couple of seconds before reverting back to the DA.

‘Well, I’m not here to waste your time or mine with bullshit,’ Bradley said, cutting straight to the chase. ‘We’re all very busy and I appreciate that.’ He paused for effect – force of habit. ‘Derek Nicholson. You have been appointed as the lead detective in his murder investigation. An investigation that I will be personally overseeing.’ He tilted his head in the direction of the file on Captain Blake’s desk. ‘I read your initial report, detective. I also saw the crime-scene pictures.’ Bradley started pacing the room. ‘In thirty years as a prosecutor I’ve never seen anything quite like that, and I’ve seen a lot of sick shit, believe me. That wasn’t murder. That was an atrocity without precedent. A cowardly, deranged act of unimaginable violence by some scumbag who isn’t fit to call himself human. And I, for one, want the death penalty for that motherfucker. Hell, I’ll bring back the fucking guillotine just for this sack of shit. And I’ll be sitting pretty and smiling when his head hits the floor.’ His cheeks were starting to go pink. ‘And what the hell was that freaky thing he left behind?’

No one answered.

‘Now, the crime-scene photographs show a totally chaotic scene, totally consistent with a rage outburst of immense proportions. But your report suggests the whole thing was premeditated and thought through. You’re saying the killer planned to lose control?’

‘He didn’t,’ Hunter said.

Bradley frowned. ‘Didn’t what?’

‘Lose control.’

Bradley waited but Hunter didn’t say anything else. ‘Do you have a speech impediment? Are you capable of forming full sentences?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes, what?’ Bradley looked at Captain Blake as if asking ‘Is this really the person you’re putting in charge of this investigation?’

‘Yes, I am able to form full sentences.’

‘So please, burst a nut. Form as many as you like and do develop on your statement of a moment ago.’

‘Which statement was that?’

‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.’ Spit was starting to accumulate at the edges of the DA’s mouth. ‘The one where you said that the killer did not lose control.’

Hunter shrugged. ‘The perp used an unusual weapon to dismember the victim, possibly an everyday household electric carving knife. Before doing that, he used a marker pen to plot the incision lines on the victim’s arms and legs. After at least one of the amputations, the killer used medical clamps or forceps to tie off the arteries and restrict the bleeding, prolonging the victim’s life for several minutes. To create his sculpture, he needed several pieces of metal wire and a super bonder – superglue. And there was no blood anywhere else in that house except in that bedroom.’ Hunter allowed his suggestion to hang in the air.