Stroke of Death

by Dale Mayer

  His punishment. For being bad.

  But he tried to be good. Always had. Only bad things happened when he was around.

  His mother had said he was one side of the coin. The other had to be kept secret. Hidden.

  Is that why Mom hadn’t loved him? Tears flowed on his cheeks, as they did inside his soul. Some hurts never went away.

  Neither did some wrongs.

  He tried to warn the pretty woman with the paints. But she hadn’t understood.

  His mother’s voice whispered in his head, as she always did, Good boy. Bad boy. Good boy.

  Chapter 8

  Cayce woke up the next morning, tired and sore, realizing it hadn’t even been a week since learning about Elena’s murder. Felt like an eternity. And here she was, still aching inside and out, the pain so acute it was heartbreaking. She had no idea how she was supposed to get through the rest of her life without Elena at her side.

  When her phone rang, she didn’t want to answer it. She just let it ring. When it stopped, there was no voice message. She sank back into bed and muttered, “Good.”

  Her mind drifted through what she had to face throughout the day. There would be news media and press releases that she would try to avoid. Last night had been a monumental success. The children had added such life and verve to the installation that she had never seen before, and she was thrilled.

  But she had another one to do next week. And that one was lagging behind schedule, adding to the pressure on her. However, for the moment, she was in bed, completely snuggled into multiple pillows and under a huge down comforter, as she allowed her body and mind to relax the day after a presentation. Surely there had to be some rest for those who worked hard. The trouble was, every time Cayce relaxed, Elena filled her thoughts. Elena, who had never complained, had always showed up early, had stayed late, and always did her utmost to make Cayce’s design world come to life any time it was an installation she was involved in.

  Naomi, on the other hand, tried to be the prima donna all the time. And she never wanted her back painted so she could give shock value with her beautiful form, completely exposed on her backside, as she wandered through the installation. As it was only adults at that point, it was fine, and Cayce wasn’t in the position of having to body-paint Naomi’s back, like she did with Elena because Elena was an art piece all unto herself. And Cayce had always given Elena the respect that an art piece deserved and had finished the job, meaning, doing her front as well as her back.

  Unfortunately Naomi was absolutely nothing like Elena.

  The phone rang again. She groaned, rolled over, looked at her screen, and saw it was the detective. She picked up the phone. “Now what?”

  “Good morning. So your installation last night went off beautifully.”

  “It did,” she said warmly. “The children added so much life.”

  “I was there,” he said easily. “And it was pretty special. I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

  “It was a bigger background than I would have liked to do,” she said, “but it was part of the scope of what the patron wanted,” she said.

  “Well, it was certainly something to see.”

  “Do you have any update for me, or are you just bothering me with more questions?”

  “We talked to Elena’s lawyer last night,” he said. “He’s traveling, but we did catch him by phone.”

  “And?

  “We spoke about the will,” he said, “and you are definitely inheriting half.”

  Her heart stilled and warmed at that. “God. I’ve cried so many buckets of tears, I don’t want to cry anymore.”

  “What relationship did you have with her outside of the art world?” he asked abruptly.

  “You already grilled Anita,” she said, “so why are you asking me this all over again?”

  “Because Anita said I should ask you,” he said mildly.

  She sighed. “Right, so we were friends way back when,” she said. “She was having a tough childhood, and I reached out to her. Many years later we reconnected when I was in a bad spot, and she reached out to me. When we came together in the art world, it was just a natural meeting of minds, energy, and souls.”

  “Interesting phrasing,” he said. “Do you believe in that energy stuff?”

  “Everybody believes in the energy stuff,” she said drily. She shifted herself in her bed so she was sitting up, leaning against the headboard, staring out at the fast city around her. “It’s just that no one likes to talk about it or to explain it because it gets into the woo-woo territory.”

  “You saw Dr. Maddy many years ago, didn’t you?”

  She froze. How did he know? Or was something like that in her medical file? She’d never considered the information to be something to hide, but that didn’t mean she wanted everyone to know. She let out a long, slow breath. “Interesting barb, Detective. But then, that’s what you do, isn’t it? Detect, I mean. I’m sure that seeing one of the most prominent healthcare officials in the world could not be construed as a crime, even by you.”

  “Well, it wasn’t a crime,” he said, “but it was definitely interesting.”

  “And why is that?” she asked.

  “Because, of course, Dr. Maddy works on energy.”

  “She does, indeed,” she said mildly, rubbing her temple.

  “I spoke with her.”

  “What? You spoke with Dr. Maddy?” she asked, clearly surprised. She leaned forward. “I haven’t seen her in years. How is she?”

  “She seemed to be quite fine,” he said. “She wouldn’t tell me much.”

  “There is that pesky doctor-patient confidentiality business,” she said snidely.

  “True, that’s why I’ll ask you point-blank, just what the relationship was.”

  “You mean, between me and Dr. Maddy?”

  “Yes.”

  “I had a health problem,” she said, “and so did Elena. I paid for both of us to see Dr. Maddy.”

  “So, Elena didn’t have any money back then?”

  “No. Since then she had a relationship with someone wealthy. He passed on and left it to her.”

  “So, why did you both go to see Dr. Maddy?”

  “Because she was abused early on in her life, and she endured a lot of trauma.”

  “That’s hardly Dr. Maddy’s forte, is it?”

  “I’m not sure there’s anything that Dr. Maddy can’t do,” she said. “But, at that point in time, I had heard that she had the ability to help with various things, and I knew that Elena had more than the usual physical disturbances, and I wasn’t sure what that meant,” she said. “Somebody I knew suggested Dr. Maddy. So we went, and it was incredible. She helped Elena, and then she helped me. She’d also been instrumental in showing Elena how to protect herself from toxic people by not allowing that energy into her own space relationship-wise and how to use her own energy to blend with her job as a model and an artist to make the paintings more alive. Although that last part she’d figured out on her own and had perfected her skill even more.”

