The Art of Dying: A Ray Hanley Crime Thriller

by Derik Cavignano

  Ray exchanged a glance with Garrison. “That’s Barry Finkleton. He was reported missing a week ago. Owns an art gallery on Newbury Street.”

  Garrison removed his trooper’s hat and wiped sweat from his brow. “You get all that just by looking at this sideshow?”

  “Yeah,” Ray said. “I’m that good.”

  “You and Billy been working it since the beginning?”

  Ray nodded. “I’d prefer to keep it that way.”

  Since Stony Brook was a state park, it fell within Garrison’s jurisdiction.

  “You can have it,” Garrison said. “Saves me the paperwork.” He stole another glance at Finkleton. “What do you think this is about, anyway? Pretty elaborate way to kill somebody.”

  “I don’t know,” Ray said, although he’d already connected a few threads. “How many units do you have on scene?”

  “Three.”

  “Let’s get them on the park exits. I want to make sure no one’s lurking around the woods watching us clean up their handiwork.”

  Garrison brought a radio to his lips, and as he relayed the instructions to his team, Billy walked toward them holding a spent roll of police tape.

  “Good thing Finkleton’s hanging out of reach,” Billy said, “because he’s the only part of this crime scene that’s not contaminated.”

  Ray studied the rope securing Finkleton to the tree. “Someone used that limb like a pulley. Looks like the killer threw one end of the rope over, hoisted Finkleton up, and then walked over to the base of the tree and tied it around the trunk.”

  “Must be a pretty strong guy,” Billy said. “Even without arms and legs, Finkleton’s got to run a buck-twenty. He’d have to hold the rope with one hand while tying the knot.”

  “Didn’t you ever make a rope swing when you were a kid?” Ray asked.

  Billy scowled. “We had what I’d call a shortage of trees in Southie.”

  “Yeah,” Garrison said, “probably to discourage lynchings.”

  “When I was a kid,” Ray said, “I went through a phase where I carried a rope around the neighborhood so that I could climb different trees. I would throw it over a branch, sit in the loop I’d tied at the other end, and hoist myself up. I could even let go of the rope with one hand and just hang there as long as I held both sides in my other hand.”

  “Power of leverage,” Garrison said. “Basic physics.”

  “What the hell do you know about physics?” Billy asked.

  “Apparently more than you.” Garrison looked at Ray. “Why’s he so grumpy this morning?”

  “I talked him into getting an early start.”

  Billy glared at him. “I didn’t even get to finish my coffee before you got us kicked out of there.”

  “Kicked out of where?” Garrison asked.

  “Long story,” Ray said.

  ***

  The crime scene techs initiated a sweep of the perimeter. Ray flagged down one of the junior techs he’d worked with in the past, a muscular Latino kid with a neatly-trimmed goatee. “Hey, Hector, can I get a ladder over here? I want a closer look at that body before it’s pulled down.”

  “Sure thing, Ray. Let me check the truck.”

  As Hector headed toward the path, Ray spotted Billy crouched at the edge of the asphalt. “You find something?”

  Billy nodded. “Tire tracks.”

  Ray went over for a look and saw the distinctive imprint of a tire in the mud. The track was a few inches wide and appeared incomplete, as if the tire had only strayed partly off the asphalt.

  “Someone drove the body up here,” Ray said.

  Billy called over Gary Wong, the ranking tech from the Crime Scene Services Section, who had shoulder-length gray hair and a no-nonsense demeanor. “We got a tire track,” Billy said. “Let’s get some photos and a cast.”

  Gary peered down at the track and frowned. “It’s not enough for a positive ID. I’ll have my team search along the path to see if we can find a better impression.”

  “Alright,” Ray said. “See if you can also get a sense for where he rode in from.”

