The Death Artist

by Jonathan Santlofer

  “At least we saved the wife,” said Mead, after they got Bea Sachs sedated and off to the hospital. He nodded at Kate, mumbled, “Good work.”

  Kate just barely nodded back.

  “The alarm was still on,” said one of the Suffolk County detectives. “The vic obviously let the unsub in.”

  “So Sachs knew his assailant,” said Brown. “Or the guy just didn’t seem like a threat.”

  One of the Suffolk tech team photographed the wall several times, came in for a close-up on the initials in the lower right-hand corner.

  “I get the d for death,” said Brown. “But what about the K?”

  “He’s not using his initials this time,” said Kate. “He’s signing for the artist whose work he is emulating—for de Kooning—small d, capital K. He’s being clear, remember.” She shook her head. Damn it, what good is figuring it out if I’m always too late? She watched a cop bag the severed hand.

  “You find the other one?” he shouted to a crime scene cop across the room.

  “You won’t find it,” said Kate, totally flat. “He took it with him.”

  Mead turned away from the Suffolk chief of police. “How do you know that, McKinnon?”

  “I just know.” She closed her eyes, could see the death artist using Nathan Sachs’s hand to add the initials, then not wanting to give it up, his newly discovered, perverse paint-brush. Jesus. She was so fucking plugged into this guy, it sickened her.

  “Too bad he didn’t hang around a few minutes more,” said one of the Suffolk detectives.

  “He knew how much time he had,” said Kate.

  The guy looked at her, his face screwed up. “How?”

  “Never mind,” said Brown, answering for Kate, who had already turned out of the room, was lighting a cigarette on the back porch. Brown saw the match, then the tip of her cigarette, glowing. He hoped to God she didn’t crack. He knew what it was like to be inside one of these psychos’ heads. He’d been there. Couldn’t wait to get out.

  40

  It’s coming up now,” said Liz.

  Kate pulled up a chair in Liz’s small FBI Manhattan cubicle, watched as a file number, then a name, PRINGLE, RUBY, appeared on Liz’s computer screen. Her eyes felt itchy, irritated from lack of sleep.

  It had taken almost three hours to get back from Sag Harbor last night with Kate, Mead, Brown, and Slattery, going over and over Nathan Sachs’s murder—if only they had figured out the clues faster, if only they had gotten there an hour earlier, if only . . .

  Then the FBI needed to hear every single detail. The only reason they hadn’t taken over the case was because Mitch Freeman had convinced them that Kate and her team were close. Kate wasn’t sure if that was a blessing or a curse.

  By the time she got home, all Kate was capable of doing was kicking off her shoes and falling into bed. She was glad Richard had been called back to Chicago for more depositions. No way she’d have been able to answer any questions.

  “I’d like any crime scene photos, any lab reports,” said Kate, focusing on Liz’s screen. “And there should be something about a fingerprint we were trying to type way back when, but couldn’t.”

  “Did you try AFIS?”

  “Yes. But the fingerprint didn’t appear. It may have been before the system was put into effect.”

  “Hold on.” Liz scrolled through the document.

  A series of black-and-white images took turns filling the screen: The Dumpster. Garbage. That poor dead kid. All of it so vivid in Kate’s mind, she could even feel the heat of that summer day.

  “I can make the resolution better.” Liz hit a few keys. The picture’s details sharpened so that Kate could make out the chips in Ruby Pringle’s powder-pink fingernail polish, a similar color on the girl’s lips, smudged across her cheek. Ruby Pringle’s eyes were wide open, staring back at Kate now as they did then. On the screen they looked dark, but Kate remembered they were blue.

  A moment later, Liz was lifting images out of the laser printer, handing them to Kate.

  “Jesus.” Kate took a deep breath. “I never wanted to see any of this again.” But she took in the details—the halolike aluminum foil crumpled over the girl’s head, the wavy plastic wings. “She really does look like an angel. It could be the death artist’s work.” Kate glanced back at the screen, thought a minute. “Would you see if there’s a note in the file? A sort of ransom note? I’m pretty sure it was documented.”

