The Element Case

by Edward Kendrick

  Frowning, Clay asked, "Did he say what it was about?"

  "No, and I did ask."

  "Tell him I'll be there in…fifteen minutes, give or take."

  "All right."

  As soon as they'd hung up, Clay took the brushes he was using over to the sink to clean them, glad as always that he worked in acrylics and didn't have to soak them in paint thinner or turpentine first. When he was finished, he changed into a clean shirt and took off for the gallery.

  "Mr Richardson," Detective Quint Hawk said the moment Clay walked through the doors. "I don't know if you remember me."

  "I do. You were investigating the murder of the boy in Element of Woe. Did you find his killer?"

  "Unfortunately, not so far. And there have been two more since then."

  "Oh?"

  "One of the victims was that young man." Quint pointed to Element of Delight.

  "What the hell? Are you certain? And how did you find out about the painting in the first place?"

  "There was an article in the Arts section of the paper about your most recent show. They used a photo of it in the story."

  Clay shook his head. "You're certain it's the same person?"

  Quint took an envelope from his jacket pocket, opened it and handed Clay a photo. "It's a morgue shot of the victim's face."

  Clay looked at it. It was obvious the young man was dead, but he had no doubt it was the same one he'd seen—and sketched—two months earlier. "I don't understand. How? Why?"

  "That's what I'd like to know," Quint replied grimly.

  "Surely you don't think I had anything to do with their deaths."

  Instead of answering Clay, Quint took another envelope from his pocket, removed a photo, and handed it to him. "Do you recognize this guy?"

  Clay barely nodded, beckoning for the detective to follow him into the storage room behind the gallery. Going to one wall, Clay shuffled through the canvases stored in the racks, finally pulling one out. It was the same size at the other two Element ones, a foot-and-a-half by two foot.

  "What do you call this one?" Quint asked, studying the painting.

  "Element of Frustration," Clay replied. He contemplated it for a moment. "I debated whether this one was sellable or not. Amanda said it was and hung it for a few days. Then she took it and a couple of other ones down to make room for paintings by one of the other artists we handle." He shrugged. "So maybe I was right and it's not."

  "It looks good to me. Or," Quint amended, "or it would if it weren't for the fact that the subject is a murder victim."

  "And after seeing this, you're sure I'm the killer," Clay said sardonically, torn between anger and dread.

  "Let's say you're not at the top of the list but you're not off it either. Unless you're a psychopath, I don't see you hanging their pictures in the gallery and putting them up for sale if you were the killer. You might be a total ass at times, but I doubt you're crazy."

  Clay managed to smile. "Some people might dispute that."

  Quint chuckled before asking, "Do you remember where the guy in that picture was when you drew him?"

  Clay studied the face. "Somewhere downtown. That's where I find a lot of my subjects—there or in clubs. The variety of people is better. I can check my sketches when I get home to see if I wrote it down. Often as not, if I really like a particular subject, I make a note on the sketch, in case I want to find them again."

  "I can see why you focus on the downtown area, because there's more types of people, but in clubs?"

  "How often have you gone to a club and really looked at the people there?"

  Quint shrugged. "I think the last time I was at one was when I met you the first time."

  "Okay. Next time you go, study the faces and the bodies. You get everything from 'Please give me a chance.' to 'I can have anyone I want because I'm tall, dark, and handsome.' Tall, short, overweight, thin… Well, you get the picture. All in one spot. It's the same downtown—business people, tourists, the homeless. The teens hanging out because they have nothing better to do with their time than spend it with friends who are just as bored as they are."

  "True, I suppose. Another question. How much time is there between when you do your sketches and when the finished painting is hung here in the gallery?"

  "There's really no set timeframe. With Woe, it was maybe three weeks. Delight, that's the one out in the galley now…" Clay thought about it. "Two months. I was putting together a group of paintings for the show, so it sat in my studio until I brought the lot down here. That happened three days ago. The one you're looking at? I'd say again, maybe three or four weeks between when I did the initial sketches and when Amanda hung it. Then, as I said, it was only up for a few days."

  "When was that?"

  "Mid-July."

  Quint nodded. "That fits with the guy's murder, I think. What I need from you is the exact schedule of when the pictures were first hung."

  "Okay. Delight went up a week ago. As I said, this one was hung mid-July, for less than a week, and Woe… Hang one." Clay hurried out of the storage room with the detective right behind him. "Amanda," Clay said going over to the desk at the side of the gallery, "do you remember when we put up Woe?"

  "Not off the top of my head." She turned to the computer and brought up the desktop calendar, going back through it. "May fifth. The day before your spring show."

  Quint wrote down the date then asked if she had the one in the storeroom listed on there.

  After asking which one, she searched and told him, "July fifteenth. It came down three or four days later."

  "So we have, May fifth, July fifteenth, and September tenth. That corresponds with the murders. Each one happened three days after the paintings went on display in the gallery."

  Clay looked at him is dismay. "You have to be kidding."

  "Nope. Either someone saw you drawing the men or they went looking for them once the pictures were in the gallery."

  "That makes no sense at all."

  Quint smiled dryly. "You're telling me?"

  "Why is someone doing this?"

