The Art of Murder

by Rebecca Muddiman

  She closed the door and went into the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of wine even though she didn’t need it. As drunk as she was, she was still aware the last thing she needed was more alcohol. But she wanted it. Who cared about work the next day? Who cared about Mark or the blonde woman he went home with?

  Karen turned on the TV, flicking through until she found the news. But there was nothing new. No more bodies. Maybe Nick was out with some woman. Like Mark.

  She wished she’d confronted him. She didn’t want to be made a fool of. Not again. But Jamie had dragged her away before she could do anything.

  ‘Come on,’ he’d said. ‘Let’s go before you do something stupid.’

  But it was too late for that. She’d spent her whole life being stupid, believing the bullshit that came out of men’s mouths. She didn’t care about Mark anymore, not that she ever had. But she deserved to know. Was that his wife? Was he the same as Nick? Or was she someone he just met, moving on quickly because Karen didn’t give him what he wanted?

  She found her phone and called his number. She wanted to know. She had a right to know.

  The phone rang a few times before cutting off. Karen looked at the phone, her drunk brain trying to make sense of it, before trying again. But it had been turned off. No doubt he was still with her and didn’t want this other woman to see Karen’s name flash up on his phone. How would he explain it? What lies would he tell this one?

  Karen tossed her phone aside and slumped down onto the sofa, letting the sound of the TV wash over her until she fell asleep.

  37

  Michael

  Michael dropped onto the bed in the crappy motel, his heart still beating too fast. He had no idea if Elena’s stepson had followed him. He didn’t stop to look back, kept on running towards the subway, getting as far away as he could. He hadn’t heard any police sirens but he guessed it wouldn’t be too long until they found him.

  When he realized he’d got onto the train that’d take him home, he’d panicked, getting off and changing line with no idea where to go. All he knew was going home would be a mistake. So there he was, in a cheap motel, wondering what the hell to do. He was lucky he had enough money in his pocket to pay for the night. But after that?

  He shook his head. Maybe he should’ve gone home. They couldn’t have known where to find him so soon. If he’d been thinking right, he would’ve gone home and got his things. But he hadn’t been thinking right. How could he be?

  He jumped at the sound of a ringing phone. He’d dumped the one he used for Elena, tossing it before he jumped on the train. So how the hell was it ringing?

  Michael delved his hand into his pocket and pulled out the other phone. Karen. Why had he brought it out with him? He never carried more than one phone at a time, it was too suspicious. But he’d had hers in his pocket the whole time. Was it an accident? Or was he so desperate to hear from her he’d done it subconsciously? It didn’t matter. He rejected the call and turned the phone off. Maybe he needed to dump that one too.

  ‘Shit!’ he shouted, and then regretted it. He didn’t want to draw any attention to himself. The woman at the desk had barely looked at him, her attention focused on some true crime TV show. He probably could’ve walked in there covered in blood and she wouldn’t have noticed. But still. If he made too much noise, one of the other guests would complain. He needed to keep it down. He needed to keep his shit together.

  Michael went into the bathroom and turned on the faucet. He gulped some water before splashing his face. Noticing his hands were shaking, he felt a wave of disappointment in himself, bordering on disgust.

  He filled a plastic cup with water and took it back to the bed. He turned on the TV, searching for the news, certain there’d be something. That he’d see Elena’s face on the screen, telling anyone who’d listen about her narrow escape. But there was nothing.

  He took a deep breath, telling himself to think.

  There was no way Elena could know who he was. What he was. Yes, he’d tried to kill her and she’d probably be a little pissed off about that. But she couldn’t know what his real purpose had been. So maybe the police wouldn’t be so desperate to find him. Maybe he had a little time.

  But what use was that? She’d have still gone to the police, and even though he’d told her nothing true about himself, she knew where he worked and it wouldn’t take the police long to find him once they talked to his boss. And once they brought him in for attacking Elena, it was over. He would either go down for that one pathetic crime. Or he could own up to the rest and get a little of the attention he so desired. But it wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be on his terms.