  When Gary left, Ray took a step back and surveyed the scene. There were at least a dozen investigators inside the cordoned-off perimeter, some snapping pictures of Finkleton, others recording video of the walking trails, and still others combing through the woods for trace evidence, picking up any trash that could be connected to the suspect—cigarette butts, soda cans, candy wrappers—and carefully placing them into paper evidence bags. Outside the perimeter, a trio of Boston Police detectives interviewed witnesses, scribbling notes on department-issued imitation leather pads. The entire scene required meticulous documentation. Ray would need to pull together everyone’s notes and assemble a monster of a report. Garrison was right—this case was going to bury him in paper.

  Ray rubbed a hand across his stubbly cheek and stared through the screen of trees at the ridge leading down to Turtle Pond. He could hear the distant traffic along Enneking Parkway, the drivers oblivious to the gruesome scene nearby. He stole another glance at Finkleton, whose body spun lazily in the breeze, the loop on his harness allowing for a full revolution.

  The killer had chosen a well-travelled path to put Finkleton on display, everything carefully laid out to the smallest of details, like the harness loop ensuring a 360-degree view from the path, showcasing Finkleton like an exhibit. Yet another connection to art.

  Ray had a hunch Finkleton wasn’t his first victim. Or his last. Most likely, he’d practiced on others until he got it right, and Finkleton just happened to be his first statement piece, the first one worthy of prime time. Either way, his handiwork had all the hallmarks of a serial killer—the brutal and symbolic detail, the flaunting arrogance, the flair for the dramatic.

  A shadow appeared beside him and Ray turned to find Tina staring at him with a bemused grin. “Didn’t you hear me calling?”

  Ray shrugged. “I was thinking.”

  “I guess the creaking of all those rusty gears must’ve drowned me out.”

  Ray arched an eyebrow. He never knew what to expect with Tina—strictly business or schoolgirl flirty. And even after all these years, he wasn’t sure if she came by it naturally or if it was just something she did to keep him on his toes.

  Ray motioned to Finkleton. “What do you make of this?”

  Tina grimaced. “It’s horrible. I can hardly look at it. And I work with dead bodies every day. But that?” she said, wrinkling her nose. “It’s vulgar.”

  Ray chewed his lip. “Maybe that’s what the killer wanted to convey. Maybe that’s how he feels about Finkleton and he wants the whole world to see him that way.”

  Tina nodded. “It makes sense. At least, as much as a killer’s motives can.”

  Ray followed her gaze and noticed a swarm of flies buzzing around the corpse. One landed on Finkleton’s upper lip. Another touched down on his cheek. A few seemed to be stuck in the net at Finkleton’s backside, wriggling in vain to break free.

  “Those are blow flies,” Tina said. “They lay their eggs in any open wound or orifice they can find.”

  Ray grimaced.

  “What’s the matter?” Tina said. “Is the big, strong detective afraid of flies?”

  “I’m disgusted by them. There’s a difference.”

  “A subtle one. So how should we do this? Just lower the body into the bag?”

  “As soon as the crime scene techs are finished documenting this area. Half hour, maybe.”

  Tina nodded. “Then I guess I’ll see you later.” Her eyes lingered for a moment longer than was comfortable and he found himself caught in the same hypnotic stare she once reserved for the bedroom.

  He turned away and signaled to Billy, but he could still see Tina in his peripheral vision as she ducked beneath the police tape and hiked down the path.

  Billy appeared beside him, a crooked grin creasing his lips. “I could watch her walk away for hours.”

  Ray folded his arms. “That’s because you’re a
dirty old man.”

  “You know she wants you, right?”

  “I’m starting to get that vibe.”

  “I hear she and her boyfriend just split.”

  Ray nodded. It was the talk of the locker room.

  “Then what the hell are you waiting for?”

  “It’s not happening, Billy.”

  “Because of Michelle?”’

  “Yes, Billy, because of my wife.”

  “Come on, Ray. You gotta tap that before the moment’s gone. Know what I mean?”

  “I know Mary kicked your ass to the curb because you couldn’t keep it in your pants. Also, she took all your money, but somehow you managed to buy a new Corvette, so go figure.”

  “A used Corvette,” Billy said. “I had to dip into my retirement fund, but it was worth it, because that car is a babe magnet.”

  “I’d love to hear more horrible advice, but we’ve got a homicide to investigate.”

