The Art of Murder

by Rebecca Muddiman

  Karen bit the inside of her cheek and rolled her eyes again simultaneously.

  ‘All right, gotta go.’

  Nick hung up and she tossed the phone onto the sofa. Did he really just tell her to make up a fake gift? A good fake gift?

  She stormed into her bedroom and swung open the wardrobe door, searching for something to wear. She pulled things off the hangers, more aggressively than necessary, before slumping down onto the bed. She didn’t even know what time they were coming. She was supposed to go along with whatever he wanted, whatever they wanted. Maybe she should ignore them when they buzzed to come in. But she’d already agreed to it. If she wanted to take a stand, she should’ve done so with Nick. She was going to have to suck it up.

  Karen got up and threw on the nearest dress, shoving her feet into the highest heels she had. She pulled back her hair and looked at herself in the mirror, her anger rising with each action. When was she going to stop being a bit player in Nick’s life? Stop going along with his bullshit? It was time to grow up. To move on. Maybe that night was the night his parents heard the truth. Maybe seeing the disappointment on their faces, the scrambling to call him to find out if it was true, the panic in Nick’s voice when he realizes, maybe that would be the greatest birthday gift of all. A really good gift. What did Nick get me, Mr. and Mrs. Kelly? A lovely divorce. Just what I wanted.

  Could she really do that? Could she break the hearts of two perfectly nice people?

  The buzzer went and Karen froze. She had to make a decision. Tell them or go along with Nick’s games? She could feel her heart beating quickly, her hands shaking, as though she was about to go on stage.

  Karen let Nick’s parents in and closed her eyes as she heard their chatter, growing louder as they came up the hallway. It was now or never.

  She grabbed her coat and purse and walked out of the apartment, smiling as they approached.

  ‘Happy birthday, Karen,’ Nick’s dad said, hugging her tightly before his mother kissed her on the cheek. ‘Are you ready to go?’

  ‘I just need to use the bathroom first,’ his mother said. ‘Can we…?’ She gestured to the apartment but Karen stayed where she was. She thought about the last couple of birthdays she’d had, how awful they’d been, and how that had been down to Nick. She didn’t want to cause his parents any pain but she couldn’t keep doing this either. She had to think about herself.

  ‘Why don’t you go in and wait for Nick,’ Karen said.

  ‘He said he’d meet us at the restaurant. If he can get out of work that is,’ his dad said. ‘Didn’t he tell you?’

  ‘No. He did,’ she said, her mouth dry. ‘But, the thing is… I already had plans.’

  Nick’s parents looked at each other. Karen could see his mother was put out.

  ‘I thought… Nick said…’ his dad said.

  Karen looked at her feet, already regretting the choice of shoes.

  ‘What’s going on?’ his mother asked.

  ‘I’m really sorry but… I think you should talk to Nick.’

  Karen watched as his mother put her hand on her chest, as if Karen had broken the news that Nick had died. How would she react if Karen told her everything? She felt a twinge of guilt.

  ‘Karen, please. What’s going on? Have you had a fight? I’m sure you can sort it out.’

  ‘No,’ Karen said. ‘I’m really sorry. But I have to go. Just… talk to Nick.’

  She turned and walked quickly down the hall, trying to ignore the panicked tones of his parents behind her. But it had to be done, didn’t it? And it wasn’t like she’d told on Nick. As far as she was concerned, he could tell them whatever he liked, as he no doubt would. But ultimately it was down to him to tell them something. They weren’t her responsibility.

  She wasn’t going to tell them the whole truth, but neither was she going to sit there at dinner and pretend everything was fine. Fuck Nick. Let him deal with it. It was her birthday and she was going out. Alone.

  7

  Michael

  Michael hung up. Elena couldn’t come out to play. Her words. Elena was a slightly irritating woman, a former actress, now a personal trainer and trophy wife to some rich asshole. Of all of his projects, she was proving to be the most difficult, and that was before he’d even got round to trying to kill her.

