The Art of Murder

by Rebecca Muddiman

  But how would she explain it to her husband? Michael was always surprised by how afraid of losing her husband, or rather his money, she appeared to be and yet still risked being with Michael. But she’d have to tell him something. Her stepson would’ve seen the bruises, and even if he had little sympathy for her, he’d certainly tell his father. And Elena would want to go to the police, right? She wasn’t just going to let it go. But would she tell them that someone broke in? A stranger? And if so, the information she had was irrelevant. What was more important to her – keeping her infidelity a secret or finding the man who had tried to kill her? With Elena, it was hard to tell. Was it possible there was still time?

  Michael tried to think optimistically. Maybe Elena’s fear of her husband finding out would save him. But not for long. What would happen when she left for the gym for her early morning class? He knew the only chance he had to continue with his project was to silence Elena for good. If she’d already talked then it wouldn’t matter. It would just be one final kill. But if she hadn’t, he would be free to go on. Surely a risk worth taking?

  He looked at his watch, wondering if he had time to go inside before catching Elena. He would be pushing it. But then if he were caught with Elena, he’d lose his chance to share his work.

  Michael glanced up and down the street again, wondering if anyone was watching, irritated with his own indecision.

  ‘Fuck it,’ he said and ran across the street. He needed insurance. He needed to know his legacy was safe, regardless of what else happened that day. The work was all that mattered in the end, because without proof of what he’d done, without being able to share it with the world, what was the point?

  Less than an hour later, Michael was standing across from Elena’s, lurking in the same place he’d been so desperate to escape from the night before. He looked up at the windows and saw a light on, but there was no police presence in the street. Surely if they knew, they’d worry for her safety, assume this lunatic might come back for her. But there was no one. Was it possible Elena hadn’t gone to the police at all?

  Michael waited a little while but there was no sign of anyone. No police. No Elena. Could she have done the smart thing and left? But where would she go? A friend’s place? With anyone else he would assume so, but with someone as narcissistic as Elena, his best guess was the gym. But how would he get to her in there?

  Michael walked quickly towards the gym, a monstrosity of a building five blocks over. He could see through the large windows that there were already half a dozen assholes in there, pounding away on the treadmills and pumping iron as they stared at themselves in the mirror.

  He paced across the street, trying to work out what to do. Should he go in there and talk to her? Apologize for the night before? Ask her to come outside and talk to him and then do the deed? No. Too many witnesses. And it was possible she’d told one of her co-workers about him too. Michael chewed his fingernail. He could wait for her to leave but it could be hours and by then the streets would be too busy. But he had to do something. He was itching for it.

  He saw the door of the building open and caught a flash of blonde hair. Michael’s pulse quickened as he watched her glance around before ducking into the alley alongside the building, where the dumpsters from the diner next door were kept. She had a scarf wrapped around her neck and Michael wondered if it was to keep out the cold or prevent anyone from seeing her bruises. Bruises like that tended to invite questions.

  Michael saw Elena light a cigarette, keeping her head down as she smoked. The street was practically empty. No one had followed her outside. No one was checking she was all right. It was now or never. He moved quickly across the street and into the alley, grabbing her from behind. It was too fast for her to scream, a blur in the corner of people’s eyes.

  He cut her throat with the knife he’d picked up at home, dropping her body amongst the garbage, kicking a few bags over her to hide her from anyone passing by. Maybe someone would come looking for her soon, but would they think to check the alley? He wondered if she was smoking to calm her nerves or if this was a regular thing. He supposed it wouldn’t look good for her clients to see her smoking.

  He looked down at the composition. It was extremely inelegant, but necessary. Hopefully he’d given himself a reprieve, but if not, at least he’d got revenge on Elena for ending things so prematurely.

  Michael stepped out of the alley and crossed the street, heading for the nearest subway. He felt tired all of a sudden, not the usual elation he felt from killing. But maybe that was to be expected. It had been such an anti-climax. All he could do now was go home and wait for fate to take control. If the police came, he would press send on his message to the media and step into the spotlight. If they didn’t, if he’d been granted more time, he would sleep and then work out who would come next.

  41

  Nick

  Nick looked at his watch. He’d lost all track of time, trying to remember when he’d last slept. The thrill of seeing Michael’s photo had died down a little and now Nick wasn’t sure if he was doing the right thing. He’d been sitting in his car for a long time, parked around the corner, uncertain what to do.

  Maybe he should call for back-up. But he wasn’t even sure the guy who’d attacked Elena was their guy. And, let’s face it, he wasn’t even sure this was the guy who’d attacked Elena. There’d been several men in the personnel files who matched her description. Nick had only latched onto Michael Fisher because he believed he was sleeping with his wife. Maybe it was all coincidence, but Nick didn’t buy it. How likely was it that he’d stumble on the guy sleeping with Karen like this? There had to be a reason.

  He looked down at the personnel information he’d taken from the 7-11. The man in the store had asked if he’d found what he was looking for but Nick hadn’t told him anything, just shouted his thanks as he left in a hurry, desperate to get to the address on the file.