  Liz scrolled through the case file. There it was:

  I know where she is because I know where I put her.

  “That’s it,” said Kate. She stared at the writing on the screen, then pictured the actual note on the seat of her car, directing her, drawing her to that hideous scene so many years before.

  Kate’s fingers trembled as she unfolded the newspaper photo of herself with wings and halo, and the word HELLO written across it. “Obviously, the FBI has a handwriting department.”

  “Sure. But not here,” said Liz. “I can fax them to Quantico’s handwriting analysis.”

  “How long would that take?”

  “Depends. If my pal Marie is working today, you could have an answer back in no time.” Liz fed both writing samples into her fax machine, then turned back to the Ruby Pringle file on her computer. “Here’s the lab stuff. And your fingerprint, large as life. I’ll print it on Mylar so it can be overlaid with any of the recent prints you’ve got in your lab, to see if they match.”

  Kate watched the fingerprint spit out of the printer. Would it lead her to him—or to another body? Kate practiced a few of those deep-cleansing yoga breaths.

  “You have gotten good at this, Liz.”

  “Thanks.” Liz handed over the Mylar fingerprint. “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything from Quantico on the handwriting.”

  All the way back to the station house Kate couldn’t stop thinking about it. Had he written HELLO as a clue, to let her know how long he had been a part of her life, or was it simply a mistake? No. The death artist was too clever, too meticulous for that. He wanted her to know.

  Okay, so he was leading her. But this time she knew she was being led.

  “Dead-on match,” said Hernandez.

  Now Kate was staring at another computer screen, one into which had been fed the Mylar print supplied by Liz. It had been flipping fingerprints over and under each other for about ninety seconds until the two had wed, and the screen flashed MATCH.

  “What’s the match?” asked Kate. “Which case?”

  “It’s from the Stein scene,” said Hernandez, checking her records. “Let’s see. According to this, the print was pulled off a painting—one that had that little violin picture stuck onto it.”

  Thank God she had sent them back for it, that she recognized the violin was a prop, part of the death artist’s staging of Titian’s The Flaying of Marsyas.

  “Your unsub must have taken off his gloves to stick the violin picture onto the painting and accidentally leaned his finger into the painting while he was doing it. He wiped the little violin print clean, but not the painting.”

  “Even if he’d wiped the painting,” said Kate, “the tacky oil-paint surface would be very sensitive to fingerprints, wouldn’t it?”

  “Right.”

  “So this is the only match to any of the prints we have from all the death artist’s crime scenes?” asked Kate.

  “So far,” said Hernandez. She handed Kate the Mylar fingerprint along with another set of Quantico faxes. “These came for you.”

  Minutes later, Kate had the Ruby Pringle crime scene photocopies spread out on the conference table in front of the squad, along with the results of the lab’s fingerprint search, Quantico’s handwriting analysis, and two large art books—Renaissance Painting and Early Christian Art.

  Behind her, pinned up on the wall, were technicolor pictures of the Nathan Sachs crime scene—lurid and bloody. Beside them were the de Kooning paintings from Kate’s books.

  The entire squad looked exhau
sted, including Mitch Freeman—dark circles under their eyes, lines around then-mouths from constant frowning.

  “With the fingerprint match and Quantico’s handwriting people saying the notes are a seventy-percent match, it makes it pretty damn conclusive that it’s the death artist’s work,” said Kate.

  “Who supplied the info?” Freeman squinted at the FBI documents.

  “The Bureau,” said Kate with an offhand “Who else?” sort of shrug.

  Freeman didn’t push, just nodded.

  “Jesus,” said Chief of Police Tapell. “This guy’s been on your tail since Astoria.”

  “But he disappeared for years,” said Mead.

  “He disappeared on McKinnon,” said Freeman. “But he could have been working all along, undetected.”

  “And then I wrote the art book, made the TV series, and came back onto his radar screen,” said Kate. She flipped a few pages in the art books. “There are angels in practically every one of these paintings. They’re called putto.” She showed a few examples to the group. “I can’t find anything specific, but you can see what he must have been going for with Ruby Pringle. This was an early attempt. He hadn’t perfected his ritual yet.”

