The Art of Dying: A Ray Hanley Crime Thriller

by Derik Cavignano

  Once Hector finished vacuuming the final section of rope, Luis unzipped the body bag and positioned it beneath Finkleton. With Finkleton hovering three feet above the ground, Gary clipped the spider legs with a pair of wire cutters, then carefully folded the legs in half and slipped them into evidence bags.

  “Alright,” Gary said, “set him down.”

  Ray let out a little more rope and Finkleton descended gently into the open body bag. Hector unbuckled Finkleton’s harness and transferred it into another evidence bag, along with the coil of rope.

  Tina donned a pair of latex gloves and crouched down over Finkleton, feeling around his neck and head. “Early stage rigor mortis.” She shifted to his abdomen, poking the blotchy purple area with her fingertip. “Blood’s fully clotted, manifested as livor mortis.” She reached into her bag for a scalpel and made an incision on the right side of Finkleton’s chest. Luis handed her a thermometer. She inserted it into the bloodless opening and took a reading. “Eighty-six degrees.” Then she pulled back Finkleton’s eyelids, revealing vacant blue eyes coated with a milky pall. “Moderate amount of ocular fluid.”

  She spent a few moments examining Finkleton’s neck. “Recent surgical wound on his throat. Sutures still visible.”

  “What do you think that’s for?” Ray asked.

  “I can’t be sure until the autopsy.” Tina reached into the bag and maneuvered Finkleton’s head, exposing the area beneath his chin that was normally hidden by his jowls. “Do you see that bruising?”

  Ray nodded. There was a thin line across the top of Finkleton’s throat. “Looks like he was strangled.”

  “The bruising seems consistent with rope,” Tina said. “Maybe the same rope we just pulled down from the tree.”

  “So why bother with the harness?” Luis asked. “Why not skip a step and hang him by the neck?”

  “Maybe that didn’t fit the scene the killer wanted to portray,” Ray said. “To him, Finkleton was a spider, and spiders don’t kill themselves with their own webs.”

  “Yeah,” Billy said, striding toward them from across the path. “You don’t see a lot of spider suicides on the books these days.”

  Tina rolled her eyes. Back when she and Ray were dating, she referred to Billy as “that misogynist pig you ride along with.” Ray had never come to his defense since she wasn’t exactly wrong.

  “What’s your best guess for time of death?” Ray asked.

  Tina glanced skyward, as if crunching some mental math. “Six to eight hours ago. Rough estimate.”

  “You think he was dead before the killer strung him up?”

  “If he was,” Tina said, “it wasn’t for long. The purple blotching on his stomach wouldn’t be concentrated in a single spot if he’d died in another position and then got moved later.”

  Ray imagined the killer staging the scene, taunting Finkleton about his fate before wrapping the slack length of rope around his neck and squeezing the life out of him.

  “Should I zip him?” Luis asked.

  “I’m good,” Ray said.

  Tina nodded and Luis sealed the bag.

  Gary spoke to someone over the radio, then turned to Luis and pointed southwest. “My team has finished sweeping the path over there. You can drive the van through and load the body, but everywhere else is off limits.”

  “Got it,” Luis said, then started off down the path at his typical unhurried pace.

  Ray touched Tina’s shoulder. “Call me when you’ve scheduled the autopsy. I want to be there.”

  “Me too,” Billy said.

  Tina smiled politely. “The more the merrier.”

  “Alright,” Ray said, glancing at Billy, “let’s get back to work.”

  Billy winked at Tina before turning away.

  “You know she hates you,” Ray said when they were out of earshot. “Pretty much on every level.”

  “That’s why I like messing with her.”

  “You do realize you give off a creepy vibe around attractive women?”

  “I like to think it’s part of my charm.”

  Ray brayed laughter. “You keep on thinking that.”

  They crossed over to the opposite end of the crime scene, where a uniformed officer was questioning the last pair of witnesses.

  “Anything interesting come out of the interviews?” Ray asked.

