The Art of Murder

by Rebecca Muddiman

  She had felt a little spark of something last night as she kissed Mark goodnight. She was still cringing a little at her behavior, but thankfully he’d been a gentleman. Maybe he wasn’t the slut she imagined. Maybe he’d been telling the truth about his dates and wanting to settle down. She’d gone to bed feeling far less anxious than she had earlier. All the stuff with Nick and Aronsen fell away and she wondered if she’d finally fallen on her feet. Maybe Mark was what she needed.

  But now the hope had faded somewhat. Was she really that naïve to believe whatever came out of Mark’s mouth? Especially after everything that’d happened with Nick? Was that date with the blonde really just a set up by a friend? One that hadn’t gone well? He’d gone back to her place, hadn’t he? Was he the kind of guy who slept with anyone, even if he didn’t much like them? Would this woman be calling him the next day to say she’d had fun while Mark was already moving on to someone else? Someone like Karen, for instance?

  She finished her cereal and got up. She thought about the mess left in the store from the night before, and then remembered Jamie staying behind to clear it up. She felt insanely grateful to him and decided to pick up some donuts on the way in. Chocolate ones.

  As she walked from the kitchen to the bedroom, she heard the news come on, half listening as she dressed. Another woman had been murdered. Karen stopped to listen. Was it another victim of this serial killer? But the reporter mentioned the woman’s body had been found in an alley close to where she worked. Karen stopped listening and did her hair, briefly feeling bad for not caring so much about this poor woman who’d lost her life, because she wasn’t killed by a serial murderer.

  She looked at the time and realized she had to get going if she wanted to get in before Jamie. She came out and grabbed her coat, running back to the living room and switching off the TV, as the photo of the latest murder victim flashed onto the screen.

  52

  Michael

  Michael saw the report on the news first thing and had rushed out to the store on the corner for the papers. He loved flipping through the pages, the thrill of landing on the stories about his work. Of course there were never any pictures. The police were being real assholes about sharing stuff like that. But he liked to think of it as a teaser. Whetting people’s appetites so when Michael finally released everything, they’d be more than ready.

  But that day’s report was a little disappointing. He supposed he only had himself to blame. Elena’s death had been so artless. It was never going to garner more than a few paragraphs somewhere deep inside the pages of the papers.

  And, of course, he’d get no credit for it. Obviously the police weren’t linking her death to his projects. Why would they? He was almost pleased it wouldn’t be considered part of his canon, not necessarily wanting to put his name to it. And yet… he craved the recognition anyway. Credit was always nice. Maybe when it was all done he’d stick up his hand and say, actually guys, that was one of mine too, y’know.

  Michael scanned through the article. There was no hint that the police had any witnesses. Nor did they have any suspects. He felt pleased about that. Even if he didn’t claim Elena for himself, the last thing he wanted was someone else to take the credit. It was unimaginable.

  Looking at the clock, Michael realized he had to get going. He put the papers aside for later when he’d clip the articles for his portfolio. But for now, there were more important things to do.

  As he dressed, he wondered if he should call Karen, or perhaps send a text. Maybe it wasn’t necessary. He knew she was well and truly hooked. Maybe leaving her dangling would be the better move, at least until he’d completed another piece.

  He’d made calls to his two remaining projects when he’d come home the night before, itching to get things moving. But Cas hadn’t picked up and Michael refused to leave a message after his irritating voicemail instructions. Phoebe, on the other hand, had answered. She was always the eager beaver. The only trouble was she was out of town, visiting her sister. She had been very disappointed they couldn’t meet and had tried to engage Michael in some phone sex, but the thought turned his stomach and he made some excuse about being at work and agreed to catch up with her when she returned home.

  As he was at something of a loose end, Michael decided his next move would be to find a replacement for Elena, hopefully someone who fitted The Dying Dandy. He’d put a lot of work into that backdrop, he didn’t want to waste it. Finding someone who was a match and who could be completed quickly would be a challenge. But one he was up for. So that was what he’d do next, after the small matter of his day job.

  53

  Nick

  Nick stared at the photograph of Elena Jones in the morning paper and felt a lump in his throat as the bile crept up into his mouth. There had been no witnesses and police had no suspects. But Nick knew who’d killed her. And he knew he could’ve stopped it.

  He’d known Fisher would go after Elena again but he was so caught up in his own shit that he didn’t give the woman another thought. And when he’d seen the wall in Fisher’s house, it made it clear that Karen was next, so that was what he fixated on. But of course Fisher would have to finish Elena first. Elena was the key to catching him.

  Nick glanced up, sure that his colleagues could see the guilt on his face. But no one was looking at him. No one suspected anything. Not yet anyway. But how long until this caught up with him?

  Suddenly remembering, Nick scrabbled around in his pocket, searching for Elena’s business card, before hurrying to the bathroom.

  Shutting himself in a cubicle, he dug around in his pocket for his lighter before remembering he’d lost it. ‘Shit,’ he muttered and looked at the card before tearing it into small pieces and tossing them into the toilet, watching as they flushed away.

