There were artists in the movie industry who created monsters or comic book characters or aged characters in just this fashion.
Carter stared at the screen and watched a short, fast-forwarded video of a normal-looking Hollywood actor transform into a werewolf by the use of an alginate mask, prosthetics, contacts, false canine teeth, and a shaggy wig. Not only his face, but his hand, too, morphed slowly from a human hand to a furry paw with razor-sharp talons.
“An artist or a makeup person,” Carter said to himself as he thought of the traces of alginate found on Mavis Gette. “Not a dentist.”
They’d been looking in the wrong direction.
He watched the video again. When casting the actor’s face in alginate, straws were inserted up the subject’s nose so he was able to breathe.
And live.
But what if the subject, such as Mavis Gette, had been dead already? Then her face and other body parts could be used for a mold without the need of straws to keep her breathing.
Except that the crime lab had found traces of alginate internally. As if she’d ingested it.
His thoughts turned dark. Was the liquid alginate applied while Mavis had still been alive, the ultimate death mask? Why hadn’t she struggled and ruined the mask? Perhaps she had. Or else she’d been drugged or somehow comatose…Jesus.
This was something out of an old B sci-fi flick.
Leaning back in his chair, he stared at the computer monitor. He felt the urge for a smoke—he could always think better when he relaxed with a cigarette. Rummaging in his desk, he found an old stick of Nicorette gum and popped it into his mouth. It was weak, far from a real hit, but he chewed the stuff and began surfing again, this time to Web sites dedicated to the making of movie monsters.
He watched another short video and witnessed an actor transform into an alien, another morph into a frightening image of Satan, while a third was aged by decades.
Was it possible?
Had the guy cast a mask of Mavis Gette’s face?
Why else would there be traces of alginate attached to her skull?
Was this the same creep who had kidnaped Sonja Hatchell?
Carter chewed thoughtfully and took notes, doodling as he tried to make sense of what he’d just learned. What kind of psycho would kill a woman for a mold of her face or body?
Could Mavis Gette’s killer be a studio artist, someone connected to Jenna Hughes? Someone who had been in the business?
His mind went to Vincent Paladin, who had worked in a video store, but Paladin had no history of being involved in maskmaking or filmmaking as far as Carter knew. And he wasn’t around. Carter had double-checked with his parole officer. Vincent was minding his Ps and Qs in Florida.
So who else? Someone local? A transient? What kind of guy was he?
Carter looked at the list of people who had rented Jenna’s films. Wes Allen led the pack. Wes Allen was an artist, though never with makeup, to Carter’s knowledge and Wes Allen had never lived in California. But he had visited his sister and nephew when they resided near L.A.
Leaning back in his chair, Carter listened to the fire hiss in the woodstove. He had to be careful and not let his personal feelings about Wes get in the way of his perspective. Associating Wes Allen to the crime had to be real, not a personal vendetta.
Examine the evidence!
Sitting up, he tapped the eraser end of his pencil on the desktop. His mind ran in circles and he thought of Jenna Hughes. Beautiful. Smart. Sexy. And now a target.
Of adoration?
Or murder?
Pulling the keyboard from its tray, he clicked onto his list of favorite bookmarked Web sites, then scrolled down to her name. Again. With a touch of his finger, her image appeared on his monitor. He couldn’t help the tightening in his groin as he slowly flipped from one picture to the next. Each image was gorgeous, the kind of photos meant to be sexy and innocent and intriguing.
Even so, the computer screen was a flat, poor replica of the vital, real woman.
Chewing his tasteless gum, he thought about Jenna longer than he should have and figured BJ was right—he was in lust.
With a Hollywood star.