The Death Sculptor by Chris Carter Read Free Book Online Page B

Nicholson,’ she said as she served the drinks. Sadness coated her words.
    ‘We’re very sorry about what happened, Mrs. Dawson.’
    ‘Please call me Amy.’ She gave both detectives a feeble smile.
    Hunter smiled back. ‘We appreciate you taking the time to talk to us, Amy.’
    She stared down at her drink. ‘Who would want to hurt a terminal-cancer patient? It just makes no sense.’ Her eyes found Hunter’s. ‘I was told it wasn’t a burglary.’
    ‘It wasn’t,’ he replied.
    ‘He was such a nice and kind man, who I know is now in much better hands.’ She looked up towards the ceiling. ‘May he rest in peace.’
    Hunter wasn’t surprised that Amy didn’t seem distraught. She hadn’t been told about the sordid details of the crime. Hunter had also checked her background. Amy had been a nurse for twenty-seven years, eighteen of those dedicated to helping patients with some form of terminal cancer. She did her job to the best of her abilities, but inevitably all of her patients passed away. She was used to dealing with death, and she had learned long ago to keep her emotions in check.
    ‘You were Mr. Nicholson’s nurse on weekdays, is that correct?’ Garcia asked.
    ‘Monday to Friday, that’s right.’
    ‘Did you use the same room as Melinda Wallis, the nurse that took over from you on weekends?’
    Amy shook her head. ‘No, no. Mel used the guesthouse above the garage. I used the guestroom inside the house. Two doors from Mr. Nicholson’s room.’
    ‘We were told that Mr. Nicholson’s daughters visited him every day.’
    ‘That’s right, for at least a couple of hours. Sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon, sometimes in the evening.’
    ‘Did Mr. Nicholson have any other visitors recently?’
    ‘Not recently.’
    ‘At any time?’ Garcia pushed.
    Amy looked pensive for a moment. ‘When I first started, yes. I remember only two separate visitors during my first few weeks in the house. But as soon as the most severe symptoms began to manifest themselves, then he had no more visitors. Mainly because Mr. Nicholson himself didn’t want to see anyone. He also didn’t want anyone to see him looking the way he did. He was a very proud man.’
    ‘These visitors, can you tell us any more about them?’ Garcia asked. ‘Do you know who they were?’
    ‘No. But they looked like lawyers, you know, very nice suits and all. Probably work colleagues.’
    ‘Do you remember what they talked about?’
    Amy looked at Garcia with a touch of indignation. ‘I wasn’t in the room, and I don’t listen to other people’s conversations.’
    ‘I apologize, that wasn’t what I meant at all,’ Garcia backpedaled as fast as he could. ‘I was just wondering if maybe Mr. Nicholson mentioned anything.’
    Amy offered Garcia a feeble smile, accepting his apology. ‘The truth is, not very much is ever said when visitors come around to see cancer patients. No matter how talkative people are, they tend to lose their ability to make conversation when they see what the disease has done to their friend, or family member. People usually just stand there, mostly in silence, trying their best to appear strong. When you know someone is dying, it’s hard to find words.’
    Hunter said nothing but he knew exactly what Amy Dawson meant. He was only seven when his mother was diagnosed with glioblastoma multiforme, the most aggressive type of primary brain cancer. By the time her doctors discovered it, the tumor was already too advanced. Within weeks she went from being a smiling, full-of-life mother, to an unrecognizable, skin-and-bones person. Hunter would never forget the image of his father standing by her bed with tears in his eyes, but unable to utter a single word. There was nothing he could say.
    ‘Do you remember their names?’ Garcia pushed.
    Amy thought about it for a long, hard moment. ‘My memory isn’t very good anymore, you know? But I remember thinking that the one who came first must’ve