  "Clay, if we knew that we'd be a lot closer to finding the killer."

  "It has to be when he was out sketching," Amanda said. "I mean, how could the killer track down a stranger just by seeing them in the painting?"

  "How could they know I'd turn the sketches into a painting? I've done hundreds of them and only a few actually became subjects for a painting."

  "You said you make notations on your sketches about where you saw the subject." Quint said.

  "Sometimes…if I think they might be worth finding again, not that it's likely to happen but…"

  Quint frowned and asked, "Who has access to your studio to know what you're painting?"

  "Me," Clay replied. "My studio is at one end of my loft. I live in the other two-thirds and I rarely have guests."

  "But you do. Sometimes."

  "Once in a blue moon. I'm not the social type." Clay chuckled dryly. "Amanda can testify to that."

  "Oh yeah," she said. "Just getting him here for the opening of a new show is like pulling teeth."

  "Are any of these guests—as you put it—regulars, even if only occasionally?"

  "No. They're just that. Guests. My list of friends can be counted on one hand and still have three fingers left. Well, excluding Amanda and her husband, that is."

  "Do you have any enemies? Because from what I'm seeing, this is aimed at you in some way."

  "Not that I can think of," Clay replied slowly. "Now a question for you. You told me when we were at the club, that the guy who was the model for Woe was homeless. What about the other two?"

  "The one for the picture that's up in the gallery now was a grad student at MSU. The other man worked at the Brown Palace."

  "So there's nothing in common with the three of them."

  "Not that we've found so far," Quint said, "other than the fact you did paintings of all of them."

  "Ergo, I must be the killer." Clay held out his hands
. "Cuff me, Danno."

  Quint laughed. "I think it's, 'Book 'em, Danno,' and you know, I do believe that's the first time I've heard you crack a joke."

  "It was only partially a joke, I'm afraid. I mean I am the obvious suspect. Despite what you said about my having to be a psychopath to have hung their pictures here where everyone could see them," Clay replied somewhat sourly.

  "To be honest, I don't think you are. That's my personal opinion though and my lieutenant might not agree once I run all this past him."

  "At which point, you might be back to arrest me."

  Quint shook his head. "We don't arrest people unless we have enough evidence against them to make a court case." He checked the notes he'd taken then said, "I need to get moving. I do have other cases I'm working on and the lieutenant likes it if I pay attention to all of them."

  "Understandable. Will you… Can you keep in touch and let me know if you find out anything more? After all, I seem to be the focus of the killer's attention, for whatever reason."

  "Of course. Oh, one more thing. How secure is your loft?"

  "Very. I use the same security company on my place as we do here at the gallery. Not to brag but my paintings sell for a fair amount, so we make certain no one can break in here and steal them. So if you were thinking the killer might have gained access, seen what I was working on, and noticed my location notations on the sketches I was using for them… Well they'd have to be one hell of a burglar to get past the alarm box and the locks on the door. The windows are barred, so that's not an option."

  "Would you mind if I checked that out for myself?"

  "Now?"

  "No. Give me your number and I'll call you. As I said, I have other things I need to deal with at the moment."

  "All right." Clay rattled off his number and Quint entered it in his phone.

  "Later then, and thanks for your help."

  Clay nodded, feeling relieved that the detective was finally leaving. As soon as the gallery door closed, Clay sank down on the chair beside the desk. "What the hell is going on?" he asked angrily. "Who…? I don't know anyone who would hate me enough to…to try and frame me for those murders."

  "Not even Travis?" Amanda asked.

  "He doesn't hate me. Yeah he was pissed when I broke things off but that was three years ago."

  "Clay, he was more than pissed. He was livid. I was here when he stormed in and swore he'd make you regret kicking him out."

  "Yeah, true. But come on, Amanda. It's a long jump from 'making me regret it' to murdering people and trying to pin that on me. Besides, he left town a week later and, as far as I know, he hasn't come back."

  "Still, you should have told Detective Hawk about him."

  "All right, I will, when he sets up our meeting so he can check the loft's security." Clay added wryly. "He probably wants to look for bloodstains at the same time, in case I killed those men at my place before dumping the bodies."

  "Clay!" Amanda shook her head.

  "Well, he might. He never said if the men were killed where the bodies were found."

  "So ask him."

  "I will."

  CHAPTER THREE

  The next morning, Clay was in the middle of working on his newest painting when his phone rang. He almost ignored it, as usual, until he remembered the detective was going to call. After checking the Caller ID, which came up with Denver Police Department, he answered.

  "Clay, it's Quint Hawk. Are you available at the moment?"

  "If you mean am I going to be here for a while, then yes. Just buzz when you get here."

  "That should be in about twenty minutes. I'll see you then."

  The detective was true to his word. Twenty minutes later Clay heard the buzzer, and after checking to make certain it was him, Clay let Quint in.

  "Nice place," Quint commented, looking around. "Have you lived here long?"

  "Since I was twenty-five, when they converted the building to lofts."

  "That would be what…seven years ago?"

  "Yes," Clay replied. "You've done your research on me."