  Billy wrinkled his nose and gestured to Finkleton. “Yeah, and he ain’t getting any fresher.”

  Ray flagged down Gary, who had just dispatched a pair of techs to sweep the area below the ridge. Ray pointed to the spider web. “Seems like that net is coated with something sticky. Make sure your guys are careful bagging it up.”

  “We’ll take the customary precautions,” Gary said, his shoulders stiffening. “Just like always.”

  “Look,” Ray said, “we’ve had too many bystanders trekking through here and that net’s probably our only shot at discovering trace fibers from the killer. So give me a break if I’m stating the obvious.”

  “Fine,” Gary said. “But if this guy was smart, then coating the net would’ve been the last thing he did. Which means unless the wind cooperated, we won’t have anything.”

  Billy groaned. “This day’s becoming a big pain in my ass.”

  “Any luck with those tire tracks?” Ray asked.

  Gary nodded. “We found a usable print about twenty yards down the path. Perfect depth for a cast. Looks like a truck tire. Shouldn’t be hard to identify.”

  “Good,” Ray said. “I’ll let you get back to it.” He turned to Hector. “Where do we stand with that ladder?”

  “I’m waiting on another truck,” Hector said. “Should only be a few more minutes.”

  “Come find me. I want to take the first look.”

  “You got it,” Hector said, and hurried to catch up to Gary.

  “Any word on Coleman?” Ray asked, turning to Billy.

  “Just that he’s not home.”

  Ray furrowed his brow. “We’ve never seen that guy leave his house once, and now this happens around the corner and suddenly he’s not home?”

  “Quite the coincidence, isn’t it?” Billy said.

  Ray gestured to Finkleton. “You notice that he and Danny both had parts amputated?”

  “Yeah,” Billy said. “And both went missing before turning up dead.”

  “But was it the same offense?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If Danny’s murder was revenge for molestation, you’d think he’d stop there.”

  “So maybe Finkleton molested him too. I’ve heard pedophiles have a talent for profiling victims.”

  “Maybe,” Ray said. “But something about this is different. I just can’t get my head around it yet.”

  Billy shrugged. “I’m gonna check on those witnesses, make sure I’m comfortable with their statements before releasing them.”

  As Billy strode across the perimeter, Ray caught sight of Garrison’s imposing figure approaching.

  “We know where he rode in from,” Garrison said. “Found an open gate at the southeast entrance. Padlock severed with bolt cutters. We’ve also got a clear footprint beside the gate. Men’s size eleven sneaker. Nike. Gary’s team is making a cast now.”

  It wouldn’t do much to narrow the field, but sometimes a collection of small clues could crack a case faster than a couple of big ones. “Those gates aren’t wide enough for certain trucks,” Ray said. “Something bigger than an F-150 might not be able to squeeze through. You find any traces of paint on the gateposts?”

  “Not that I could see, but we’ll double-check. They’re dusting it for prints as we speak. I’m headed back there now.”

  Ray drew a deep breath and soaked it all in. This was the part of the job he loved. Collecting the evidence. Assembling the story. Building a case.

  Hector returned with a ten-foot aluminum stepladder. “Where do you want it?”

  Ray pointed to a spot a few feet to the left of Finkleton.

  Hector unfolded the ladder and snapped the hinges into the lock position. “It’s a little wobbly. Want me to hold it?”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  The sun had risen higher into the sky and a slant of light pierced the canopy, illuminating the right half of Finkleton’s body. As Ray climbed the ladder, the nauseating stench of decay assaulted him and he had to turn his head and cough into the crook of his arm.

  Nothing like a corpse baking in the sun.

  He cleared his throat and swatted at the flies buzzing around his face. From somewhere on the path, he could hear Hector chuckling. “Don’t go too far,” Ray said. “We’re gonna need your camera.”

  Finkleton’s hairy stomach was grossly distended and blotched purple where gravity had pooled the blood. He knew from past discussions with Doc Death that the bacteria in Finkleton’s body would already be feeding on his intestines and his digestive fluids would begin breaking down his organs, eventually liquefying his insides. After a few days, those liquids would begin leaking from his body, but Ray could see no evidence of that now. Which meant the body was fresh.