  Nick closed the lid and sat, trying to arrange his thoughts. Elena’s murder was being investigated by another precinct. There was no reason for anyone here to take any notice of it. He had never logged her report or any of his activities afterwards, distracted as he was by finding Michael Fisher. Unfortunately he had called her number, either shortly before or just after her death, and someone was going to come asking about that eventually. He wondered if he could explain it away by saying he was looking for a personal trainer. Yes, that could work. If he started searching online for other trainers, other gyms, maybe it would be believable.

  Shit. He remembered googling Elena the day before she was killed. Not the gym, but her. Would his lie still cut it? Would anyone be interested in his search history if he sold the first lie well enough?

  As long as no one was connecting her murder to the serial, and why would they, then he was probably safe. The only problem could be the desk officer who’d brought Elena to Nick’s attention in the first place. She never gave him her name and it had been chaos that night so was it likely he would even remember her, never mind link her back to Nick?

  Nick had to hope and pray that it was unlikely but he also knew that hoping and praying didn’t do shit. The only way out of this was to do something now. And that meant taking matters into his own hands.

  54

  Karen

  Karen made it to the store before Jamie and was grateful to see that he’d cleared up all the chairs and mess from the day before. She was glad she’d stopped for donuts, feeling as though she needed to grovel. But what for? She’d told him to leave the mess. The only reason he was in a snit was because she’d chosen to go out with Mark again. She hadn’t actually done anything wrong. Yet, when he still hadn’t arrived an hour after the store had opened, she wondered if Jamie disagreed. Was he punishing her by not coming in? Or had he quit? Was there a letter left on her desk she hadn’t noticed?

  She went and checked, thankful there was no resignation letter. And twenty minutes later, Jamie showed up, stumbling through the door under a box of books. She let out a sigh of relief as she remembered he’d been going to collect some books that morning from a man uptown whose wife had died and left
behind a whole library. They often sourced stock this way, and though some people drove hard bargains, most wanted the books out of the way so were willing to accept a small amount of money, and occasionally wanted no money at all.

  ‘Let me help,’ Karen said, and wedged the door open before going out to Jamie’s car to retrieve another box. Without Jamie and his car, she knew the store wouldn’t run half as well, and she felt another stab of guilt.

  ‘I got donuts,’ she said after he brought the last box inside.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, stuffing one into his mouth as he passed, but then he disappeared, making himself busy in the storeroom with the new acquisitions.

  Karen wondered if he’d stay out there all day or if his curiosity would get the better of him. Not that she planned on telling him anything. She certainly wasn’t going to tell him that she’d basically bottled it and let Mark get away with whatever was going on Saturday night. And she sure as hell wasn’t going to tell him that she practically threw herself at him, inviting him back to her place. Or that the only reason she didn’t go through with it was because he politely declined. She’d been trying to work out what it meant. Did his not going upstairs with her mean he didn’t really like her or that he did? He’d definitely gone up with that blonde, but Karen hadn’t stuck around long enough to see if he’d stayed or not. Maybe he was just walking her to the door.

  Yeah right, Karen thought. There was definitely more going on than that. And if she hadn’t let Jamie drag her away that night, maybe she’d know what it was.

  Jamie did finally come out of the storeroom and Karen could tell that he wanted to ask her about Mark. Every now and then she’d catch him staring at her before looking away. Fortunately, by this time the store was busy and there was no opportunity for gossip.

  By mid-afternoon, Karen was starving and exhausted. The store had been hectic. Apparently word had got out about the events of Sunday afternoon and people wanted to see the scene of the crime. They also wanted to buy Aronsen’s books, despite them being utter garbage. Unfortunately, they still had no stock and had to tell customers they’d order them in. Karen found herself bulk-buying the books, hoping people didn’t lose interest before they arrived.

  When Jamie came back from lunch, Karen was making a sign so she didn’t have to keep repeating herself about the lack of copies of Aronsen’s books. But her mind was elsewhere and she’d already messed up two attempts.

  ‘Do you want me to finish that?’ Jamie asked and Karen took it as a conciliatory gesture. She handed him the marker pen and stood up.

  ‘Do you mind watching the store for a while?’ she asked.

  ‘No. Go. Get something to eat.’

  Karen almost spoke but stopped herself. She did need to eat, that was true. But there was something else she needed to do too. She couldn’t stop thinking about Mark and what’d happened outside her apartment. She needed to be certain before it went any further. She needed to know about the blonde. She wanted it to work, she did, but she had to know she could trust him.

  She grabbed her bag and left before she could change her mind. She wondered if she should call first, but decided it would be better to just show up. He’d shown up at her house unannounced, hadn’t he. So he could hardly be upset. Not unless he had something to hide.

  55

  Michael

  Michael made his way home after another humiliating shift at work. His boss was such an asshole. For some reason he had it in for Michael, and it wasn’t just about his tardiness or lack of commitment to the job. It had started long before Michael had ever taken any liberties. For some reason the guy didn’t like him and it irritated Michael. Not that he let him know. He was good at hiding things. As far as his boss was concerned, it was all water off a duck’s back to Michael, but it bothered him.