  He wouldn’t let this be the end. He wouldn’t let the whole project be ruined by such a stupid mistake. And by Elena of all people.

  Michael’s fists bunched up the cheap polyester quilt.

  Maybe he could leave. Start fresh someplace else. But he thought of what he’d be leaving behind – all the evidence of his life’s work. And where would he go anyway? He had nothing. He should’ve taken money from these people instead of memories. At least then he’d have a chance at getting away.

  But was that what he wanted? To get away? He wanted people to see his work, to know he was the artist behind it. That was always the plan. He wanted the attention, the credit. He’d wondered what would happen when he reached the end, when the tenth project was complete. Would he hand himself in and let the world marvel? Or would he find another project? But sequels were so often inferior; second albums so much more difficult. And the best artists knew when to stop, to walk away from their work. He knew it was for the best to bow out after one perfect project. But only once it was complete. If he didn’t finish what he’d started, what was the point? He’d be the failed artist his teachers always said he was. The waste of space his father saw.

  Michael didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t leave but nor could he stay. If he handed himself in now, he was a quitter. If he waited for them to catch him, he simply lost. He felt a wave of sadness, a loss. Everything he’d worked for was wasted.

  38

  Nick

  Nick swung by the bar Elena had mentioned, as it was a few minutes away from the station, but it was already closed. It didn’t really matter. Finding evidence of them together was not his priority. Finding the actual guy was. If this was the man Nick had been looking for, this was the closest he’d ever got. And even if it wasn’t, this was a man who’d tried to strangle a woman in her own home. He needed finding.

  Nick drove towards the 7-11 Elena had directed him to, crossing the Queensboro bridge, the traffic almost non-existent at that time of night. He wondered if there’d be anyone there this late who could help him. Managers weren’t known for their willingness to work the graveyard shift. But if it was some kid on minimum wage, Nick knew they were more likely to give him access to whatever he asked for, unaware of the legalities.

  The closer he got, the more his excitement grew. What if he could solve this thing alone? What if he brought this asshole in single-handedly? Lynch wouldn’t be giving Azrah the more important jobs then, would he. Nor would he be telling him to stay away from the media. He’d be desperate for Nick to talk to every reporter in the country, to make sure word got out that the NYPD had captured a serial killer.

  But maybe he was getting ahead of himself. There was every possibility the guy who’d attacked Elena was just your average loser who tried to kill a woman after she’d laughed at him or made him feel stupid. He’d told Elena he was a banker when really he worked at a 7-11. Nick had been so keen for this to be their guy that he’d jumped to the conclusion that it had made their killer panic, abandoning his plan to do something more elaborate. But what if it was nothing more than humiliation on this guy’s part? The woman he was trying to impress found out the truth and he couldn’t take it. Wouldn’t be the first time. Wouldn’t be the last. But Elena had jumped to the same conclusion. Was it that she’d seen the news about The Decorator and was being dramatic,
or was it something else? Was there more she wasn’t telling him?

  Nick navigated the streets until he found the store. God bless twenty-four-hour culture. Made his job a whole lot easier.

  He walked into the store and found it empty, making him wonder if there was a need for a 24/7 store in a neighborhood like this. He walked up to the counter which was also devoid of any life.

  ‘Hello?’ he called out, but got no response. He waited a moment or two, tapping his fingers on the counter and finally the door to the staff area opened and a middle-aged man walked out, starting when he saw Nick.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, his voice heavily accented, although Nick couldn’t place it. ‘I was using the bathroom.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Nick said and flashed his ID, seeing the brief look of fear on the man’s face. ‘Are you the manager?’ He checked out the guy’s name tag. Filip.

  Filip laughed. ‘No.’

