The Murder Artist

by John Case

  “Who was the audition for?”

  She taps her head. “It was a new act, just getting started. There was to be some weeks of rehearsal. Clara did tell me the name of it.” She sighs, looks at the ceiling. “But I don’t really remember. The Meressa Show? Marassa? Malessa? Some kind of name like that – reminded me of molasses. The audition was at the Luxor, I think – or maybe it was the Mandalay Bay.”

  I ask for her take on what happened.

  She lights a cigarette. “Some wacko lured ’em out to Red Rock, killed ’em for fun. That’s what I think.”

  “I guess that’s the theory.”

  “What else could it be? The police dug back into their high school days and their hometown and all, and they didn’t find a thing. It didn’t seem to be personal, either, know what I mean?”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “I don’t. Nobody claimed it. No sexual motive. What I think is they were killed more or less for fun.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Watching television as much as I do,” Ezme says, “you get a good idea what people can get themselves up to. Between the reality shows and the news, I’d say we’re closing in on the Romans. Except – when we get to the gladiator stage, Barbara WaWa will interview the guy before he heads out into the ring. And the gladiator will thank everybody in creation who got him the chance to die on television. His manager. His hair stylist. His personal trainer.”

  “Can I see the apartment?”

  “Oh, honey, there’s nothing to see. A couple with a baby lives there now.”

  “What about the girls’ belongings?”

  “I left the apartment right like it was for three or four months. The girls didn’t have much stuff and what they had wasn’t worth a bean, but I couldn’t bring myself to clear it out. Police finally tracked down some cousin out in North Dakota. This cousin – she didn’t want nothing. Not one thing. Kinda sad, isn’t it? Didn’t really know the girls. Didn’t want to bury her kin, neither. The girls are planted here, courtesy of the state. I finally gave what was useful to the Purple Heart. They came and fetched it, see.”

  I’m out of questions. I thank Mrs. Brewster and turn toward the door.

  She stops me with a hand on my arm. “Oh, Lord. And them in their little costumes. You think it was this audition, don’t you?” She sucks in a breath.

  “The audition? What do you mean?”

  “Isn’t that what you’re thinking? That some crazeball lured them, used their hopes and dreams to suck them in – had them put on their costumes, speak their lines, and go through their routines, and then… like he had them try out for their own murder.” She sucks in her breath, which launches another spate of coughing. Mrs. Brewster’s eyes close briefly, as if she might be uttering a silent prayer. “That’s dark,” she says. “That’s downright evil.”

  When the skin on the back of my neck stops crawling, I squeeze out a thank-you to Mrs. Brewster for her time.

  Standing next to the car as I wait for it to cool down, I think Ezme Brewster is probably right. The Gablers auditioned for their murderer. But the thing is: So what? I can’t see how it has anything to do with Sean and Kevin.

  Back at the Tropicana, I have two messages. The first is from Liz. “Alex, what are you doing in Las Vegas?” Her voice is shrill and disapproving. Then she’s all business: “Please give me a call.”

  The second is from Barry Chisworth, the medical examiner. He says he’ll be happy to talk to me and leaves a string of numbers.

  Liz is not easy to talk to these days. She knows it’s unfair, she’s trying to work it through with her therapist – but she can’t get past focusing all her negative feelings on me. She feels guilty for letting the boys come to stay with me – and indulges in endless versions of the what-if game. So whatever remnant of blame that’s not on me, rests on her. Whoever abducted the boys doesn’t even fit into her picture. She let the boys come. If she’d refused… if only she’d let me take them on the trip to the beach…

  I force myself to call.

  “Hello?” Her voice is tremulous, tentative.

  “Hey.”

  “What are you doing in Las Vegas, Alex? Are you gambling?”

  “I’m following a lead that Shoffler suggested.”

  “Really? He’s not even connected to the case anymore.”

  “He didn’t ask to be transferred. He continues to take an interest.”

  “What lead?”