  Ray’s position on the ladder put him at arm’s length from Finkleton, and from that vantage point, he had a clear view of a jagged purple wound on Finkleton’s throat that evidenced the dark thread of stitches. Finkleton’s groin and the stump of his arm contained small wounds consistent with an IV, like the ones found on Danny the Mule.

  But unlike Danny, Finkleton’s penis hadn’t wandered to another part of his body. Instead, it dangled between two of the prosthetic spider legs that were implanted into the stumps of his real legs. Each spider limb measured about four feet long and curved downward at a forty-five-degree angle. They were made from a thick, black wire that was rigid enough to hold its shape against the pull of gravity, and the bristles covering each limb were made from hundreds of black pipe cleaners twisted around the wire. The pipe cleaners resembled the kind his kids used in art projects at school. He’d seen the kids use them to spell out their names, make a Valentine’s heart, form the wings of a bat… or even the legs of a spider.

  Is that what Finkleton is to this guy? Some twisted idea of an art project?

  A fly buzzed around Ray’s ear and he shooed it away, nearly toppling off the ladder in the process. He seized the top step to steady himself and looked up at the web. The killer had strung white wire along the edges of the net to hold its shape, with the upper half connected to the harness and the lower half connected to two of the spider legs.

  The eggs—two yellow and two white—were attached to the net with a fine strand of wire threaded through the shells, and each of the eggs was the size of Ray’s fist. They resembled the jumbo plastic variety that many stores carried around Easter time. One of the white eggs had a ragged hole torn into the top and was ringed by a red smear suggestive of blood. Lucky for Finkleton, the egg protruding from his butt cheeks was smaller, although Ray guessed that was probably a minor consolation.

  Something on the harness caught his eye and he craned his neck for a better look. A single word was written on the strap in black magic marker: Bitsy.

  As in the “Itsy Bitsy Spider.”

  The killer’s idea of a joke?

  He descended the ladder and signaled to Hector. “Ready with that camera?”

  Hector nodded.

  “Make sure you get some close-ups,” Ray said. “All the way around.�
��

  “You got it.”

  While Hector recorded voice notes to correspond with each of his photos, Ray spotted Tina walking up the path with Luis. They had donned blue jumpsuits with the word Coroner emblazoned in yellow across the back and Luis had a body bag draped over his left arm.

  Luis froze in his tracks when he caught sight of Finkleton. “Damn,” he said, turning to Tina. “You didn’t say anything about all that.”

  “Where’s the van?” Ray asked.

  “We can’t get it through,” Tina said. “Crime Scene Services is still collecting evidence. But I need to do my field exam, so I was hoping we could lower the body into the bag and bring the van around once the path is clear.”

  Ray took a moment to consider it. “Alright, but we’ve got to let Gary’s team cut down the net first.” He called Gary over and explained what Tina wanted to do. Gary agreed, and five minutes later the net was bagged up and logged into the growing evidence inventory.

  Ray walked over to where the killer had secured the rope to the tree trunk. “How do you want to do this?” he asked Gary. “Did your guys vacuum the rope for fibers yet?”

  “Not yet.” Gary said. He signaled to Hector. “Bring over the evidence vacuum. We need to prep the body for transport.”

  Hector brought over something that resembled a plastic toolbox and set it on the ground. He opened the lid, pulled out a hose attachment, and snapped it into the side of the box. He powered up the unit and began vacuuming the rope, starting with the section around the trunk and using the ladder to reach to within three feet of the harness. Then he switched the unit off and gazed down at them. “If you lower the rope slowly, I can get the last section before he’s on the ground.”

  Gary gave Hector a thumbs-up and handed Ray a pair of latex gloves. “Hold the rope against the trunk,” Gary said, “and I’ll untie the knot. You ready?”

  “Ready,” Ray said. With the rope wrapped twice around the tree, the leverage allowed him to hold the position when the knot came loose. At Hector’s signal, he began lowering the body.