Authors: Chris Carter
Garcia breathed out, and his words came out as a whisper.
‘What the fuck?’
The front door of the house opened straight into a small and sparsely decorated living room, with an open-plan kitchen at the back. A square table was positioned about four
feet in front of the stove, which centered the cooking counter. The refrigerator was on the far left, just by the door that led into a short hallway and then deeper into the rest of the house. No
windows were open, and all the curtains had been drawn shut, but the room was bright with light courtesy of the two high-powered crime-scene lamps that had been mounted on to tripods and placed at
opposite corners of the room.
The living room area was covered with a beige, loop pile carpet. A tall, black-wood module occupied most of the west wall. On it were a few decorative items. No TV. A dark-blue fabric sofa with
a matching armchair and a black coffee table had been positioned a few feet from the module, toward the center of the room.
Hunter and Garcia breathed out almost at the same time, but neither said a word, their gaze still taking in the entire space, which had been completely bathed in blood – the furniture, the
decorative items, the walls, the ceiling, the curtains . . . everything was covered in splatters of crimson red.
The carpet under their feet had soaked a large amount of blood, but it was now covered by a thick, protective, see-through plastic sheet, which indicated that forensics had already photographed
and vacuumed the floor for fibers, hairs, traces and residues. The protective sheet was to avoid any forensic agent, detective, or whoever else entered the crime scene from spreading their bloody
footprints, since it was practically impossible to move around the living room without treading on a pool of blood.
Even with the nose masks on, the nauseating smell of human flesh in the early stages of decomposition still filled the room, forcing both detectives to breath mostly through their mouths.
The words I AM DEATH had been written in huge bloody letters across the carpet, just a few feet in front of what was undoubtedly the centerpiece of the sickening canvas that the living room had
become. That centerpiece was Sharon Barnard.
She was naked and tied to a metal-framed chair, which was facing the front door. Her ankles had been securely fastened to the chair’s legs by plastic zip ties. Her arms had been pulled
behind the chair’s backrest and zip-tied at the wrists. Her whole body was covered in blood. Blood that had come from her face and cascaded down her torso and legs before soaking the carpet
beneath her feet. A face that simply wasn’t there anymore.
‘Her face was sanded off.’
The words came from the forensics agent who was by the high-powered lamp at the east end of the room. He was about six-foot one, with an athletic body, high cheekbones and a strong jaw. Unlike
Hunter and Garcia, he wore no nose mask. The smell of putrid flesh didn’t seem to bother him.
Garcia turned to face him, but Hunter kept his attention on the victim in front of him.
‘I’m Doctor Brian Snyder,’ the man said, moving toward the detectives. ‘I’m the lead forensic agent assigned to this scene.’
‘Detective Carlos Garcia, LAPD UV Unit. You’re new,’ Garcia added, without any malice. Mike Brindle was the lead forensic agent who attended most UV crime scenes. Hunter and
Garcia had worked with him for years.
‘To LA maybe,’ he replied. ‘But I’ve been a forensic agent for over ten years. I just got transferred from Sacramento.’
With an apologetic face, Garcia said, ‘Welcome to Los Angeles. This is Detective Robert Hunter.’
Hunter finally faced the forensic doctor, his expression asking a silent question.
Doctor Snyder read it and nodded to confirm his previous statement. ‘Yes, you heard it right, Detective. The perpetrator used a powerful random circular sander on her face,’ he said,
as he indicated the machine inside a large plastic evidence bag that was resting on the kitchen counter. ‘The type used to sand off hard wood and metal,’ he added. ‘That explains
the blood splatter pattern around this room, and why it reaches as far as the ceiling, the walls, and the curtains.’
The machine on the kitchen counter was gray in color, with a strong, rubber-coated grip handle. The on/off button sat on the upper part of the handle, just level with the operator’s thumb.
Very easy to control. Like most items in that living room, the handheld sander was also drenched in blood.
‘If the killer used a handheld sander on her face,’ Garcia cut in, ‘that means he would’ve been covered in blood himself.’
‘Oh, there’s no doubt about that,’ the doctor confirmed. ‘And that would explain the several footprints you can see around the living room and in the kitchen.’ He
indicated a few of the footmarks that littered most of the beige loop pile carpet and the kitchen’s tiled floor. ‘Given the footprint pattern,’ the doctor moved on.