  When he’d started the job, he was actually a good worker. He’d always believed that if you were going to do something, you should do it properly. So where others would cut corners, Michael never did. He was always presentable. Always polite. And still the man disliked him. So Michael stopped trying as hard, and once he found his real vocation he stopped trying at all. He showed up, he did the bare minimum, and then he left. It meant nothing to him.

  There were times he felt ashamed of his day job, but told himself that all great artists had to suffer for their work and many remained in menial positions in order to do what they loved. He shouldn’t feel demeaned, he should feel proud that he was in good company. Besides, not having to use his mind while he was there let him be more creative in his real work. Some of his best ideas came to him while stacking shelves. The idea for The Anatomy Lesson… came while he was mopping up spaghetti sauce from the floor.

  As he sat down on the subway train, his mind drifted to his plans for the evening. He was going to try Cas again, but if he was busy then Michael would go out and search for another project to replace Elena. He needed to get moving. He was closer to the end than the beginning and it felt strange. On one hand he was eager to finish, to complete his masterpiece. But on the other hand there was a sadness, a feeling of loss that it would soon be over. Once again, he questioned his plan of stepping into the limelight after Karen Kelly. There was so much more he could do. But he didn’t want to ruin what he’d already achieved by trying to cash in on it. He knew the time was right, that Karen would be the perfect ending, no matter how tempting it was to go on.

  As he walked from the subway to the house, he told himself to stick with the plan. Very soon he would be the most famous artist in the country, if not the world. He’d already seen reports of his work in international newspapers. If he dragged it out too long, people would lose interest.

  Michael opened the door and turned on the light. He didn’t feel it as quickly this time. He was already at the bedroom door before he felt the presence of someone else in his house. Or maybe it was the fact the light was on.

  His movements slowed. He thought of turning and running, but curiosity got the better of him. There’d been gossip at work about the police coming in on Saturday night, that Filip was in trouble for letting them look at stuff they had no right to see. Michael had felt his stomach tighten when Frankie told him, but she brushed it off. She’d heard it was to do with drugs or something like that. Nothing important. But Michael still felt on edge.

  He tried to find out more but no one really knew anything and the more people he talked to, the less he knew. But it couldn’t have been about him, could it? If the police had been there, if it was him they were looking for, why hadn’t they found him yet? His address was on file. So he brushed it off too. It was more likely to be about Steve. He’d been known to sell weed in the parking lot before. It was definitely about Steve.

  But now Michael wondered. Hadn’t he thought someone was there on Sunday morning? What if they were fucking with him?

  Michael pushed open the bedroom door and saw someone standing there, staring at his wall. When the person turned, Michael saw a familiar face.

  56

  Nick

  Nick grabbed hold of Michael Fisher before he could run, shoving him down onto the bed. ‘I think we need to have a little chat. Don’t you?’

  Surprisingly, Fisher didn’t try to move, didn’t attempt to attack Nick or show any desire to get away.

  ‘What would you like to talk about, Detective? The ethics of police officers breaking into houses?’

  ‘You want to talk ethics? Really?’

  Michael shrugged.

  ‘Why don’t we save that? I want to talk about this.’ Nick pointed to the display of photographs on the wall. He looked over the faces of the victims and potential victims, including his wife.

  ‘What about it?’ Michael asked, and Nick turned back to him. ‘What? You want me to tell you why I do it? Give you my sad life story for a little context?’

  ‘I thought you people liked to talk.’

  ‘You people? You make me sound like a super villain.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far.
’

  ‘What do you want me to say? It’s my work. It’s art.’

  Nick laughed. ‘Art?’ He turned back to the wall. ‘And what about Elena Jones? Was she art too?’ He looked back at Michael, who looked a little surprised. ‘Yeah, I know you killed her. And not just because you have her picture on your wall.’

  ‘So, she did go to the police,’ Michael said, more to himself than to Nick, before looking up, curiosity on his face. ‘You went to the 7-11.’ Nick nodded. ‘So where’ve you been for the last two days? And why are you here alone? Where’s the SWAT team or whatever?’

  ‘SWAT team?’ Nick laughed. ‘You really think you’re worth that?’

  ‘I figured I was worth more than one guy. Besides, isn’t it illegal to break into someone’s house? Forgive me if I’m wrong, I get most of my procedural know-how from Law and Order. But won’t this affect your case?’

  ‘You’re right. Me breaking in here would be frowned upon. Most of the time. But see, in cases like this, where you’ve got some psycho running around killing half a dozen people because he thinks he’s an artist. Times like this, the rules are a little more flexible. As long as I get you off the streets, no one cares how I do it.’

  ‘If you say so.’ Michael held up his wrists. ‘Shall we?’

  Nick ignored him and looked at the wall again. ‘Elena was a mistake, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Yeah, no shit.’

  ‘She wasn’t supposed to be next. But she found out where you worked so you had to get rid of her.’ Nick looked back at Michael, irritated by his bored expression.