The Art of Murder

by Rebecca Muddiman

  So he was lurking outside her apartment, where he’d been for hours already. He figured the best way to find out if she suspected him would be to talk to her face to face. Her reaction when she saw him could tell him whether she saw him as a killer or just a mistake she’d almost made. Although, he conceded, showing up outside her home when she’d never told him where she lived might skew the result somewhat.

  But he needed to know.

  After three hours of waiting, the street grew busier and Michael knew he was too conspicuous standing there. He walked the short distance to the end of the street and back, pretending to talk on the phone, acting as if he was waiting for someone to show up. He needn’t have worried. No one even glanced at him. They never did.

  But the more he stood there, the more irritated he became. Maybe he should just kill her quickly and artlessly to make sure. It would be a waste and more work later on, finding a replacement. But if it served the overall project… in the end, that was all that mattered.

  He blew on his hands to warm them up, wondering if the woman was ever planning to go to work. And then the door opened.

  His heart quickened and Michael took a short sharp breath. He started to cross the street but stopped when he saw someone follow her out of the building. Another man. Was it possible Karen had found someone else? Was this why she’d canceled? Michael felt a stab of indignation and retreated back to his hiding place to observe his competition.

  He watched as the man headed for a car while Karen marched on, not stopping to say goodbye or share a kiss. Michael wondered if they were trying to be incognito, but if that were the case, why leave at the same time?

  And then it hit him. Karen was still living with her soon-to-be ex-husband. The complete disregard of one another suggested that was who the man was. Michael felt strangely relieved. Until he recognized the man he was looking at.

  Nick Kelly, the detective in charge of the investigation into Michael’s “crimes”.

  His head was spinning. Karen must have seen him with Alison. Nick Kelly had come to her home to take a statement, maybe setting up some trap. He assumed Karen would call him soon, setting up another meeting. Michael turned as Nick’s car pulled away. As he disappeared down the street, Michael started walking. If he was quick, maybe he could catch her. He could stop this before it even began. Because what could she have told him? Nothing. She knew nothing about him, not really.

  Michael followed Karen at a distance. He wished she’d come out sooner, while the streets were quiet, when only the homeless were around. He could’ve slit her throat in an alley and been done with it. It would be too risky to do it now, wouldn’t it?

  He moved faster. Maybe it was the only option, if he wanted any chance to finish what he’d started. To do it on his terms.

  She crossed the street and Michael jogged to catch up. There was a place coming up on the left. An abandoned building site. Would anyone notice if he edged Karen into it? Most people were too self-centered to notice the people around them. It was how people like him survived.

  He could see the site coming up ahead. It was now or never.

  He moved faster.

  But then she swerved, turning off into a side street.

  Michael cursed under his breath and pulled back a little. There were fewer people down there but still too many to be so blatant. He glanced around at the faces, checking how many were distracted by phones and music. Enough? Perhaps.

  He turned his attention back to Karen. Where did she go? Michael stopped and looked around. She’d vanished. Had she spotted him? Could she be calling Nick Kelly right now?

  Then he saw it. The bookstore. He’d been so focused on the task at hand he hadn’t noticed where they were. She had gone into her store and Michael had missed his chance.

  ‘Shit,’ he muttered and wondered if he should leave. Just go home and forget about her. He would get rid of the phone he used for her, cutting off the only way she had to contact him. He would become a ghost to her.

  But something nagged at him. He didn’t want to let it go. He would decide how this went, not her. He crossed the street to the café he’d sat in the last time he’d been watching her. He glanced at the waitress, at the man behind the counter. He didn’t think they were the same staff. He was probably safe.

  He ordered a coffee and sat by the window, waiting for Karen to leave. He would sit there all day if necessary. Regardless of the fact he was supposed to be at work.

  After a while, he became bored and realized he looked strange sitting there without a laptop or a book or a phone to occupy his mind. So he pulled out his phone and browsed various news sites, looking for something to calm him. His stomach clenched at Nick Kelly’s name and he turned off the phone. But then something occurred to him.

  He typed Nick Kelly into the search engine. There was plenty to look at. Nick Kelly was a media whore. Dozens, hundreds maybe, of articles and images documented his career.

  He almost scrolled past the image but something stopped him and he went back. Some kind of fancy gala event. People dressed up, overindulging in the name of charity. The mayor, the chief of police, all kinds of somebodies. And there, looking out of place, was Nick Kelly and his wife. Karen.

  Michael laughed. Karen was married to Nick Kelly. He was the hated soon-to-be ex.

  It did occur to him that the problem might still remain. Despite how much she hated her husband, if she thought Michael was the killer he was searching for, she would share that information. Wouldn’t she? Regardless, Michael no longer felt anxious about it all. He was happy. Excited. Ecstatic.

  Karen was Nick Kelly’s wife. This made her even more perfect. Surely the grand finale of this project.

  He tossed some money on the table and left. He no longer felt the need to keep an eye on her. Karen Kelly had just got a reprieve. She wouldn’t be dying.

  Not today at least.

  23

  Nick

  Nick walked into the office, dismayed to find only Azrah around. He dropped into his chair and rubbed his face. He’d barely slept.