  He could call it in but he had no proof, no real reason to be there. He wanted to be certain first. Besides, if this was their guy, he didn’t want to share the glory. He wanted to take him alone.

  Finally, Nick climbed out of the car and walked up to the house. The blinds were pulled but there seemed to be no light behind them. Maybe killing people, or trying to, took it out of you. Maybe this Michael Fisher was still sleeping. Nick looked at the other houses on the row and some had a light on, but many remained in darkness like Michael’s.

  Nick took a breath and then knocked and waited, his hand on his holster just in case. But no one came to the door. No light came on. There was no sound of someone moving around.

  Nick stepped back and looked at the place. Though no one appeared to be up yet, it was possible someone would see if he tried to jimmy the lock. He tapped his phone against his thigh and decided to take a look around the back. The houses were single storey with small yards at the rear. It wasn’t perfect but it gave a little more privacy than the front.

  He tried to open the door and, finding it locked, he took out his penknife and worked the lock. He glanced over his shoulder before going inside, aware that if anyone saw him, it could risk the whole investigation. But he needed to know, needed to be certain. And once he was, he would leave and do things by the book.

  It was dark inside the house. Nick used the flashlight on his phone to guide himself through the small rooms, checking for any signs of life. When he found none, he let out a breath and looked for something to indicate he was in the right place.

  It didn’t take long to find it. On the wall in the bedroom were a series of photographs. It was hard to see in the dim light but Nick had a good idea of what he’d find. He moved closer and recognized the smiling faces of Alison Goodwin, Christopher Lawrence, and the other victims, and in the images below them, familiar scenes of horror. Before and after shots.

  Nick felt his heart race. This was it. This was the man he was looking for. He held the light up and recognized the Van Gogh “prank” at the start of the row, above it a newspaper
clipping about Benjamin Sherman in place of a candid photograph. Nick felt vindicated. He’d been right about that too. That had been this guy’s first attempt.

  Moving along the line, he saw that the photos were in order. Benjamin first, then Jonathan, Irene, Olly, Christopher and Alison. Further along, towards the end was Elena Jones. He’d been right about that too. Fisher hadn’t been ready to kill her but she’d made the mistake of telling him she knew where he worked. Nick knew he’d have to contact Elena, insist she left her home for a while. It was very possible this guy would try again.

  Nick edged back along to look at the other future victims and stopped. The seventh photograph was of his wife. Nick stared at the picture of Karen. She wasn’t looking at the camera, instead her eyes were focused to the side. He could see it was taken in a bar, she looked like she’d had too much to drink. He felt a shiver go through him, but it wasn’t fear. It was… what? Anticipation? Pleasure? He felt a strange sensation, as though he was remembering a joke, when he thought about his wife sleeping with a serial killer. He assumed she believed this man really liked her, but the truth was he just wanted to kill her.

  Nick wondered how she fitted into this psycho’s criteria. If Nick was right, that he was killing those who wasted their talent, what talent had Karen wasted? She’d written once, yes, but he would hardly describe her as a talented writer. And then he realized. It wasn’t about Karen at all. It was about him. Michael Fisher picked Karen because of him. He’d have seen Nick on the news and mistakenly believed that he loved his wife. He was trying to get to Nick through her.

  Nick snorted. The man was going to be sorely disappointed when he found out. Although he wondered why Karen hadn’t told him of their antipathy. He would’ve thought she’d use any opportunity to bitch about him.

  Looking at the photo of her, completely oblivious, Nick wondered if he should feel sorry for her. Perhaps he should. He didn’t, though. It wasn’t like it was anyone else’s fault. Even if Michael had targeted her because of Nick, no one forced her to start fucking the guy.

  Something was nagging at him. He had a connection to Karen, obviously, and he’d had a connection to Alison. Was it possible he was somehow connected to the others? Was this all about him? But he’d already been down this road. He was sure he didn’t know those other people from Adam, though it was possible he’d forget. Perhaps it was just that, once he’d started appearing on TV, Fisher decided to make things a little more personal. But that was an angle that couldn’t get out. His connection to Alison would only hurt him. But Karen, on the other hand, maybe that could work for him. Think of the exposure he’d get when the media found out his wife was supposed to be one of the victims, and not only that, but it was Nick who’d saved her life. A story like that could lead to all kinds of opportunities.

  Nick considered his next move, who to call first, when he heard a sound.

  Someone was opening the front door.

  42

  Karen

  Karen woke up as the sunlight hit her through the blind. She groaned, confused for a moment until she remembered the night before and her lucky escape. She swore she wouldn’t drink again as the hangover kicked in. It felt like someone was trying to hammer out her eyes from the inside as well as punching her repeatedly on the skull. God, she hated shots.

  She rolled over and found her phone which she’d abandoned on the nightstand. She picked it up and saw it was Sunday. Technically she should be at work but Sundays were quiet, even more so than the rest of the week, so Jamie could handle it on his own. She had a vague recollection of him refusing her offers of shots, sticking to a couple of beers instead. And then she remembered him dragging her away from the blonde woman’s building. Ugh. She’d been a real asshole the previous night.