  “Not really,” Billy said.

  “Who was first on the scene?”

  Billy flipped open his pocket pad and scanned the pages. “Harry Deerfield. Seventy years old. Out walking his dog. He’s the one who put in the 911 call.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Seven thirty-six. About ten minutes before we arrived.”

  “Did he say anything about the other witnesses?”

  “He knows most of them, either from his neighborhood or from passing them on the trails every morning. Said most people had a daily routine.”

  “You notice anything unusual about anyone? Dirty clothes? Bloodstains? Something sticky on their hands?”

  Billy shook his head. “I didn’t see anything suspicious. But we did get prints of their shoes. Gary’s team is crosschecking them against the footprint Garrison found by the gate.”

  Even if they discovered a match, it wouldn’t mean much. The witnesses had to enter the park somewhere. So, unless the investigation discovered blood, latent prints, skin cells, or hair samples, they pretty much had nothing but circumstantial evidence. And maybe enough information to build a psychological profile.

  Ray and Billy ducked beneath the police tape and surveyed the scene from a distance, their eyes registering the whole operation. It was a habit Billy had ingrained in him when they first paired up, back before Billy had one foot out the door. Usually, the more holistic perspective helped Ray glean some new nugget of information, but this time nothing jumped out at him. “You get anything?” he asked.

  Billy shook his head. “Let’s check in with Garrison.”

  The words had barely left Billy’s lips when Ray detected a blur of movement in the trees. “Hey!” he shouted, charging after a dark-haired man wearing jeans and a T-shirt.

  Dead leaves littered the ground, everything slick from the earlier rain. Ray drew his gun and skidded down the slope, grabbing the trunk of a stunted pine to keep his footing.

  The man scrambled behind a boulder covered with scrub brush.

  “Stop! Police!”

  The man halted with his back to them.

  Ray raised his gun. “On the ground with your hands out!”

  As the man sank to his knees and laid down on his stomach, Ray moved in and fished the cuffs off his belt. “Bring your hands together behind your back.” When the man obliged, Ray slapped the cuffs on him and used his foot to turn him over.

  “Coleman!” Billy exclaimed.

  “This isn’t what it looks like,” Coleman said. “I can explain.”

  Ray grabbed Coleman beneath the arms and yanked him to his feet. “You’d better have some answers.”

  Billy holstered his gun. “I can’t wait to hear this.”

  “What are you doing here?” Ray demanded.

  Coleman let out a sigh, his shoulders sagging. “I heard the sirens so I came to see what was happening. When I saw the cruisers heading for Stony Brook, I thought that…”

  “That what?” Billy asked. “That we found where you stashed your wife’s body?”

  “No,” Coleman said, a defiant tone creeping into his voice. “Where someone else did.” His eyes welled up. “Suzie is either hurt or dead, taken by some sick lunatic who framed me. And you know what? I don’t care anymore if no one believes me. I know the truth.”

  “What is the truth?” Ray asked. “Aren’t you tired of keeping it locked up inside?”

  Coleman ignored the question. “Did you find Suzie? I couldn’t get close enough to see.”

  “Look,” Ray said, gesturing to Billy. “We’ve both been married. We get it. I bet she pissed you off, right? Probably nagged you t
o the point where you just snapped? Only now you can barely remember it. But you’re sorry. And scared. Am I right?”

  Coleman shook his head. “I didn’t do it. I swear to you. I loved her.”

  “Is that why you banged some other broad on a business trip?” Billy asked.

  “That was the biggest mistake of my life. I’d do anything to take it back.”

  “Why were you sneaking around a crime scene?” Ray asked.

  “I never crossed the yellow tape. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Except for running from a police officer,” Billy said.

  Coleman shook his head. “It sounds bad, okay? I get it. But I had to see if you found Suzie. And since I’m still a suspect, I thought it was best if no one saw me.”

  Billy cocked a thumb at Coleman. “This guy’s full of great decisions.”

  “Please,” Coleman said. “Just tell me. Is it her? Is it Suzie?”