  “It might be a good idea to check and see what other unsolved cases could be the death artist’s work,” said Tapell.

  “No offense,” said Kate. “But looking at old cases isn’t going to do much but prove he’s been active all these years. The fact is that for the past ten years no one knew the guy’s ritual because it kept changing, kept looking different. But now we know his ritual is based on art. Nobody had that information before. It’s a totally different ball game now. We can get him. All we have to do is wait for him to send me another clue.”

  “What if he decides not to?” asked Tapell.

  “Oh, he will,” said Kate. “He wants me there. I know it.”

  “I agree,” said Freeman. “And this time we have to work fast, be ready for him.”

  “We will,” said Tapell. She regarded Kate with a frown. “I heard a rumor that you were thinking about leaving town. Going to Venice?”

  Kate shook her head. “Forget it.” She shivered, though the room was warm. Is this what the death artist wanted, to control her life, manipulate her, keep her here, bring her there? “I’m not going anywhere.”

  It’s true. That last time was awfully close. But he figured it out, didn’t he? Had the timing down perfectly. It was that stupid woman’s fault for not showing up. Damn. He wishes he could have stayed to finish the job.

  He feels a slight stab of regret. But no, he will not permit it. That’s history. The past. It’s over. Not everything can be a masterpiece.

  After all, even he is human. He’s allowed the occasional imperfection, isn’t he? And it wasn’t bad, nothing to be ashamed of. Okay, the color wasn’t perfect—the old man’s blood a little thin, anemic, but the spirit of the painting was there, and that’s enough. She got it.

  She got it too fast.

  “Not really,” he says, staring at the wall of shiny tin. “But all right. I’ll slow it down.”

  No. Keep going. Do it.

  The tin wall distorts his face, reflects someone totally unrecognizable. He moves in closer, runs his hand over the metal as if caressing his misshapen features. “Who are you?”

  You are me. I am you.

  He shakes his head, watches the face in the tin twist and turn. He pulls back. It dissolves.

  He shoves Nathan Sachs’s hand out of the way—the thing looks like a shriveled claw, purple-brown flesh, fingers curled up—and dips into his carton of art cards and reproductions. He needs something to ground him. Make him feel safe. Yes. He should do it now. While he is at the peak of his powers. And really, why not? He has thought about it for so long, knows just the kind of image he wants to use—something wonderfully grand and mythic—something that will suit her perfectly.

  He sets to work. Replaces the blade in his X-Acto knife, checks his glue. Not even the voices can distract him. An hour passes. His table is a mess, covered with scraps of paper. But the finished product is simplicity itself. Clear. Bold. Iconic.

  Still, when he holds it up, a swell of sadness overtakes him. This isn’t like giving up one of those inane photographs or a tuft of hair. This is major. This is it. Her. She. The one.

  Are those tears on his cheeks? He’s not surprised to see his gloved hand is wet when he wipes his eyes.

  Be strong. Remember, you are superhuman.

  He straightens his shoulders. Yes, he can do this.

  But what about later—when she’s gone? God, he’s going to miss her.

  You can always find another muse.

  Charlie Kent placed her passport and airline tickets together with her schedule of Venice Biennale events, slid them all into her burnished leather Filofax. Now she opened her closet—an act that never failed to soothe her, this feat of absolute space maximization, and the one true luxury in her modest apartment.

  Twenty floor-to-ceiling shelves. Eight pairs of shoes per shelf. Suede, alligator, snakeskin, patent leather. Pumps, flats, heels. Dressy, casual, sporty, elegant. Buckles, bows, clasps, ties. Two shelves, made taller, just for boots. All arranged by color: white to beige, beige to tan, tan to brown, brown to rust, rust to orange, orange to red. Three shelves devoted entirely to black.

  Charlie sighed, an expression of pure contentment. She selected nine pairs for her two and a half days in Venice, then spent the next twenty minutes putting each pair into its own chamois string bag, and then, only then, carefully nestled them between the layers of clothes in her suitcase. She threw in a sexy pink nightgown.