  My mind spins. I’m not going to tell her anything about the Gabler twins, that’s for sure. I doubt the connection anyway, and what happened to the women is too gruesome to raise with Liz. “A bad lead. It didn’t go anywhere.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t be in Vegas. My dad’s been thinking about it. You should be canvassing the houses near Shade Valley Road. That’s the most likely-”

  “Liz. The police checked those homes. Over and over.”

  “My dad’s convinced!” Her voice is shrill, out of control. We go on for a while. The tone continues to deteriorate. “I’m still expecting my spousal support,” she says. “Whether you have a job or not. I’m not supporting trips to Las Vegas. I mean it, Alex: The check better be on time.”

  I tell myself this sour bitch isn’t really Liz. She doesn’t want to feel the loss and terror, so she’s sticking with anger.

  “Liz.”

  “I mean it, Alex. Don’t ask me to cut you any slack. Just don’t even try.”

  I wish I could say the perfect thing, something to comfort and buoy her, something to give her hope. But the descent of my wife into this petty bitterness makes me so sad I’m afraid if I open my mouth, I might break down. I hang up.

  She calls back four times. The escalating level of fury and vitriol will be recorded on my voice mail.

  CHAPTER 24

  At his suggestion, I meet Barry Chisworth at Rumjungle, an elaborate bar-restaurant in the lower level of Mandalay Bay. Like most of the other restaurants I passed on my way (the French Bistro, Red Square, etc.), this one has a theme. I’m just not sure what it is. Sheets of water cascade down the walls. Flames dance from an open pit. A safari fantasy, I guess. With water elements.

  Chisworth is a stocky guy in his fifties, with the overdeveloped shoulders of a weight lifter. He has one of those little tufts of hair between his lower lip and his chin. “Thanks for giving me an excuse to get out of the house,” he says, with a crunching handshake. “I live alone, of course, but still…” He laughs at his own joke and I join him. “Try a mojito,” he suggests, holding up a tall glass. “Hemingway’s fave. Slammin’ little drink.”

  I usually stick to beer, but I get the feeling Chisworth will be disappointed if I reject his suggestion. “Why not?”

  “Two more of these bad boys,” he tells the bartender, and then turns back to me. “So… you want to know about the Gabler girls.” He leans toward me. “I want to make it clear that I won’t go on the record. Whatever I say – it’s strictly background.”

  “You got it.”

  “Well, it was some case. I see a lot of stuff – but that one was… definitely something.”

  He fingers the tuft of hair, which he does often, as if it reassures him. It reminds me of the way Sean used to touch his blanket.

  Sean. When I think of one of the boys in this incidental way – and this happens dozens of times a day – it’s like a trapdoor opens in my mind. And at first, I fell through it, fell into a kind of tumbling despair. But over the past couple of weeks, the thought of my sons, the fact that they’re missing – it doesn’t hit me the same way. I almost have to work at it, concentrate on my loss to feel it. And it occurs to me that somewhere deep inside, I’m getting used to it.

  The waiter serves up the two mojitos, and Chisworth checks his glass toward mine. “Cheers.”

  “You know,” he says, “I always figured the guy who did those two girls was more than a one-shot wonder, so to speak. You find anything yet?”

  “My interest is more specific.” I explain
who I am.

  He does a double take. “I thought you looked familiar.” He fingers the tuft. “But… Jesus, how can there be a link between your sons and the Gablers?”

  I shrug. “Identical twins.”

  “Twins, yeah, but… not the same kind of twins. I mean, these were showgirls. Nice girls, maybe, but working a topless show, all the same. It’s hard to figure how the same psycho who snatched them would have any interest in… what?… male first-graders.”

  I shrug.

  “Well, for what it’s worth… a couple of things bugged the hell out of me.”

  “Really.”

  He leans toward me. “You’ve got this girl. Cut in two. Now the animals had been at her wounds for two weeks, so that wiped out any chance of establishing what kind of implement was used to sever her torso. You can conclude it was something sharp, probably metallic, but that’s about it. On the stand, and therefore in print, you can only present evidence and conclusions. In this case” – he shakes his head – “the soft tissues were really tattered. Even the bone had been nibbled on.”

  My heart lurches.