  Truth was, he wasn’t ready anyway. The backdrop was proving tricky and he refused to rush things. But keeping his projects interested meant maintaining the relationship so that when he was finally ready, they would still be willing. So he continued his dates with Elena, trying to resist the urge to throttle her. It was strange. He had no urge to kill for the sake of it. He wasn’t some lunatic wandering around the city, picturing himself disemboweling every person he came across. Michael had discipline. He had chosen his projects and that was it. He wasn’t dangerous.

  But finding, and keeping, his projects had been trickier than he’d imagined. It seemed that finding people who’d gladly invite you into their home to have sex was a piece of cake, but sustaining a relationship, particularly a platonic one, was almost impossible. No one wanted to make friends anymore, which was why Michael was sleeping with most of them. Time consuming in itself and not always entirely pleasurable.

  Jonathan Lauder, his first living project, had been keen to sleep with Michael and though Michael assumed he could string the older man along without actually going through with it, it seemed easier to just do it, and it made Jonathan all that more eager to let him in that final time. Irene had been less desperate but was open to seduction. Olly, poor young Olly, had wanted it, but more than anything he wanted a friend. Michael almost felt bad about Olly. Almost.

  And then there was Christopher. With him it always seemed more of a business transaction and Michael wondered why he didn’t just pay for it. Perhaps he thought if it got out, it would be so much worse if he’d paid for it. Christopher had a lot of neuroses.

  And then there were those yet to come. Some he had had a sexual relationship with already, some he was still working on. One was, possibly, not necessary. Things had seemed all prepared. He just had to wait for the right time.

  But then one dropped out. Maria had seemed ideal. He knew exactly which painting he would use, knew exactly how he’d do it, and assumed it would be easy. Maria had tried to kill herself already over a feckless boyfriend. Michael had her in the palm of his hand. And then a couple of days earlier, he’d called to arrange a date and she’d broken the news that she was back with the boyfriend and moving to Paris. He’d wondered if he could catch her before she tried to leave, but the Maria he knew was gone and no longer needed Michael. It was incredibly frustrating.

  He glanced at the gap on the wall where Maria’s picture had hung. He would have to find a substitute. And, of course, it messed with his schedule, although it wasn’t the first time. In an ideal world he would do his projects in his own order, in his own time. But people were so unreliable. He often found he had to shift his plans on the whims of others. Maria decides to go to Paris? Now he has one too few. Elena’s husband decides to stay in? Now Michael has no plans for the night. He supposed that last one could be a blessing. He wouldn’t have to listen to her inane chatter and maybe he could spend the time more productively, finding a replacement for Maria.

  When she’d told him she could no longer see him, after he’d finished his tantrum, Michael wondered if it mattered. Did he really have to do ten projects? Maybe nine would work just as well. But then, if nine could work, why not eleven? Why not thirty-one? It was his project, he could do whatever he pleased. If he included Benjamin Sherman, he of the second Van Gogh reproduction, which Michael did, he’d completed five already. It felt strange to be halfway through and a part of him wondered if he should continue beyond his planned project. It felt good to be working. But there was something pleasing about the number ten, something that sat right with him.

  He thought back to Sherman, how Michael had felt afterwards, how he’d yearned to be more hands on. He’d a
lways loved the feel of paint under his nails, the way it hardened on your skin. Surely blood would feel just as good.

  He could still remember the warmth of Jonathan’s blood as it trickled down his fingers and hands. The look on the man’s face when he felt the blade go in, when he realized what was happening. Michael always tried to explain things to his projects as they were dying, time permitting, but he sometimes wondered if they were taking it in. All that thrashing about was somewhat distracting. But he tried. He owed them that.

  For Jonathan, it was that he had wasted his time working for a group that didn’t achieve anything. Michael had nothing against the politics of the group, even agreed with some of their views. But the truth was, they’d achieved naught. Jonathan was a brilliant writer and leader, yet he wasted his talent doing little more than chasing his lost youth instead of making real change.