  ‘What happened to you?’ Azrah asked, and Nick glanced up.

  ‘No sleep.’

  ‘Aww.’ She pushed out her lower lip. ‘But I meant last night. You disappeared.’

  Nick dropped his eyes back to the desk. ‘There was something I had to do. Besides, it looked like you had everything under control. Seems like I’m not the only one who likes a bit of the limelight.’

  He’d hoped Azrah might get defensive but she just laughed it off.

  ‘So, what was so important that you–?’

  ‘Where’s Dan?’ Nick interrupted. He didn’t need Azrah grilling him about his whereabouts the previous night. He knew he had to do a little damage control and the only way to do that was to get in before anyone else. So he’d paid a visit to Alison’s club, hoping to get rid of any evidence and maybe have a quiet word with the girls. But when he’d arrived, the club was closed. Seemed they were upset about their boss’s demise.

  ‘He’s widening his search of art schools. We might not see him for some time,’ Azrah said, but then her attention drifted away from Nick and he turned to see Lynch marching towards them.

  ‘Morning,’ Lynch said.

  ‘Morning, sir,’ Azrah said. Nick just nodded.

  ‘Tell me,’ Lynch said.

  ‘I spoke to the husband last night,’ Azrah said, and as she went on at great length about the interview, Nick delved into his trouser pocket for his lighter.

  Wait. Where was it? He rummaged around before checking his other pocket, then his jacket. Fuck. Don’t say I’ve lost it.

  ‘So anyway,’ Azrah continued, ‘he put some money into the place but it was basically Alison’s business. She had her own money, something about a lawsuit. Husband said the only time he got involved was when the place needed a little cash injection.’

  ‘Very generous of him,’ Lynch said. ‘So what kind of club are we talking about?’

  ‘A high-end
place, according to him,’ Azrah said, catching Nick’s attention. ‘Basically a private club for women. A safe place for them to drink.’

  Nick wondered if that was what Graham Goodwin truly believed, or if he was covering. It had to be the latter. A man like that wouldn’t throw money at something without knowing exactly what it was, not even for his wife. But he was smart enough, or at least savvy enough to know to distance himself from it, even at this stage. He must’ve known the police would start digging and it wouldn’t take long to find out what really went on there. Even in the midst of his grief, he was working out his alibi.

  ‘So there weren’t any men there?’ Lynch asked.

  ‘There were some men. But by invitation only,’ Azrah said.

  Lynch sat back, thinking. ‘So if these guys were invited, presumably they can all be ID’d.’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ Azrah said.

  ‘But if they can be identified,’ Nick said, ‘wouldn’t it seem unlikely our guy was there?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Azrah said. ‘But it’s worth a try. He could’ve gone under a fake name, but a place like that surely has security cameras. We should at least check it out. See if anyone else there saw a man paying Alison particular attention. Her husband swore she would never cheat on him but… it seems she invited this guy in, like the others. Her clothes were strewn about in a way that suggested intimacy. And if she was seeing someone, the club seems like a good place to meet him.’

  ‘Sure,’ Nick said, standing. ‘I’ll go over there now.’

  ‘No,’ Lynch said. ‘Azrah can go. You got the keys?’

  Azrah nodded. ‘Husband gave them to me last night.’

  ‘Find out who worked there. We need to speak to everyone,’ Lynch said.

  ‘But I can–’ Nick tried.

  ‘If this place is all women, I think they’d be happier speaking to another woman. Find a uniform to go with you,’ Lynch said.

  ‘Sir,’ Azrah said, and Nick caught the little smirk. She loved to get one over on him.

  ‘Nick, check out the husband. His alibi. See if anyone has a grudge against him. A guy like that, with money, is bound to have enemies,’ Lynch said.

  ‘But we know this wasn’t him,’ Nick said. ‘Unless Graham Goodwin killed all the others–’

  ‘Which is what we have to rule out,’ Lynch said. ‘And we still have no idea how this guy chooses them. Maybe it has nothing to do with the victims themselves, it could be someone related to them – a husband, partner, friend, father. We still don’t have anything that connects them.’

  ‘Actually,’ Nick said, and Lynch and Azrah looked at him sharply. ‘Something occurred to me last night. I think this has to do with art.’

  ‘No shit,’ Azrah said. ‘I think we all worked out that one.’

  ‘No, I mean… Maybe not art, but talent. Look…’ He pulled a folder from his desk, rifling through the pages to find the information he was looking for. When he couldn’t find it after a few seconds, Nick gave up. ‘Jonathan Lauder was a writer, a good one by all accounts, but he chose to abandon his career and start campaigning. Irene Okafor was a singer, brilliant, like Aretha brilliant. She could’ve made a career of it but she didn’t want to. She wanted to do something for her community instead. Olly Richardson-Harris, musician. Until, of course, his father forced him into the army. Christopher Lawrence, brilliant surgeon, almost took a position at a children’s hospital, instead sold out and went into cosmetic surgery.’

  ‘And Alison was a dancer,’ Lynch said.

  ‘And gave it all up to sue the company and marry a guy with money,’ Azrah said.