  “Metal fragments from wounds of that magnitude would normally be present. And they would help narrow down the type of weapon. With Clara Gabler, animals consumed those fragments. Any spatter evidence was also compromised by insects and wildlife.”

  “Two weeks is a long time.”

  “Any other climate, actually, and the remains would have been pudding – so in that sense, the remains told me quite a bit. Now, keep in mind that I’ve seen a lot of wounds. Hell, I’ve made a lot of wounds. And while I couldn’t testify to this, I’d say beyond my reasonable doubt that Clara Gabler was cut in two by a power rotary blade – a sweep from left to right across the torso. Good-sized blade. Maybe like so.” He puts down his mojito for a moment and holds his hands about a foot and a half apart in the air. “Fine kerf and hard enough to cut through bone without making too much of a mess. I say that because there wasn’t much splintering.”

  “And these saws, saws like this would be… available? You could buy them?”

  “Oh, sure. We’re just talking about a table saw. You could get it at Home Depot. But the thing is, to use a big table saw like that in the wilderness, you’d need a generator. Either that or an old-fashioned takeoff from a vehicle driveshaft to run the thing. And a platform to work on. And you’d have to get all that gear up there, way up past Icebox Canyon. A few ATVs, maybe one good off-road vehicle like a Land Rover, and you could do it. They’re illegal in the area where the bodies were found, but hey, it’s not like the Mojave is fenced in. And there’s a relatively easy way in from the direction of Death Valley. We found tracks, but that’s the thing – we found lots of tracks.

  “But here’s the thing that got to me about it: Why bother schlepping a rotary saw and a generator and some kind of table up there? Why call attention to yourself by breaking the law with ATVs and so on if you’re going to commit murder? That’s what I couldn’t figure. I mean if you’re going to mutilate someone – a chain saw would be very efficient.”

  I see what he means. “So – why would someone go to all that trouble? In your opinion.”

  “I just couldn’t get my head around it.” He shrugs, takes another sip of his mojito. “Of course, whoever murdered the Gablers is obviously a whack job, so I guess there’s no reason the method should make sense.”

  I gesture to the bartender for another round.

  “Pretty good drink, huh?”

  “It is.” This guy, I think, wasn’t kidding about getting out of the house.

  He talks about Hemingway and “Kooba” for a while, his trip to Havana, his opinions about the embargo. It takes me a while to bring him back to the subject at hand.

  “You have any other flashes on the Gabler case?”

  He pulls on the tuft of chin hair. “Oh, yeah – and this also really got my head in a wringer. You read the autopsy report, right?”

  “I looked at it.”

  “So you know this chick, Clara, was alive when this… took place?”

  I nod.

  “There were traces of sawdust on her body. Back of her calves, back of the head, soles of the shoes, fingers. Pine dust. But no defensive wounds, no injuries to fingertips or toes.”

  “A coffin?”

  “It’s possible. I just mention that. Maybe the guy was going to bury them but changed his mind. But here’s what I really thought was weird: You get this massive injury to Clara Gabler, who was alive at the time it was inflicted. Yet I found no sign of restraint. No abrasions, no tissue damage to the wrists or ankles. And no visible damage from a struggle to get free, no defensive wounds at all, no flesh or dirt or wood beneath the fingernails. Nothing.”

  “And that means, what? Drugs?”

  “That’s what I thought, but I found nothing. Zip.”

  “So what does it mean?”

  “It means she was not restrained and, as far as I could determine, she wasn’t drugged. The woman is cut in half, but she’s not restrained. You tell me – how do you pull that off? Just lay down there, honey. Okay, now don’t move. This won’t hurt a bit.” He shakes his head.

  Something dark begins to crawl around in the back of my mind, but whatever it is – I can’t get a fix on it. “So maybe she didn’t know it was going to happen.”

  “Maybe. But I told you. I ran all kinds of tests. First I’m looking for sedatives, opioids, tranquilizers. No. And no muscle relaxants. I even scanned for paralytics. Nothing. I came up blank.”

  “How about the other Gabler – the one who was shot?”