  Irene had the most spectacular voice but rarely used it. She’d been offered record contracts several times but had turned them down. And that was her choice. But she could’ve chosen to sing in clubs or church or wherever she wanted, as long as she shared her gift. Instead she chose to keep her mouth closed. She devoted all her energy to the community center where people took advantage of her and never once did she use her voice, not even to stand up for herself.

  Olly was a talented musician, not that Michael really got the chance to hear for himself. It was only with a little digging online that he stumbled across some videos of the boy playing. Michael felt sorry for poor Olly. It wasn’t really his fault, it was his father. The man had put an end to Olly’s dreams of being a musician, forcing him to join the army, hoping to make a man out of him rather than be a pussy who played the piano. Olly took a stand by trying to kill himself, but when he failed, he ended up working for the father he hated, trying to bury his true self. He was a gay man who’d never had the chance to sleep with anyone, and now never would. Michael tried with Olly, he really did. He tried to persuade him to start playing again, seeing his young self in Olly, seeing how his own father had dismissed his dreams. But Olly wouldn’t listen, and now Olly was dead.

  Michael stared at the photos on his wall. Each of his projects was guilty of squandering their talent and Michael couldn’t stand it. His gaze settled once more on the space where Maria had been. He thought about the number ten, knowing he could probably find a hundred projects, a thousand, more. So many people wasted what they had. Finding a replacement should be easy, he thought, and slipped on his coat ready to go hunting.

  8

  Nick

  Nick made his way out of the precinct, his mind still focused on trying to find the link. Though he didn’t believe in logic and patterns as ardently as his boss, he knew there had to be something that connected the victims, some thread that linked them – at least in the killer’s mind. Nick also believed that if they could uncover that link, they could warn people to be careful. But how did they do that now? There was no obvious commonality – men, women, young, older, rich, poor, blond, brunette, black, white, straight, gay. Whoever this guy was, he had broad tastes.

  They could, and had, made the usual warnings, classic non-specific advice that people rarely paid attention to. In most people’s minds, this kind of thing was something that happened to someone else. It was only when the police gave specific warnings – a killer targeting young blonde women, or postal workers – that people started to think they could be next and made attempts to be more aware of the other people around them. But how could they warn people to this danger? It seemed that each victim had let the killer into their home.

  There was no evidence of a break-in at any of the scenes. But it seemed unlikely this guy was good friends with each of these people, so what was it? Was he a tradesman? They’d looked for anyone who could’ve been in the victims’ homes recently, hoping that they’d find that each person had had trouble with their pipes or cockroaches or something. Something that would enable the same plumber or exterminator or whoever to come into their homes. But there was nothing.

  So what did that leave? A random hook-up? That was entirely possible. But how did they warn against that? Tell people not to go home with strangers? He knew from personal experience how hard that could be to resist. He’d bet that most people in this city would rather risk being murdered in their own home than spend the night alone.

  But if that were the case, where did the backdrops fit in? Many of the props used could’ve been items from the victim’s own home – the cushion for Irene’s head, the sheet that covered Christopher’s body – but the backdrop? If this guy had picked up these people in a bar or club, he’d have to be carrying the backdrop with him, and something like that would be noticed.

  It was possible he killed first and then returned to the scene to set it all up, but Nick didn’t buy it. No, it had to be planned. These people were chosen in advance. Most likely he got to know them beforehand, making sure they’d let him into their homes with his supplies, without being suspicious. Which meant they weren’t random. Which meant they were chosen for a reason. Which meant there was something linking them.

  Nick sighed. Back to square one.

  He pushed out through the double doors onto the street, hoping to get to the restaurant in time to make sure Karen kept her mouth shut. As he left, there was a small crowd of reporters hanging around. Nick wondered if they were waiting for him. He didn’t have time for it now. Besides, Lynch had told him to keep quiet. But as he moved closer, he realized that they weren’t waiting for him at all, they were listening to someone else talking.