  She started to write a text, too embarrassed to actually talk to Jamie, when she remembered something else.

  ‘Fuck,’ she muttered and dropped back down on the bed. Peter Aronsen was coming in to do a reading. She squeezed her eyes shut. She’d regretted it as soon as she’d spoken to him, knowing it would be painful enough anyway, but with a hangover like this? But it was her fault. She couldn’t leave Jamie to sort it out alone. Especially not if Aronsen’s horde of followers were going to show up. Karen was not as confident of his allure as Aronsen was, but she hoped that if she had to go through with it, they’d at least make a little money out of it. Even if Aronsen was bringing his own books, maybe his fans could be persuaded to buy something else. They had plenty of other lurid true crime books in stock.

  She tore herself from her bed, pleased she’d showered in the middle of the night. As much as another might be a good idea, she felt too fragile to bother. She would get dressed, brush her teeth, and pull back her hair. Anything beyond that was too much to be expected.

  In the kitchen, she stood over the sink and forced herself to eat a slice of toast before gulping down coffee that made her stomach turn. She threw back a couple of painkillers, adding one more for luck, and then collected her phone and bag, making sure she had everything she needed.

  She slipped on her coat, trying to move carefully, as if she could outwit her hangover by not making any sudden movements. As she did, she felt something heavy in her pocket. She pulled out Nick’s lighter and stared at it. She was about to put it on the sideboard when she remembered the way he’d acted the night before. She walked through to the kitchen, about to toss it into the trash when she stopped, reading the inscription from his parents. She couldn’t do it. She dropped it back into her pocket instead and opened the door.

  She would get through this day and then she was done with asshole men. She was tired of the whole damn lot of them. She was ready to move on.

  43

  Michael

  Michael walked in and turned on the light. Then he stopped. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something felt wrong. Something in the air. A smell? A presence? Was there someone else in the house? Was this it? He kept very still, his hand poised, ready to… what? Open the door and run? Defend himself?

  He listened for any signs of movement. Surely if the police were there, he’d know by now. Traditionally, the police tended to announce themselves with fire and fury, bringing everything they had to take down one guy, complete overkill. He took a step forward and thought he heard something. Nothing much, a small sound. He stopped again, waiting for something more. Could there be someone in his house? Someone other than the police? A burglar who had suddenly found themselves in over their head?

  Michael moved quickly, checking the bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen. Nothing. He looked around. Nothing seemed out of place. No broken windows, nothing moved or gone. Maybe he was being paranoid. It had been a long few hours. He looked at the clock, wondering how long it’d be until Elena was found and what it would mean. He hadn’t taken many precautions, he never did. He needed proof the work was his when the time came. But that would be on his own terms. If the police knew his identity, things could come tumbling down sooner than he’d hoped. But it was still possible Elena hadn’t told anyone. She’d been at the gym as normal. There’d been no police presence either at her place or his. If they knew, they’d be here by now. Surely. Even the NYPD weren’t that slow.

  Michael got a glass of water and told himself nothing had changed. No one knew about him. He could go on as before, the only difference being he would have to find another replacement for Elena. Oh well. Such was life.

  He went into the bedroom and stripped off his clothes, muttering to himself about the blood on his sleeve. That was careless and would be a pain to get out. He sighed and threw everything into the laundry basket before getting into the shower, considering his next move.

  Elena had been a waste. Yes, he’d been tired of her and wanted her out of the way, but not like that. He considered his other options. Karen had yet to call him back after he ignored her the night before. Hopefully she would forgive him but he would have to do some damage control, make sure she knew she was his priority, whic
h was kind of true. She was the one he desired most, but knew he’d have to hold off. But it was always good to have something to look forward to. In the meantime he’d have to move things along with the others.

  Michael got out of the shower and toweled himself off. He needed to sleep a little but then he would make some calls. There were three to go, four if he found a replacement for Elena. And there was no time to waste.

  44

  Nick

  Nick jogged up the stairs to the apartment, his mind racing. He figured he shouldn’t make any big decisions on no sleep but doubted he’d be able to drift off anyway for all the crap bouncing around in his brain. He felt both exhausted and wired at the same time. So much had happened in the last few hours, he couldn’t get his head around it. He thought about what he’d found in Michael Fisher’s house. Nick had found the man they were looking for. He could end this right now. And yet he knew he’d messed up. He’d broken into the house. He had no warrant, no reason to be inside. Yes, he had Elena Jones’s statement, but she’d refused to make it official, and the truth was, he didn’t know for sure that Fisher was the guy who’d attacked her. The only reason he homed in on him was because he’d seen him in the hallway of his own building.

  So he’d been wondering how to play it when he heard the door, still standing there when the light was switched on. Should he have arrested him there and then? Would anyone care exactly how it’d gone down, as long as this freak was off the streets? Or maybe he could lie and say he went around to talk to him regarding the complaint from Ms. Jones and then he happened to see the evidence connecting Fisher to the serial murders?