  “What’s next,” Billy asked. “You carrying a weapon too? Maybe a book on getting away with murder?”

  Coleman kept quiet—probably his best decision of the day—and Ray stared at him, trying to get a reading on his bullshit meter. “You’re under arrest,” Ray said. “And because my partner is a lazy sonofabitch, I’m gonna read you your rights.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ​It was after midnight when Ray staggered through the front door, a dull pain throbbing behind his eyes. He wanted nothing more than to tiptoe into the bedroom, slip beneath the covers, and pass out until morning.

  But Sparky had other plans.

  The hyperactive Boston Terrier raced downstairs, claws scrabbling against the hardwood, and leaped around Ray’s ankles while letting out a series of whining barks.

  Ray lost his balance and staggered against the wall, trying to avoid stepping on the stupid mutt. “Come on, Sparky, zip it.” He crouched down to give the dog a few seconds of attention, but it only succeeded in ratcheting up Sparky’s intensity level.

  Michelle had left the kitchen light on for him, and after kicking off his shoes and distracting Sparky with a bowl of food, he switched off the light and trudged upstairs, trying to purge his mind of what amounted to the worst Monday in recent memory.

  ​He’d spent hours debriefing with other investigators, comparing notes and assembling it all into a coherent report on Finkleton’s murder. It would be days before the crime lab processed all the evidence, but Gary had shared what was available so far.

  The fingerprint analysis identified forty-eight sets of prints on the gatepost nearest to the crime scene, which wasn’t a surprise considering the number of people who frequented the walking trails. The more interesting analysis involved determining how many of those prints belonged to people with criminal records, especially those with a history of violence. Gary promised to have those results by the following afternoon, but since neither the eggs nor the padlock contained any latent prints, Ray doubted the killer’s prints were among the forty-eight. More than likely, the killer had worn gloves.

  The most promising revelation had come from what they found inside the eggs—four slips of standard computer paper, each inscribed with a single name in boldface Helvetica 18-point font. Names that belonged to artists Finkleton had discovered.

  He and Billy planned to meet with the artists in the morning, find out what their stories were, rattle their cages a bit to see how they reacted. Billy, for one, loved rattling cages. It was kind of his thing. Which was another reason why Tina hated him.

  The thought of Tina conjured up an old memory of her slipping out of a cocktail dress and climbing into bed on all fours, telling him that he wouldn’t be getting any sleep that night.

  He shrugged away the memory as he padded down the hall, knowing nothing good would ever come of it. When he reached Allie’s room, he leaned over her bed and listened to the easy rhythm of her breathing. Thankfully, no giant eyeballs plagued her dreams tonight. He drew the covers around her shoulders and kissed her forehead before creeping into the hall to peer into the boys’ room.

  Jason was sprawled across the top bunk at a forty-five-degree angle to the bed like a drunken frat boy, his mouth agape, one arm draped across his forehead. Petey’s toddler bed was empty, and when Ray went downstairs to the master bedroom, he spotted the chubby animal snuggled against Michelle.

  He squeezed in next to them and Michelle blinked at him sleepily.

  “Rough night?” she whispered.

  “Rough entire day.”

  “Can you take Petey back to his room? He keeps flopping around like Linda Blair in The Exorcist.”

  Ray scooped Petey into his arms and stood up. “What do you say we flop around together when I get back?”

  Michelle rolled over and groaned. “Aren’t you tired?” she asked, drawing the blankets around herself.

  “What are you doing, building a wall?”

  “Yes, and in case you can’t read the sign, it says, No Trespassing.”

  “Are you sure it doesn’t say, Come inside, we’re open?”

  Michelle threw a pillow at him. “It definitely does not say that.”

  “I’m pretty sure it does.” He headed out with Petey dangling from his arms like wet spaghetti.

  “Maybe you should visit the bathroom,” Michelle said after he returned. “I hear they’re serving up lotion for one.”