  Nick stopped. At the center of the crowd stood Peter Aronsen. More Hobbit than man, he stood little more than five feet and most of his hair sprung from his orifices rather than his head. It irked Nick but the media did seem to love the guy, but not because of his charm or charisma, not because he inspired respect or authority, but because he was willing to spout as much sensationalist rubbish as they were willing to air, which was a lot.

  ‘There is a definite link between these murders and the police are either not letting on to us mere mortals, which in my opinion is irresponsible, or they just haven’t figured it out yet, which is entirely possible,’ Aronsen said, revealing his small but sharp teeth.

  ‘Are you suggesting this is a serial killer?’ one of the reporters asked, and Aronsen’s smile grew.

  ‘I’m not suggesting. I’m stating. This is the work of one man. One sick twisted individual.’

  The reporters grew rowdy, all talking over one another, and Aronsen raised his hand to quieten them. ‘I’ve spoken to both Olly Richardson-Harris’s neighbor and Irene Okafor’s colleague, who both confirmed that the crime scenes had been set-up as if–’

  Nick pushed through the crowd and stood in front of Aronsen, blocking the cameras’ view of him. He stopped talking immediately.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Aronsen said. ‘I realize you love the camera, Detective Kelly, but I think you’ll find it’s my turn for a little time in the spotlight.’

  Nick turned to Aronsen, staring down at the little man. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you down there.’

  Aronsen gave Nick a fixed smile and tried to move around him, but Nick wouldn’t let him past. Instead he turned to the reporters. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to stop this interview.’

  ‘You have no right to–’

  ‘You’re interfering with an investigation,’ Nick said.

  ‘Interfering? I’m just stating facts,’ Aronsen said.

  ‘Opinion. Not facts.’

  ‘But Mr. Aronsen has eyewitness accounts of the crime scenes,’ one of the reporters said, and Nick smiled at her.

  ‘I doubt that’s true,’ Nick said. ‘The witnesses are aware of the sensitivity of this case and know that if they start talking to men like Mr. Aronsen, they risk being arrested.’ Not true. ‘I think Mr. Aronsen is embellishing the fact that he spoke to these people, throwing his own voice if you will, pretending that it’s theirs. It wouldn’t be the first time Mr.
Aronsen has made things up for the sake of a story.’

  Nick looked over his shoulder at Aronsen who was shifting from one foot to the other. Nick turned back to the reporters and saw fresh doubt on their faces. Everyone knew Aronsen had lost his job at The Times for creating fake sources.

  ‘I realize that people are frightened and throwing around terms such as serial killer only serves to cause panic,’ Nick said. ‘But…’ He knew it had to be done. People had a right to know. And if no one else had the courage to do it, then it would have to fall to him. He waited, making sure all eyes were on him, all lenses too. ‘We believe that we have four murders committed by the same person, that there is a commonality between the crimes.’

  He paused as they gasped and then started firing questions at him. He glanced at Aronsen who looked as though he might explode. Nick was aware he’d basically repeated what Aronsen had said, but coming from someone with authority and no black mark on his record, it was so much more trustworthy. Not to mention newsworthy.

  ‘Now, I can’t give any details, of course, but it does appear that each victim let their killer into their home, suggesting familiarity. So I would say to be careful of who you’re letting in. And…’ He paused again, thinking about the backdrops, thinking about Lynch’s warning about publicizing this asshole’s work, that it was what he wanted. ‘It appears this person brings equipment into the victim’s home.’

  ‘What sort of equipment?’

  Nick thought about the killer, sitting at home, watching Nick on the news. Was he waiting for Nick to call him an artist? Was that what he wanted? Recognition? Admiration?

  ‘It’s possible he’s posing as a decorator,’ Nick said. ‘People should be on the lookout for someone carrying a large canvas covering.’