The Art of Dying

by Amy Cross

  “Maybe that's what the killer wants,” I point out.

  “What else can I do?”

  “Don't cancel the show.”

  “But maybe that's what the killer wants.”

  “Then you're screwed,” I tell her, “because at some point you're going to have to make a decision and stop second-guessing yourself.”

  Staring at the photo of the man on the ceiling, I suddenly realize that it looks familiar. Earlier tonight, when I was with Victoria, I saw something very similar in one of her notebooks. I have a pretty damn good photographic memory, and I'm convinced that the sketch was almost exactly the same as the photo. Then again, it's not the most original pose in the world, so it's probably a coincidence. There's no way Victoria could be the killer. She and I are so alike, and I totally understand that she has her demons, but I refuse to believe that she'd go this far.

  “What is it?” Laura asks eventually. “I've seen that look on your face before, Ophelia. Have you got a lead?”

  “Me?”

  “Tell me,” she continues, putting the folder down. “I'm getting desperate here. If you can think of anything, even if it's a long shot, it might help.”

  “I...”

  Pausing, I realize that there's no way I can bring the full force of the police down on Victoria's head just because of a single sketch. I need more time.

  “Please,” she adds. “Anything is better than what I've got now.”

  “It's nothing,” I say eventually, forcing a smile. “I was just trying to think through a few theories, but nothing came of them.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Why would I lie to you?” I ask.

  “Sorry,” she replies, “I guess I'm so tired, my mind's getting pretty feverish. I think I need to go to bed.” Getting up, she heads to the door that leads through to the hallway. “I'm sorry if I seem a little off tonight. I guess I'm just bad at dealing with pressure. Turn the lights off when you come up, yeah?”

  “Sure,” I mutter. “And don't worry. I'm sure we'll come up with something tomorrow.”

  As I listen to her heading upstairs, I take a deep breath and try to order my thoughts. I definitely should have told Laura about the drawing in Victoria's sketch book, but it would only have sent the police off on a wild goose chase. I'll double-check tomorrow, but I'm starting to think that the similarity between the photo and the drawing maybe isn't quite as great as I'd initially feared. Besides, Victoria Middleton can't be the killer. She's so much like me, and she seems so focused on her Dead City project, I refuse to believe that she could be a cold-blooded serial killer.

  Then again, if she really is like me, maybe I shouldn't give her the benefit of the doubt after all. Maybe, just like me, she truly is capable of killing someone.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Laura

  “Also,” I continue, “small particles of resin were detected around the fingerprints, and that's another strong sign that a trace-and-transfer technique was used to lift the prints off another surface, probably a glass, and attach them to a new surface, in this case the victim's skin.”

  Staring at the forensic report, Halveston seems momentarily lost for words.

  “She's innocent,” I add, “and this report proves it.”

  “Fine,” he replies, setting the report down with a sigh. “Well, this is a fine thing to have to deal with first thing in the morning. I actually slept pretty damn well last night, in the mistaken belief that we'd got this case solved. I guess you'd better go and release the Hawthorne girl.”

  “No.”

  He stares at me.

  “No?”

  “I don't want to release her,” I tell him.

  “But she's innocent.”

  “I know,” I reply. “I want to charge her anyway.”

  ***

  “I don't get it,” Bryony says as she dries her eyes. “I thought you said I'm in the clear?”

  “You are,” I reply, glancing briefly at her lawyer before turning back to her. “The thing is, Bryony, someone went to extraordinary lengths to implicate you in these murders. In a normal criminal case, the fact that the fingerprints were falsified would only have come to light at trial, months down the line. It's something of a fluke that we picked up on it so early. It's my opinion that the killer was hoping to buy some time so that he or she could complete the next stage of the plan.”

  “So you want me to pretend that I'm still going to jail?” she asks.

  “We need to make the killer believe that we fell for it all,” I continue. “That's why, with your cooperation, I want to go ahead and charge you with these murders.”

  “But I didn't do anything,” she replies, clearly starting to panic again.

  “I know,” I tell her. “Everyone here knows that. But we have to make this convincing. So I want to charge you, and I want to have you appear before a magistrate so that you can be held ahead of trial. We'll keep you here at the station, and it'll only be for a few days. I'll try to make you as comfortable as possible. In the meantime, I believe that the killer will move forward with whatever he or she is planning, and that's when we've got our best chance to make a move. The final show is tomorrow and -”

  “I need to get my stuff ready!”

  “I'm going to speak to Carol Livingstone,” I reply, “and make sure that you don't suffer due to this absence. In the circumstances, I'm sure she'll be able to make an exception.”

  “But I want to be there!”

  “And I want to catch this killer,” I continue. “Please, Bryony, I need your help here. If the killer finds out that we've cleared you, he or she is going to go back into the shadows. We need to make this person confident, so we need to pretend that we're going ahead with charging you. I could have done it without letting you in on the plan -”

  “That would have been a gross ethical violation,” the lawyer interjects.

  “I still could have done it,” I point out.

  “And attracted a lawsuit.”