  “She was executed,” Chisworth says. “Plain and simple. Prone, on the ground, facedown. One shot, back of the head, gun just far enough from the skull to avoid a mess. That got me, too, tell you the truth.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The comparison. I mean Clara’s death involves a lot of trouble and hassle. Dragging a lot of equipment up to an inconvenient spot. And then, with her twin it’s just the opposite. No muss, no fuss. All business.” He drains his mojito. “Why?”

  At seven the following morning, I’m in the car with my supplies: two bottles of water, sunscreen, Orioles cap, and sunglasses. That third mojito was definitely a mistake. I continue to regret it as I head out to Tropicana Boulevard. The hard morning light bounces off the polished curves of other cars and makes me wince. It helps when I hang a left on Charleston and point the car due west – away from the sun. I’m on my way to the Red Rock Canyon, the site where Carla and Clara Gabler were murdered.

  I drive through miles of terrain flat as a communion wafer. If God didn’t make it that way, Asplundh or Caterpillar picked up the slack. Eventually, actual subdivisions give way to future subdivisions, some of them nothing but an expanse of bulldozed dirt and a Southwest-style entryway landscaped with a few good-sized cacti. Upper One Hundreds! Low Two Hundreds. Low Four Hundreds. Only four left! This is boomtown. I could see it on the satellite map in Holly Goldstein’s office: the city metastasizing toward the surrounding mountains.

  To the west, development stops just short of Red Rock Canyon – one of a number of parks and conservation areas on the way out to Death Valley and the California line. I can see as I approach how beautiful it is: a desert basin backdropped by a crenelated escarpment of red sandstone. Five dollars at the booth (which opens at six A.M.) gets me onto the thirteen-mile scenic drive. The ranger gives me a brochure that covers the flora and fauna, the trailheads, and a little history of the area. There’s even a simple map of the drive and the trailheads. “Icebox Canyon?” she replies when I ask. “Park in the lot at milepost number eight. And take plenty of water. Won’t be an icebox today.”

  There’s already a car in the lot, a Dodge pickup with a pair of bull’s horns fixed to the hood. The bumper sticker reads MY KID CAN BEAT UP YOUR HONOR STUDENT. I guzzle half a bottle of water, stick a fresh bottle in the pocket of my cargoes, and follow the sign to the trailhead.

  Within fifteen mi
nutes, I give up on the idea of actually going to the spot where the Gablers were found. That is in a small canyon above and behind Icebox, a place called Conjure Canyon.

  I’ve done a good bit of rock climbing but not much since my college days. None at all since a year or so after the boys were born. And I didn’t come here prepared to follow in the footsteps of the hiker. No climbing shoes, for one thing. And free climbing the almost vertical upper wall of Icebox would not be a good idea for someone whose last climb was years ago.

  I’d been thinking I could find a way around, a way to circle in. Now that I’m here, I can see that the terrain is so rugged, it would take me hours. I’d need hiking boots, a backpack, a lot more water. I decide to settle for getting close enough to the crime scene to get a feel for the place.

  Right away, a couple of things bother me. First of all, I see what Chisworth meant. If his hunch about the rotary saw and the generator is correct, the killer had to drag a lot of equipment to a very inconvenient site. A site that happens to be close to a very popular hiking area. Sure, most tourists probably just make the standard trek, the one outlined in all the guidebooks – to the floor of Icebox and back to the parking lot. But the area around Icebox is popular with rock climbers – that’s why Josh Gromelski was climbing there. There’s lots of wilderness around this part of Nevada: why pick a spot with so many potential witnesses? And with all the outdoor enthusiasts in this part of the West, the killer must also have known that someone would stumble upon the remains of the Gabler twins. Sooner rather than later. Why not pick a place just as inaccessible but less popular?

  The first twenty minutes, I’m crossing flat desert, walking past cholla cactus, creosote bushes, and Joshua trees. The walk is relatively easy, although it’s rocky and I have to watch my step. Then I begin to get into rougher terrain. Before long, I wonder if I’m going the right way. This may be a popular hike, listed in the brochure as moderate, but the trail’s not well marked. It’s not a national park, I tell myself; it’s a wilderness area. Suck it up.