  ‘Right. I guess he leaves the hard work to guys like you.’ Filip grinned, and Nick knew he was in. ‘I’m looking into an incident that happened earlier tonight.’

  ‘Oh, nothing happened tonight. I’ve been here all night. I–’

  ‘No, sorry, I didn’t mean here,’ Nick said, and Filip relaxed again. ‘But it’s possible a member of staff here was involved. Does anyone named Francis work here?’

  The man shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think so. We have a Frankie.’

  Nick was surprised. He’d been certain the name was fake. ‘Could you describe him?’

  ‘Frankie’s a girl.’

  ‘Right. Would you happen to know if your boss keeps personnel files?’

  ‘Oh, yes. In the office.’

  ‘Could I take a look? It’d really help me out.’ But Filip was already beckoning Nick back to the office. God bless the underpaid.

  Nick walked in and found a set-up not unlike Alison’s office – the same desk layout, security monitor, and filing cabinets. Except, where Alison’s place was high-end and very feminine, this place was cheap and grey and utterly soul sucking.

  ‘I’m not sure…’ Filip said, looking around, so Nick went to the nearest file cabinet and pulled, expecting it to be locked. Instead it slid right open. He flicked through the files, finding nothing more than spreadsheets. He closed the drawer and tried another.

  ‘The man I’m looking for is tall,’ Nick said. ‘About my height, maybe. Dark hair. Good looking, according to the witness.’ He closed the drawer and looked up at Filip. ‘Ring any bells?’

  ‘Could be a few of the guys who work here. How old?’

  Nick realized he hadn’t got that information from Elena. ‘Not sure. Maybe late twenties to early forties?’ he guessed.

  ‘Could still be a few of them. I’m the oldest one here,’ Filip said. ‘You said his name was Francis?’

  ‘That’s what he told the witness, but I’m not sure he was telling the truth.’

  Filip looked worried about that, as if lying about your name was the worst crime he could think of. Nick wondered what he’d think if he found out one of his colleagues was a serial killer.

  Nick kept trying drawers and finally, on the seventh try, he found personnel files. He flicked through them, making sure there was no Francis, before removing the whole lot from the drawer. They both looked up as the bell to the store rang. Filip looked unsure about what to do.

  ‘It’s okay. Go,’ Nick said. ‘I’ll put these back when I’m done.’

  Filip nodded gratefully and left Nick alone to sift through the files. Helpfully there were photos attached to the staff information sheets and Nick separated anyone who had dark hair and was vaguely attractive, although whether his criteria was the same as Elena’s was hard to tell. There was also no indication of height on the files. And why would there be unless you had to be a certain height to work there, perhaps to be able to stack the higher shelves.

  He’d pulled out four guys, the others being women, one extremely redheaded guy, and Filip, the man Nick had already met. The second to last was a man whose hair was blond but could also be considered good looking. The hair looked dyed and Nick wondered if he could’ve changed it since the photo was taken. He went into the maybe pile and Nick turned his attention to the final file and his heart seemed to stop beating for a moment.

  Nick picked up the sheet of paper, staring at the photograph attached to it. Nick knew this man. He’d seen this man before. The man sleeping with his wife.

  39

  Karen

  Karen woke with a start on the sofa. She looked at the clock. Just gone three thirty a.m. She sat up straight and her head pounded. She thought if she moved she might puke. But then, if she just sat there, she might puke too. Reluctantly, she dragged herself up and went to the kitchen, running the cold water and gulping it down. She gagged as she finished it. Why the hell had she drunk so much? This was worse than the night with all the cocktails.

  And with that she remembered why she’d been drinking so much. Mark. Mark and the other woman. Karen leaned her head against the fridge and cringed. God, she was such a loser. She was actually going to go and berate Mark and that woman. Why? She had no claim over him. They’d never even been out, not really. And she was the one who’d rejected him. She was so glad Jamie stopped her before she’d charged in and made a fool of herself. What would’ve happened had she gone into that building and banged on the door?