  Ray collapsed onto the bed and groaned. “Very funny.”

  “Sorry, babe. I’ll get you next time.”

  A moment later, she was asleep.

  ***

  Finkleton’s death dominated the morning news. And while most networks glossed over the gruesome details, one channel with a reputation for sensationalism aired a cell phone video of Finkleton dangling from the tree.

  “I can’t believe they’re showing that,” Michelle said. “And what kind of sicko does something like that, anyway?”

  “I’ll let you know once I find him.”

  Michelle shuddered. “I hate knowing a monster like that is out there. It makes me want to vomit.”

  Ray wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed the crown of her head, where her hair was still wild from sleep. She snatched the remote from his hand and clicked off the TV. “I think that’s enough bad news for one morning.”

  “Wait until you see that I used the last of the creamer.”

  Michelle slapped his arm. “You’d better be joking.” When Ray nodded, she poked a finger into his sternum. “Don’t mess with me in the morning. And aren’t you going to be late for work?”

  Ray grabbed his keys from the coffee table. “Probably, but I like giving Spinonni something to bitch about.”

  ***

  “Alright, listen up,” Spinonni said, scowling at the officers gathered for roll call. “The warrant came through on the Finkleton case. Detectives Hanley and Devlin, I want you to turn Coleman’s house upside down, search every goddamn nook and cranny. And don’t come back until you find some real evidence, something that might actually stick in a court of law.”

  Spinonni paused for effect and directed a menacing glare at Ray. “I’ve been told the State Police will provide assistance on this case, so I don’t want to hear anything about you two getting into any pissing matches. Understood?”

  “Got it,” Ray said. “No pissing on state cops.”

  “Too bad,” Billy said. “I hear they’re into that.”

  Spinonni exhaled sharply and glanced at his notepad. “Next up, we’ve got another missing persons case. Subject is Greg Cassidy, a twenty-eight-year-old construction worker. Detectives Duncan and Greene, come see me afterward for the file.”

  When the briefing ended, Ray and Billy trudged into the breakroom for a second dose of coffee. “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover today,” Ray said. “I think we should divide and conquer.”

  “Good idea,” Billy said. “There’s a few more strip clubs I’d like to investigate.”

  “I’m sure there are,” Ray said, “but I was thinking one of us could pair
up with Garrison on the Coleman warrant, while the other works the Finkleton investigation.”

  “Fine,” Billy said, “but I get first pick.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Because I’m the one who had to tell Finkleton’s wife that we found him dangling from a tree like a dead spider.”

  “How’d that go?”

  “She threw up all over my best sports coat.”

  “I’ve seen your best sports coat—she did you a favor.”

  “I’m taking Coleman.”

  “Fine,” Ray said. “We’ll meet afterward for lunch. My pick.”

  ***

  The reception desk at the Finkleton Gallery of Art resembled molten glass oozing toward the floor in a swirl of reds, blues, and yellows. A middle-aged woman wearing a navy pantsuit with a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses perched atop her head stood behind it. “Welcome to the Finkleton Gallery,” she said with an easy smile.

  Ray nodded a greeting and flashed his badge. “I’m Detective Hanley with the Boston Police. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  The woman brushed a lock of silvery hair behind one ear and stepped out from behind the desk. “Is this about Barry?”

  Ray nodded. “I’m afraid it’s not good news.”

  The woman’s eyes misted over. “Barry’s wife told me last night. I’m still in shock. I don’t understand how someone could do that to another human being.”

  “We may never make sense of it,” Ray said. “But you can help me figure out who’s responsible.”

  The woman retrieved a tissue from the desk and dabbed her eyes. “You’re not the same officer who was here when Barry first went missing.”

  “That was Detective Ridley.”

  “Then why do you look so familiar to me?”

  “I think you know my brother,” Ray said. “He does some accounting work for you guys.”

  Her face brightened. “You look just like him. He’s such a nice man, and smart as a whip.”

  “Thanks,” Ray said. “And I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Veronica Daniels.”