  “Not if I'd lied,” I tell him, holding up the forensic report. “I have grounds for charging Bryony, and all I'd need to do would be to slip this report into a pile of papers somewhere and let it get lost for a couple of days. Things do get lost, you know. And then I could have gone ahead and then just claimed it was all a natural error due to the evidence against her. This way, I'm trying to do things fairly while still getting what I need.” I turn back to Bryony. “Twenty-four more hours. That's all I need from you.”

  “And then I can go?” she asks.

  I nod.

  “And I won't have, like, a record or anything?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Will I get, like, paid?”

  “No,” I reply. “Sorry, all you'll get is the satisfaction of knowing that you've helped us track down a killer.”

  “And...” She pauses. “My work for the show...”

  “We'll find a solution,” I tell her. “I'll speak to Carol Livingstone as soon as I'm done in here with you.”

  She stares at me for a moment, as if she genuinely doesn't know whether or not to agree.

  “Okay,” she says finally.

  “I'd have to advise against this,” the lawyer cuts in. “It's highly irregular and I believe it could open Ms. Hawthorne up to significant dangers.”

  “The only danger is that she'll have to eat more of the junk we serve for dinner,” I point out. “And I'll see if I can find something better.”

  “I'll do it,” Bryony says, taking a deep breath. “If it helps you find whoever killed those people, and whoever killed Mike Wallace, then I'll totally do it. Like you said earlier, it's the right thing. I've never really had a chance to do the right thing before. I think it might feel good. But you have to talk to Livingstone and make sure that I don't get screwed over for this.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And you have to, like, get her to agree that I can put my work into another show.”

  “Absolutely,” I say again, even t
hough I have no idea if I can do what she's asking.

  “And you have to tell my friends that I'm innocent.”

  “I can't do that,” I tell her. “Everyone has to believe that you're really being charged. Friends, family, everyone. It's the only way.”

  She opens her mouth to say something else, but the words seem to be stuck in her throat.

  “It's going to be hard,” I continue, “but only for one day.”

  She nods.

  “I'll make sure you get some extra pillows,” I tell her, “and then I'll arrange for an appearance before the magistrate.”

  “And will the magistrate be let in on the fact that this is all some kind of charade?” the lawyer asks.

  “We need as few points of failure as possible,” I reply. “This is a risky strategy for a number of reasons. At this stage, the only people who know what we're doing are the three of us in this room, plus my partner on the case and my immediate superior. I want to keep it that way.”

  “So you're going to play the legal system?” he asks. “You're going to turn the whole thing into a farce, purely because you think you have a chance of smoking the real killer out?” He smiles. “This all seems rather desperate to me, Detective Foster. It's like the plot of a bad movie. I think I'm starting to understand why you've got such a regrettable reputation.”

  “I have a reputation?” I ask, shocked by the insinuation.

  “People talk,” he replies with a supercilious smile.

  “That's nice to know.”

  “Your handling of the Daniel Gregory case has become pretty infamous,” he continues. “Most people screw up at least once in their career, but they usually learn from their mistakes. I can see, though, that you're just going to compound them and go blundering on like a bull in a china shop. Tell me, do you get some sort of thrill out of sailing so close to the wind? Do you have a career death wish?”

  “I'm just trying to -”

  “Let me be clear,” he adds. “If I have any reason to believe that it's necessary, I will advise Ms. Hawthorne not only to pull out of this ridiculous stunt, but also to launch a lawsuit against the police force and against you in particular for the way she's being treated.”

  “On what grounds?” I ask.

  “On the grounds that you're willfully incompetent and reckless. I think she's got a good case, don't you? In fact, I think she'd receive a very hefty payout before the case even got to court, and I also think you'd be out on your ear.”

  “I'll go sort out those pillows,” I mutter, getting to my feet and heading out of the interview room. Once I'm in the corridor, I pull the door shut and then I lean back against the wall. The lawyer was right: this is a crazy approach and it could definitely come crashing down all around me, but right now it's my only option. I just hope that, between us, Ophelia and I can come up with a lead today.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Ophelia

  “Holy crap, did you hear about Bryony?”

  Looking up, I see that Miles has come hurrying over to us in the corner of the canteen. He has an excited look on his face, and as he takes a seat on the other side of the table it's clear that he's got something important to tell us. I glance over at Victoria and I can see that she feels uncomfortable.

  “She's going on trial,” Miles continues. “Or whatever. The police have charged her with all those murders, including Mike Wallace! Isn't that the most messed-up thing you ever heard?”

  “They're charging her?” I ask.

  “That means she must have done it,” he adds. “They don't charge people unless they've got, like, a ton of evidence. I mean, can you even begin to imagine how weird this all is? Bryony, the girl who worked right next to me for so long, turns out to be some kind of mass-murdering psycho serial killer. I guess it just goes to show that you never really know what's really happening in people's heads, huh?”

  Looking down at my cup of tea, I try to work out what the hell's happening. When I spoke to Laura last night she clearly accepted that Bryony wasn't the killer, so I don't understand why she's suddenly changed her mind. Either the fingerprint evidence turned out to be bogus, or this is some kind of trick. Knowing Laura, I'm starting to think that she must be doing this on purpose in an attempt to fool the killer. It's not a bad idea, either. I've taught her well. Of course, it could all go completely wrong if the killer strikes again, but then again Laura has a tendency to take risks.