‘I’d say that the killer was wearing some sort of protective clothing. At least around his feet. His shoe size seems to be eleven.’
Garcia looked at his partner and pulled a face. He and Hunter knew that around sixty-eight percent of the male population in the USA wore size eleven shoes.
Hunter cautiously stepped forward and approached the body. Garcia and Doctor Snyder followed. With each step, the blood-soaked carpet squished under their weight and against the thick plastic
sheet, creating a squealing sound reminiscent of rubber flip-flops walking on a wet floor.
Because the victim’s head was slumped forward and downwards, hiding most of what would’ve been her face, Hunter had to squat down in front of her to have a better look. What he saw
was truly grotesque. Her face had been almost entirely scraped off, from her forehead all the way down to her chin. All that was left was a gooey mess of flesh, muscle, cartilage and blood. Most of
her facial bones were fully exposed. Her left eyeball had come into contact with the sander. Her cornea, pupil, iris, and ciliary body had been obliterated, releasing the jelly-like substance that
makes up most of the ocular globe, deflating the eyeball, and leaving the eye socket lined with nothing more than a gelatinous matter and the exposed optic nerve. Her right eye, on the other hand,
had been completely spared. It lay intact, speckled with blood, and wide open, with a dead, soul-chilling stare. It seemed that all the suffering she had been put through and all the agonizing
terror she had felt had been immortalized on the surface of her right eye like a snapshot.
Her nose was also completely gone. It had been sanded down all the way to the nasal bone. Her lips weren’t there anymore, and in their absence the victim’s superior and inferior
dental arcs had been fully exposed. Some of her frontal teeth had also come into contact with the sander’s surface.
Garcia squatted down next to Hunter. All he managed was a couple of wide-eyed seconds before his guts forced him to look away.
‘Jesus Christ.’
He got back on to his feet.
Doctor Snyder gave Hunter a moment before he spoke again.
‘Rigor mortis has started to set in, but it’s not in its full stage yet.’
Both Hunter and Garcia knew what that meant – the victim had been dead for less than twelve hours.
Hunter checked his watch.
‘So she died some time in the early hours of this morning, not last night.’
‘I’d say so, yes,’ the doctor agreed. ‘But you’ll have to wait for the autopsy report for a more precise timeframe.’
Hunter finally pulled his gaze away from the victim’s disfigured face and slowly began checking the rest of her body – torso, stomach, legs and feet. Standing up, he also studied her
nape, shoulders and upper back. Unlike Nicole Wilson, this victim didn’t seem to have any cuts or abrasions to any other part of her body. The killer hadn’t sliced her skin with a sharp
or blunt instrument, nor had he flogged her with a bullwhip like he had done to the first victim.
‘It doesn’t seem like any vital organs have been affected.’ Garcia addressed Doctor Snyder. ‘Any guesses as to the cause of death? Did she bleed out from her facial
wounds?’
The doctor’s gaze moved around the room, pausing for an instant on the largest pool of blood directly underneath the victim’s chair, before meeting Garcia’s questioning
look.
‘Without a proper post mortem I can’t be one hundred percent sure, Detective, but it’s likely to have been a combination of the amount of blood she lost and the tremendous pain
she was put through. Her heart would’ve been working three times as fast as normal to try to replace the lost blood. As you can see, all the nerves around her face were completely exposed,
which means that her brain would have been receiving pain signals by the truckload every second. That would’ve stressed out her heart and her brain even more. In situations like these,
it’s not uncommon for the heart to just give up, or for the brain to signal respiration to cease, and the lungs to simply stop taking in oxygen.’
‘And how long would that have taken?’ Garcia spoke again.
‘That’s impossible to tell,’ Doctor Snyder replied. ‘It depends on two main factors – the victim’s physical and mental strength. First impression is that
physically she was strong enough, as you can see for yourself. Young. Good muscle tone. Not overweight. How strong her heart was is also a key factor, but mental strength is pretty much what
dictates your fate in circumstances like these. How badly did she want to live after having her face ripped from her? Your brain can keep on willing your body to fight, or simply tell it to give
up. For her, death could’ve come within five minutes or after several hours.’