  Quint chuckled. "I have. I know your full name is Clayton Alan Richardson. You're thirty-two, well-known as an artist, fairly well-off, and grew up in Aurora. Parents deceased. One sibling, a brother who is ten years older than you. Does he live in Denver too?"

  "No. He moved out east when he got a job with a brokerage firm in New York."

  "Do the two of you get along?"

  Clay waggled his hand. "As well as two brothers do, I guess, when there's such an age disparity. We call each other from time to time, usually on holidays or birthdays."

  "So he wouldn't have keys to this place."

  "No."

  "What about anyone else, like Mrs Dane?"

  "You can't think she has anything to do with what's going on," Clay replied in dismay.

  "No. But where there's keys, there's the possibility of someone getting their hands on them and making copies."

  "I suppose. And she has a set."

  "Does—or did—anyone else have keys?"

  Clay sighed. "Yeah. Once. Three years ago. An ex…lover."

  Quint cocked an eyebrow. "When were you planning on telling me about her? Or him?"

  "Him, and today. Amanda wasn't too happy with me that I didn't mention him yesterday."

  "I'm not either. Did he have the security codes as well?"

  "Yes, but I'm not stupid. I changed them as soon as we split up. It was not…a mutual decision."

  "He broke it off…or you did?"

  "Me. He was not good for me—although it took me a long time to figure that out."

  "His name, please," Quint said, taking out his notebook.

  "Travis Nelson."

  "Description?"

  "Five-ten, blond, blue eyes, good-looking in a pouty way."

  "Does he live in the city?"

  "You know, I honestly have no idea. If he came back, he hasn't contacted me since our last set-to. He stormed into the gallery that afternoon saying I'd regret kicking him out of my life. We had words then he left." Clay frowned, sitting on the arm of the leather sofa in the living room area of the loft. "That was, as I said, three years ago and the last I heard, he left town a week later. I can't believe he'd be responsible for what's happening, not after all this time."

  "Some people hold grudges, let them fester, then they explode when you least expect it. So he is definitely on my list of suspects now." Quint grimaced. "A very short list at this point."

  "Me and Travis," Clay muttered.

  "Unless you've come up with anyone else who might have it in for you. What about another artist who might be jealous of your success?"

  Clay shrugged. "I suppose that's a possibility but I couldn't say who it would be."

  "Do you have any other ex-boyfriends?"

  "Not in the sense of someone I lived with. Travis was… I suppose you could call him an anomaly. As I've pointed out several times, I am not a people-person."

  "Then how did you hook up with him?"

  Clay looked up at Quint. "Do you really need to know that? It has nothing to do with anything. Let's just say I did and, in the end, I regretted it."

  Quint nodded. "For now we'll leave it at that. Okay if I look around?"

  "That's why you're here, isn't it?"

  "Yeah." Quint looked him over, smiling. "Go back to your painting while I do."

  "How did you know that's what I was doing?"

  "Your hands."

  Clay looked at the paint on them and chuckled. "Dead giveaway I guess."

  "For a seasoned detective, yep."

  "Feel free to check out everything. I promise you won't find any telltale bloodstains. Oh, that reminds me of something I was going to ask. Were the men killed where they were found?"

  "Yes, according to the crime scene technicians. The homeless man was found down by the creek. The other two were murdered in their homes."

  Clay frowned. "Did the killer break in or was he invited in? Could they
tell?"

  "There were no signs of forced entry, but both men were killed in their beds."

  "If they were gay…"

  "One was. The man who worked at the Brown. The grad student wasn't. He had a girlfriend and they were going to get married as soon as they both finished school."

  "How were they killed?"

  "Small caliber gun, close up, in the case of the two who were killed at home. The homeless guy had his skull bashed in with an iron pipe, according to the forensics investigator."

  Clay shivered. "How could he have gotten inside their homes?"

  "Both men lived in apartment buildings and neither one had a security system on their apartments. From the examination of the locks, the perp used a lockpick gun."

  "That's forced entry," Clay pointed out.

  "True. What I meant was, the perp didn't force the door or a window open. He came late at night, shot the victim, and left."

  "And no one heard the shot?"

  "In the case of the student, a neighbor did and called 911. The other man was found the next day by the building manager when the guy's boss couldn't reach him. He called, asking the manager to check on him because he hadn't shown up for work. Apparently that had never happened before and he got worried."

  "I think I'm glad I wasn't the poor manager."

  "He wasn't a happy man," Quint agreed. "Okay, you get to work. I'll do what I'm paid for and also make certain your security is up to par."

  Clay did as he was told, getting back to the painting he'd been working on when the detective had arrived. He was so immersed in what he was doing that he jumped when he heard Quint clear his throat behind him.

  "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," Quint said. "Everything looks good but…"

  "But?"

  Quint pointed to the skylight above the studio. "Anyone who got up there would have a great view of what you're working on."

  "True, I suppose. They'd have to have a key, though, and only the tenants do, so they can use the rooftop patio. Besides which, even if the killer did get up there and saw the paintings through the skylight, the notes I made about the subjects were in my sketchbook."

  Quint pointed to two of them, lying on the table to one side of the easel. "Do you always do that? Leave them open to the sketches you're using for the painting."