  Huge, ridiculous risks.

  “So the final show's going ahead?” Victoria asks, her voice sounding quiet and muffled as usual.

  “I guess so,” Miles replies. “I think Livingstone's gonna make some kind of announcement later. They'll probably try to turn the whole thing into this big memorial event for Mike. Apparently his body was, like, all messed up when they found it.” He leans closer, as if he's divulging top secret information. “The way I heard it,” he whispers conspiratorially, “is that he was found nailed to the ceiling of some church hall, totally naked.”

  “Is that a fact?” I reply.

  “And he had weird writing all over his body, like hieroglyphics that no-one's been able to translate so far. Apparently they're bringing in a bunch of experts to try to decode it, but they think maybe there's some kind of witchcraft involved. Doesn't that just blow your mind? There might be a coven of full-on witches here!”

  “Huh,” I mutter, amused by the fact that he seems to be adding so much false detail to the story.

  “And the killer had cut off his dick and stuck it in his mouth.”

  “That's not true,” I reply, before realizing that I've maybe said too much. “I mean,” I add, sitting back, “I totally don't think that's what happened. I read something online about it this morning and they didn't mention anything about his dick being put in his mouth.”

  “It's what I heard,” Miles replies with a shrug. “Anyway, maybe there'll be some more leaked photos to settle the matter. I mean, if you think about it, it's pretty sick but it's also kinda impressive. You've got to take your hat off to Bryony. She's gonna go down in history. Hell, I mean she's really pulled off something that everyone's talking about. It's almost like she's won the final show, even though she won't actually be there.” He pauses for a moment. “Her absence is going to be the biggest presence. That's pretty deep, huh? She's a real artist.”

  “I have to go,” Victoria says suddenly, getting to her feet and hauling her backpack over her shoulder.

  “I'll come,” I reply.

  “No,” she says, “I need to do some stuff by myself for a bit.”

  “Okay, then I'll find you later.”

  “Yeah, sure,” she mutters, before hurrying away. I watch as she heads out the door, and I can't help feeling that something about her changed as soon as Miles came to join us, and especially when he told us about Bryony. We'd been talking quite normally up to that point, and then suddenly she seemed to go back into her shell. I guess she really can't handle social situations at all. Whereas I long ago found a way to get by, she's still raw and desperately uncomfortable. I want to help her.

  “So and you and her friends now?” Miles asks.

  “We get on.”

  “I never thought Victoria Middleton would have a friend,” he continues. “We've been here for three years and she's barely said a word to anyone. Come on, what's your secret? How did you get through to her?”

  “I don't know,” I reply, taking a sip of tea. “We just started talking and then she showed me some of her work.”

  “And what's she like?”

  “She's... fine.”

  “But what does she talk about?” he asks. “Is it, like, weird shit? The few times I've talked to her, I can barely even hear what she's saying.”

  “She's not some kind of freak,” I reply, feeling a little defensive. “Just because she doesn't hang out with everyone and go to parties and stuff like that, don't treat her like she's a monster or...” I pause for a moment as I realize that I'm letting Miles get to me. “Forget it
, it doesn't matter.”

  “I didn't mean it like that,” he replies, “it's just... You're not... you know...”

  I stare at him, trying to work out what the hell he means. I don't know why, but Miles is really getting on my nerves this morning. I can usually laugh at people when they're being annoying, but he's under my skin and I'm having to fight the urge to tell him to leave me alone.

  “You and her,” he adds. “I mean, I'm totally cool with it, and with the lifestyle and stuff, I'm just curious. Are you...”

  “Are we what?”

  “You know...” He lowers his voice a little more. “Are you, like, lesbians?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Just an innocent question. No judgment intended on my part. I just figure that maybe that would explain how you two have become such good friends so fast.”

  “No,” I reply, trying to resist the urge to throw the rest of my tea in his face, “we're not lesbians. We're just friends.” I pause as I realize how strange that word sounds coming from my mouth. Am I suddenly the kind of person who collects friends as she goes through life? “We're friends,” I say again, as if I'm trying to get used to the idea. “That's all.”

  “Cool,” he replies. “I didn't mean to pry. So do you wanna come to the after-show party tomorrow night?”

  “Party?” I stare at him for a moment. “No, I don't want to go to a party.”

  “Is it 'cause of the lesbian thing?” he asks. “I'm sorry if that seemed offensive. It's just that I kinda couldn't work out why anyone would want to be friends with someone like Victoria. She's just so weird and -”

  “Why don't you shut the hell up?” I ask, surprising myself with the anger in my voice. I don't remember the last time I actually felt properly mad at someone, but even though I know I should hold back, I can already feel myself starting to lose my temper. “What the hell gives you the right to act like such a creep?” I continue, getting to my feet. “For your information, Victoria's just a normal person like anyone else, except that she's actually got some talent, which I guess makes her stand out in a place like this. I guess there's no way an idiot like you would actually understand. Oh, and you might be interested to learn that two girls can actually be friends without wanting to get into each other's pants. It's people like you who -”