  There had been virtually no opposition from the small board at Otherness to covering the cost of Willie’s accompanying her to Venice—not after she had acquired that major WLK Hand directly from the artist. Charlie thought Morty Bernstein, chairman of the board and avid collector of Willie’s work, was going to bend over and kiss her ass.

  Charlie smiled, glanced over at the drawing Willie had given her, already framed, hanging right above her bed with all the other artwork she had received, over the years, as gifts from so many aspiring artists.

  Oh, this was going to work out just fine.

  And she had bigger plans than the Museum for Otherness. She’d already met with a few select members of the Contemporary board, let them know that she, and she alone, had the vision to bring their museum into the twenty-first century. Not that creep, Raphael Perez, whom Charlie had made it her business to besmirch whenever possible, or Schuyler Mills, that was for sure. No, the job would be hers.

  She glanced back at her open closet. Perhaps one more pair of shoes, just to be on the safe side; the blue-and-white Chanel spectators, which she hardly ever wore in New York, but which were just perfect for Venice.

  Raphael Perez tossed four pairs of Perry Ellis bikini briefs into a small leather Coach bag opened on the couch just below a spotlit poster of his very first exhibition for the Museum of Contemporary Art—“The Body Beautiful: Eating Disorders as Art.” Images of women ramming fingers down their throats, inserting enemas, vomiting, brought a smile to Raphael’s lips.

  Venice, he knew, would be a lot of work. So much to do: attend the best parties; schmooze the right people; deal with that bitch Charlie Kent; ignore his co-curator, Schuyler Mills—all of which would be very easy with so many collectors and museum people he needed to suck up to.

  He opened the top drawer of his perfectly distressed armoire, selected two handkerchiefs, a favorite blue silk and a paisley print of olive green, which he tucked beside the briefs. Director of the Museum of Contemporary Art. Yes, the title suited him perfectly. And with Amy Schwartz retiring, and Bill Pruitt dead, who was going to stop him?

  Willie wished he knew what the weather was going to be like in Venice. Should he bring his new leather jacket? Why not? If it got hot, he could always take it off.

  He folded two white shirts, the plain black tie Elena had bought him for his very fi
rst gallery opening—his good-luck charm—into his backpack along with his Discman, six or seven CDs, underwear, his standard toiletries.

  He considered packing the bottle of expensive-looking English cologne Kate had given him months ago, unscrewed the pewter cap, splashed a little into his palms, patted his cheeks. The slightest smell of lime, a hint of orange, refreshing, clean. He liked it. Leave it to Kate to find the perfect scent.

  Willie glanced up at a half-finished painting, one Darton Washington had admired, even expressed interest in buying only a few weeks ago.

  He’d been trying to get past it, Darton’s death, and all the anger he felt. But it was not just anger. That would be simple. Willie balled up a pair of socks, squashed them into the backpack.

  It was also the guilt. The fact that he’d deceived Kate. That he’d given his brother, Henry, money to lie low. If he was really honest with himself, he knew that was why he’d let Darton Washington’s death drive a wedge between him and Kate.

  Willie reached for the phone. He should call her. She’d been through a lot of shit. Maybe even more than him. But he just couldn’t do it.

  Fuck. He wondered if she missed him as much as he missed her.

  Thank God he was getting out of town for a few days.

  He tucked a black leather belt into his backpack.

  An image flashed before his eyes so fast, it sent him careening backward. It was like the last one, the one he had had in the car—Kate, struggling, in water. Except this time he was in it, too. But he wasn’t struggling. He wasn’t moving at all.

  Willie opened his eyes, but could not see. Another blinding moment of darkness. There it was again: Murky water. He and Kate. Then it was gone.

  Brown drummed his nails on the edge of the conference table. Mead sucked his teeth. Mitch Freeman, usually cool, was cracking his knuckles in between loud sighs. Slattery chewed gum, popping it loud.

  That did it. Kate looked up. “Maureen. Please. Stop making that obnoxious noise.”