The Death Sculptor полностью

‘OK, our friend did some hard time inside. He got ten years for the violent rape of three women, the only three who’d testify. Now get this, during his spell inside, the barf bag repented. He found God.’ Cassidy paused, either for effect or because he was really insulted by the idea of someone like Escobedo saying that he was now reformed. Cassidy was a real Roman Catholic. ‘Inside, Escobedo started reading the Bible day and night, and took the theology program offered by the prison. He graduated with flying colors. Upon his release two years ago . . .’ another quick pause, ‘. . . you guessed it, he started preaching. Thinks he’s a reverend now, out there to spread the good word and help others repent. Calls himself Reverend Soldado. Named after Saint Juan Soldado, a folk saint revered by many in northwestern Mexico, where Escobedo’s family is originally from.’

‘Saint Soldier?’ Hunter asked, translating the name from Spanish into English.

‘That’s right,’ Cassidy confirmed. ‘I checked it out. The saint’s real name was Juan Castillo Morales. He was a private in the Mexican army. Now check this out, if you please . . . Castillo was executed in 1938 for the rape and murder of an 8-year-old girl from Tijuana. I shit you not, Robert – rape. His adherents believe that he was falsely accused of the crime, and they appeal to his spirit for help in matters of health, criminal problems, family, crossing the US–Mexico border, and other challenges of daily life.’ Hunter heard an uneasy chuckle from Cassidy. ‘Believe it or not, Escobedo named himself after a rapist saint. How’s that for having balls?’

Hunter made no comment. Cassidy proceeded.

‘He runs his own church, or temple, or whatever you wanna call it, in Pico Rivera. Personally, I’d just call it a cult. It’s called Soldiers for Jesus, would you believe that crap? Sounds like a terrorist group, doesn’t it? I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s now convincing the young women who join his group that they should give themselves to him as an initiation or something, making them believe that it’s the will of the Lord, and he’s the new Messiah. If he learned anything in prison, it was how to circumvent the law.’

‘Did you find out about his whereabouts on those dates and times I gave you?’ Hunter asked.

‘Yeah. As much as I already hate the guy, he can’t be the man you’re looking for. On the first date you gave me – June 19th, Escobedo was out of Los Angeles, hosting a service in San Diego. He’s planning to expand Soldiers for Jesus. The second date, June 22nd, he spent the entire day recording two CDs and a DVD. He sells them amongst his followers. He has loads of witnesses who’d testify to that. Escobedo is a cesspit of lies, stinky shit, and blasphemy, but he ain’t your killer, Robert.’

Hunter nodded to himself. Protocol said he needed to check, but he’d never really considered Escobedo as a real suspect. As a psychologist, and then as a detective for the RHD, Hunter had studied, interviewed and apprehended hundreds of murderers, and throughout the years he’d found that usually there was little to separate a murderer from the regular man on the streets. He’d met killers who were handsome, charming and charismatic. Some who looked like kindly grandfathers. Even some who were voluptuous and sexy. The real difference only surfaced once he started delving into their minds. But there were different kinds of criminals – different kind of killers. Escobedo was a rapist – lowest of the low. True, he was violent, but his only interest was in fulfilling his carnal desires. He’d never stalked his victims, simply randomly picking them from whoever was around on a given night. There was never any planning. Hunter knew that criminals like that very rarely changed their MO. Even if revenge were the motive, Escobedo would probably have shot or knifed his victims and fled the scene as fast as he could, not spent hours dismembering them and creating those grotesque sculptures – assigning to each one meanings hidden in the shadows. No, Escobedo didn’t have the knowhow, the patience, the intellect, or the nerve to commit such crimes.

‘Great work, Terry, thanks,’ Hunter said before closing his phone and returning it to his pocket. He told Garcia the news and they both finished their drinks in silence. As they got up to leave, the tall blonde came out of the bathroom and approached their table.

‘Sorry for earlier,’ she said, coming up to Hunter, her voice now charming, with a seductive tone. ‘And thanks.’

Garcia’s facial expression was a picture. ‘You’ve gotta be kidding me,’ he whispered.

‘Not a problem,’ Hunter replied.

‘I know I came across as being arrogant,’ she continued, her smile plastic, rehearsed. ‘I’m not always like that. It’s just that in places like this a woman has to watch herself, you know?’

‘As I said, it’s not a problem.’ Hunter maneuvered around her. ‘Enjoy the rest of your evening.’