Hunter approached the kitchen counter and the evidence bag containing the circular sander. It wasn’t a brand new model, but it also wasn’t a dated one, which made identifying the
store in which it had been bought a lot harder. Hunter checked the underside of the handle. The serial number had been filed off.
‘The killer left it on the floor,’ Doctor Snyder offered. ‘By the victim’s chair. No attempt to hide it whatsoever.’
Next to the sanding machine were two smaller evidence bags. They each contained a single 125mm sanding disk. Both had been used and were blood-soaked.
‘The disks were found in the trashcan,’ the doctor said, joining Hunter by the kitchen counter and indicating the plastic trashcan on the opposite corner from where the refrigerator
was. Several bloody footprints revealed the killer’s path as he crossed the kitchen floor in the direction of the trashcan, and then came back out to where he had tied up his victim.
Garcia returned to the living room. He was intrigued by the footprint pattern.
Hunter took a minute to study the used disks. His next few words confused everyone.
‘She lasted way over five minutes.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Doctor Snyder queried.
‘You said that death could’ve come within five minutes, or after several hours,’ Hunter clarified. ‘I can’t tell you for sure how long she lasted, but it was way
over five minutes.’
Hunter’s confidence puzzled the doctor.
‘Could I ask what makes you so sure?’
Hunter moved to the other side of the kitchen counter, being careful to avoid the footprints on the tiled floor.
‘Because the killer paused not only once, but
twice,
and calmly walked over to that trashcan to discard the used sand disks.’ Hunter gave the doctor a chance to absorb the
weight of his words.
‘If the victim was already dead,’ Doctor Snyder said, realizing what he’d missed, ‘what was the point in changing the disks and carrying on with the torture?’
Hunter stayed silent.
‘But that still could’ve happened under, or just over, five minutes?’ Snyder insisted. ‘Five minutes would feel like an eternity of pain when you have a high-power sander
pressed against your face, don’t you think?’
Hunter, who had been checking the trashcan, returned to the kitchen counter and grabbed hold of one of the evidence bags containing a discarded sanding disk. ‘Are you familiar with sanding
machines at all?’ he asked. ‘Do you do a lot of DIY?’
‘Not particularly, no. Why?’
‘These disks are fiber based, not aluminum oxide, or ceramic,’ Hunter explained. ‘That makes them a little lighter than most. The grit size is CAMI one thousand, which means
it’s a microgrit. In this case – ultra fine. The higher the grit size, the less abrasive the sanding action. In the US, CAMI one thousand is the finest sand disk grit you can get. These
are only good for the final sanding and polishing of thick finishes, not for stripping wood, metal, plastic, or anything else, really.’
Again, Hunter allowed his words to sink in for a couple of seconds.
‘If the killer had used a lower grit disk,’ Hunter continued, ‘the damage to her skin, muscle and bones would’ve happened to a much higher extent, and a lot
faster.’
Doctor Snyder breathed out slowly while looking back at the victim. ‘So, by picking the right type of disk, he would’ve kept her alive for longer and, by doing so, prolonged her
suffering.’
Hunter nodded. ‘Theoretically, yes.’
‘Like I said,’ Garcia commented after a silent pause. ‘Welcome to Los Angeles, Doctor, where the “freaks” come out to play.’
‘So are you a DIY kind of guy then?’ the doctor asked Hunter.
‘No, not really.’
‘So how come you know so much about handheld sanders?’
‘He reads a lot,’ Garcia offered, anticipating his partner’s usual answer.
Hunter shrugged. ‘I do, but that’s not the reason.’
Garcia paused and looked at him, intrigued.
‘About a year ago,’ Hunter explained, ‘I helped a friend of mine redecorate her living room. I had to use a machine very similar to that one.’
Garcia went back to studying the footprint pattern on the carpet. A couple of minutes later, something caught his eye. He squatted down to get a better look at it.
‘Robert,’ he called out moments later. ‘Come have a look at this.’
Hunter and the doctor joined him.
Garcia drew their attention to a spot on the carpet about five feet slightly to the left of the victim’s chair, just by a cluster of footprints.