  Karen pushed herself up and found some painkillers. She swallowed them down and headed to her bedroom, but as she did she caught a whiff of herself. She stank of alcohol, of sweat. She looked longingly at the bed but knew she should shower. Maybe it would make her feel better.

  She ran the shower, waiting for the water to heat up, and realized Nick still wasn’t home. The door to his room was open. This was late, even for him. She imagined him in someone else’s bed, doing what she couldn’t bring herself to do.

  Stepping into the shower, Karen tried to tell herself it didn’t matter. She didn’t care about Nick, nor did she care about Mark. She’d clearly been right not to get involved and felt vindicated. But she also felt strangely put out that she wasn’t special, and angry that he’d just been feeding her lines to get what he wanted. That she was no more than one in a long list most likely. She suddenly remembered Jamie saying the woman could be Mark’s wife and how angry that had made her. But it was clear now that that couldn’t be the case. She’d seen where Mark lived. Why would his wife live somewhere else? As her mind cleared, she recalled the building Mark and the woman had gone into and she didn’t think it had been apartments. Whoever this woman was, she clearly had money. So was Mark a gold-digger? Karen almost laughed. Was that why he’d targeted her? Did he think she had money? He’d be disappointed.

  She rubbed shampoo into her hair and felt another shudder of embarrassment. She’d actually bought all his bullshit about really liking her. And she had liked him. She felt stupid even admitting it to herself. He was so different from Nick, or so she thought. Turns out he was just the same. She had never been good at picking men. It was how she’d ended up with Nick in the first place. What made her think she’d be any better at it now?

  She scrubbed at her skin, trying to rub away the hurt as well as the stink. What was wrong with her that she attracted these assholes?

  No. She shook her head. It wasn’t her. It was them. And she was done. She wouldn’t see Mark again. She was washing that man right out of her hair.

  Karen stopped, considering that she might still be a little drunk. She climbed out of the shower and went to her room. She picked up her phone. She would delete Mark’s number and that would be it. But as her thumb hovered over the button, she wavered. She was still a little drunk.

  She tossed the phone onto the nightstand and fell into bed. She would deal with it the next day.

  40

  Michael

  Michael left the motel before it was even light, decision made. He would go home and face the music. There had been plenty of interest surrounding his work s
o far, even before the public knew exactly what it was. He could build on that. He just hoped he’d be able to get into the house to his computer, that the police hadn’t beaten him to it. All he needed was to be able to send his photographs to every media outlet possible and then he would hand himself in. Or maybe he would wait for them to come to him. Maybe that would be more dramatic.

  He walked out into the neon-lit morning. He could feel the phone he used for Karen in his pocket and wondered if he could arrange an early morning meeting, maybe go out with a bang. She had called him late the previous night so she must’ve been interested. But perhaps a four a.m. booty call was pushing it a little.

  Riding the subway, he gazed around at the apathetic faces of the other early-morning commuters. No one even glanced in his direction. He was nothing to them. Not yet, anyway. He wondered if any of them would recognize him when he was splashed all over the news in a few hours’ time, if they would revel in telling their friends and co-workers how close they came to him, or if they would feel fear instead. He took in each face, wondering who they were, what they did. What they didn’t do. Perhaps in another life, one of these people could’ve been one of his projects.

  He stepped out into the street with caution. There was no blaze of light from the dozens of police cars he’d anticipated.

  Michael walked slowly towards his street, taking in every car, every face that passed. Were they waiting for him? He stood across from his house but saw nothing, just darkened windows. He wondered how long it would take them to find him, how many hours it had been since his hands had been around Elena’s throat.

  The only true thing she knew about him was where he worked, but would she think to tell them that? Would she focus on describing him? Would they try to find him through the abandoned phone or CCTV? If so, there’d be nothing really. He’d be a ghost. Everything hung on whether she’d told them about the 7-11.