The Sculptor

Chapter 23

Chapter 23

"It is my sad duty to announce that on 8:55 PM last night, Jeremy Timber, otherwise known as The Sculptor Copycat, has died. Timber suffered from a major concussion and subsequent cranial hemorrhaging. The doctors did their best, but all efforts were futile to revive Mr. Timber."

His tone was achingly sad, empathizing. The chief of police certainly knew how to make an angry mob of media men succumb to his charming sad voice. His tone suggested the truth, it pained him that any glory he could squeeze out of The Copycat ends with his tragic death the night before.

"For the time being, our city is in peace. We will no longer be hounded by death and by madmen. It is an honor to finally announce, we are safe. The Copycat murders are over." And with that, the solemnity was preserved. He walked away, his back against the rolling cameras and media men silently praying that his words were simply a prelude to another murder.

The city never expected the crimes to stop. It is at times like this that fear motivates discipline and allows the media to fuss about other than crops dying and corrupt officials. News channels get the highest rating on featuring blood, murder and men wearing smiles of death.

Antonie Sanders thought otherwise. He would not sleep unless he sees Klaus Reinhardt apprehended. He knew better than his boss. To find Klaus is the root and end of all this. He silently puffed the last cigarette of his fourth consecutive pack. His head throbbed from the noxious carbon intake and the lack of sleep drowsed his eyelids. He had already sent Judy back to Michelle. He opted not to come, he couldn't stand her, he couldn't stand to be inches away from her. Michelle smelled like death and pure evil, but more than that, she reminded him of his wife, of his monster wife.

His boss was smoking a cigar, his back against Antonie Sanders. He was late, he did it on purpose. He's been avoiding his boss lately. His office was big, an Indian lamp rested between two bookshelves. A picture of his wife and three boys was on his desk. The picture was taken in India, a bad angle of the Taj as the background. His boss was very fond of the exotic Indian culture.

"It's finally over." His boss coolly said.

Sanders inched closer into his office and took his seat. "No sir, I think this is just the beginning. I told you my theory, as long as Reinhardt is out there-..."

"Theories, Sanders, will get you nowhere. Give me substantial evidence." He was hard on him, he always was. Sanders could smell his boss was never particularly fond of him. "But sir..."

"You need to rest, go home. This is over. Get some sleep, find a woman to warm your bed."

His cheeks suddenly burned with annoyance. It has been a common office joke about his obvious reluctance to women ever since the death of his wife seven years ago. He knew arguing could be futile. He's known his boss to be stubborn and oftentimes hot-headed. He would let this one pass. He would get on his car, drive away and pretend he was going on rest day. "Ok boss." He said, rising from his seat.

"That's an order, Sanders. I'm giving you a week off, with pay."

And with that, he said no more and left.

He drove a route with no direction. His hands were literally trembling on the wheel. He tried calling Judy but was directed to voicemail. Then he found himself parked next to a modern architectural office building. The building was white and irregularly shaped. He was unmoving on his seat, staring into the building, admiring it. The Reinhardt Corporation was a big name in pharmaceutical matters. It has its own scientific research team, topping latest medicine breakthroughs. For two weeks he tried to get his hands on Mr. Reinhardt, but he was immuned. There was no way he could get ten meters close. A parking guard noticed him trolling, before he could walk close, he ignited his car and drove away.

"I need to see him." Judy gathered all her strength, the woman opposite her was watching her intently. A curve already forming into her mouth; a curve of insulting fascination. There was something particularly ordinary about Michelle Rolfe, she could smile like most people could. She could laugh, giggle. But the transition of her mouth was deadly. She could give you a pretty smile then a smirk of mystery, like she knows something you'll never know. She did not answer, as Judy expected so.

"I came here, as a woman. What do you want, Michelle? What is this? What is this all for? What kind of game are you playing?" It was the truth. She was sick of it. She wanted to sleep, to get away, to run. But her feet would not let her. She was tied to this case, to this woman. And the worse of it all was, the more she tried to understand, the more it seems to be a blur. "What do I need to do in order to understand?"

"Do you wish to know or do you wish to understand? There's a difference, you see..." She replied. "Everyone can know, but few can understand."

"Then let me..."

Michelle shook her head. "The last one who tried to understand is now dead."

"Rebecca Loome?"

"Yes. I thought she would understand, but she didn't. Tell me, detective, when you found her body, was there a manuscript?"

"No, why?"

"Then she died for nothing. Too bad, that could have made her damn rich." A soft chuckle escaped her lips. Jeremy. She knew he has it. But to where he hid it, she could not comprehend. This was the greatest mistake of the plan, to lose the manuscript means opening a hole into her. She was awfully honest in Rebecca Loome's interviews. "Will you find it?"

"I will if you tell me where to start."

"I changed my mind. Do you want the book or do you want..." She gave a soft sigh then gave her a knowing look, "...Klaus Reinhardt?"

Her chest tightened as she shifted into her seat. "Are you playing one of your games? Again?"

"No, Judy, no. I am not."