  Nick saw the realization on Lynch and Azrah’s faces and knew he was right. He was the one to crack it.

  ‘I didn’t see it at first because it’s not all creative things in the usual sense. But I think this guy sees all talent as creative, whether it’s music or surgery or whatever. And if that talent is wasted…’

  ‘What’s this?’

  Nick looked over at Azrah who was flicking through his file. She held up the newspaper clipping about Benjamin Sherman. Shit, Nick had forgotten about him.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I was looking for anything similar, anything that could be our guy working his way up to killing people, and I found this.’

  Azrah finished reading and handed the clipping to Lynch.

  ‘This guy, Sherman, was a composer. Stopped working when his wife died,’ Nick said. ‘I spoke to his granddaughter and something clicked. I couldn’t put my finger on it at first. But–’

  ‘And you didn’t think to share this with the rest of us?’ Lynch said, and Nick deflated a little.

  ‘I got distracted,’ Nick said, recalling the reporters salivating over Aronsen. ‘But I’ve already checked. I can’t find any other instances of anything like this. If this is our guy, and I think it is, then he escalated quickly.’

  Lynch tossed the clipping onto the desk and glared at Nick. He wondered why his boss only saw the mistakes, not the flashes of inspiration, the brilliance.

  ‘So should I go to the club now?’ Nick asked.

  ‘I already told you to check out the husband.’

  ‘But we know this has nothing to do with him. It was about Alison. She was all set to join the National Ballet and threw it all away.’

  ‘All the same. We eliminate him, like we always do.’

  Lynch turned to his office, conversation over. Azrah picked up her jacket and made to leave, but stopped by the door.

  ‘How did you know she was going to join the National Ballet?’ she asked and Nick racked his brains. What had they said on the news? Was it common knowledge? Or had Alison told him one night over a bottle of whiskey?

  ‘I’m a fan of ballet,’ he said and Azrah looked suspicious before her expression turned to surprise.

  ‘Hidden depths,’ she muttered and left, quite possibly to end Nick’s career.

  24

  Karen

  Karen walked into the apartment, relieved to find that Nick wasn’t home. He’d been odd the last few days, or at least odder than usual. Quieter maybe. She could tell something was bothering him. You didn’t spend that much time with someone without being able to read them. But where he’d usually vent his anger or frustration outwards, starting arguments, kicking over TVs, in the last day or so he’d been different. Going to his room without a word. He’d even followed her out to work that morning without parting with a sarcastic comment. Something was definitely up.

  She wondered if the case was getting to him. Or if it was that he was unable to discuss it with the media. She hadn’t seen his face on the news for a few days, which was highly unusual. Something was definitely up.

  Karen kicked off her shoes and hung up her coat. She checked her phone and saw two more messages from Mark. He’d already sent a couple earlier in the day. She’d read them but hadn’t responded. She didn’t really know what to say. His messages had been friendly, funny. He wasn’t trying to pressure her or going psycho on her for canceling their date. But was four messages a bit much? She had no idea. When she was still on good terms with Nick, the most she could expect from him was a couple of texts a week, and they were usually about something mundane like picking up takeout or checking she’d remembered to sort out the insurance.

  She opened the last two messages from Mark and smiled. She could cope with four of these texts a day. They weren’t demanding anything of her, they weren’t about the banality of life.

  Her finger hovered over the reply button. What should she say? What did she want to say? Did she actually want to get involved or was her decision on Friday night the end of it? If she ignored him, maybe he’d stop. Start sending his four texts a day to someone else.

  She sat down on the sofa and reread the texts. The second to last one edged around the subject of rescheduling their date so he clearly hadn’t taken her canceling as a total rejection. And why had she canceled really? Was it fear of the unknown, of stepping outside her comfort zone? Or was it Ni
ck? Was it that he was acting like a normal human being, with actual feelings?

  No. She had no desire to get back with Nick. That would be even more foolhardy than going on a date with a man she’d met in a bar.

  So, maybe it was just that. She didn’t know this man. She’d be taking a risk. But wasn’t that what life was about? But there were risks, like quitting your job to chase your dream, or sticking a pin in a map and heading to that destination. They were scary, yes, but didn’t actually risk your life. But this? What did she know about this man? What if four texts a day was a sure sign of a psychopath?

  Karen laughed. Going out on a date was not a risk to your life. How often did someone go on a date and end up dead? She would guess the percentage was fairly low. Most dates were probably fine. Some amazing, most a bit meh. But not life threatening.

  A knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts and she tossed her phone on the table before answering, telling herself she would reply to Mark shortly. She had to think of something to say.

  She opened the door and her mouth dropped. She could think of nothing to say.

  25

  Michael

  Michael smiled at Karen and noticed she looked nervous, flustered even. He wondered if he’d made a mistake, if her husband could be there, waiting for him. But then she sort of smiled back and Michael knew that she knew nothing. She hadn’t seen him with Alison Goodwin. She didn’t know who he was. What he was. Even the best actor can’t disguise true fear.

  ‘Hi?’ she said, and Michael realized his mistake. He wasn’t supposed to know where she lived, and even if he did, was showing up to the home of someone who wasn’t responding to your texts a bit… stalkerish?