  “Is that where you learned to deal with the energy?”

  “Any artist feels connected to the world in a way that’s well beyond the norm,” she said, “so to not feel anything, to not feel that connection—which, in this case, means energy—just means an artist isn’t connecting with their subject.”

  “So it’s just terminology to you?”

  “What are you getting at, Detective?” She hated that he was questioning all this because she had no idea where his beliefs were, but, if the media ever got a hold of it, they would have a heyday at her expense. She didn’t tell anyone about what she did. It wasn’t secret, but it was private.

  “Just asking questions.”

  “I guess you’ve got to dig into the dirt, don’t you?”

  “No,” he said. “I’m just trying to find out who killed Elena. That means I have to understand everything in her life. And that means everything, … whether it makes sense or not.” />
  “And what does her seeing Dr. Maddy years ago have to do with anything?” she cried out. She leaned forward, wrapped her arms around her knees, pulling them tight to her chest. “Or me, for that matter?”

  “Maybe nothing,” he said, “but do you really want me to not turn over every rock to find out what’s going on?”

  “No, of course not.” She threw back her covers, frustrated and upset, hopped out of bed, and said, “Now that you’ve destroyed my early morning peace while I lazed about in bed, which I was really looking forward to in order to recover from last night, is there anything else you can upset me about?”

  “Maybe,” he said mildly. “I just wondered if you knew anybody in your circle of the world who has any medical skills, enough to have done that to Elena.”

  Her breath caught in the back of her throat, before she let it out slowly. “I hadn’t considered that,” she said. “And I really don’t want to. Although what they did to Elena’s body could never be called surgical. However, to answer your question, several medical people are in my world, but that doesn’t make them criminals.”

  “Of course not,” he said. “That doesn’t make them innocent either.”

  She winced. “Fine. One of the philanthropists is Dr. Hilltop. He’s a surgeon. You can talk to him. I’m sure he’ll be just thrilled to see you.” She smiled at that because Dr. Hilltop was definitely blustery and left no doubt about his opinions.

  “What about Dr. Maddy?”

  “What about her? Would she have those surgical skills? I imagine the answer is yes. But then so would millions of people around the globe. I haven’t spoken to Dr. Maddy since my last appointment with her years ago.”

  “So you don’t see her outside of your doctor-patient relationship?”

  “I’ve sent her invitations to a couple art shows, but I don’t know that she’s ever shown up to one.”

  “Actually, she has shown up to several of them,” he said.

  She groaned. “And, of course, I didn’t see her to say hi.” She shook her head. “Sometimes I’m just so blind.”

  “Any reason she wouldn’t come up and say anything to you?”

  “Dr. Maddy likes to stay fairly unobtrusive in the public eye,” she said. “It’s not an easy life for her.”

  “Meaning?”

  “She’s famous, and the world is a sad place today. A lot of people want what she has to give.”

  “What is that?”

  “Hope,” she said. “Simply hope and healing.” There was a silence at the other end. She smiled and said, “I know that’s not what you were looking for in terms of an answer, but I’ll have Anita send you a list of anybody else I might know of.”

  “Good,” he said. “I’d appreciate it.”

  “Anything else, Detective?”

  “No,” and then his voice deepened as he said, “Go back to bed and enjoy your morning. You worked hard for last night, but it was worth it.” And he hung up.

  She stared down at her phone in surprise. But his words left a smile on her face, and the tone of his voice left a smile in her heart.

  *

  It’s not that Richard wanted to wake her, but, now that he had, he couldn’t get past the idea that she had been lying in bed, and his mind immediately filled in a tiny little silk negligee as she was surrounded by heavy down comforters and pillows, looking dreamy-eyed and still half asleep. He shook his head and swore.

  “Now what’s your problem?” Andy asked.

  Richard shot him a hard look. “Nothing. What’s up?”

  He shrugged. “We have another case. Sketchy details at the moment.”

  “Dammit,” Richard said. “Don’t we have enough problems to be working on without getting another?”

  “Oh, absolutely, but that doesn’t stop the crime in this town from carrying on.”

  “True enough,” he said. “Let’s go. What is it we’re doing?” Richard asked, as he reached for his jacket yet again.

  “Visiting a body in a dumpster.”

  “Wow. And why is that a surprise?” Richard shook his head. He followed Andy outside to his small truck. “How far away?”

  “Not,” he said. “Just a couple blocks away from where Elena was found.”

  Immediately he shot him a hard look. “Any connection?”

  “Not that anybody’s aware of yet,” he said, “but who’s to say?”

  “Right,” he said. “Something to consider.”

  “Absolutely.”

  It wasn’t long before they pulled up at the scene, already cordoned off with crime scene tape, police all around.

  Richard looked at the crowd and asked, “No coroner yet?”

  “They’re on the way,” somebody said at his side.

  He turned to see another team member. “Hey, Thomas. What have we got here?”

  “A young man,” he said, his tone grim. “And there is a connection to your other body.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one who was skinned.”

  Immediately Richard froze. “Was this another body-painted model?”

  “No,” he said. “Not at all. At least not that we could tell.”

  “Do we have an ID on the victim?”

  “Not yet. The face is intact though, and I’ve got photos.” He brought it up on his cell phone.

  Richard took a look, shook his head, and said, “I don’t know him, that’s for sure.”

  “Might be interesting to know if your artist knows though,” he said, “because this guy had his torso skinned off too.”

  “That makes no sense,” he said, frowning.

  “Says you. Always some copycat is out there.”

  “Well, that makes more sense than anything. Send me the photo, will ya?” He stepped a few feet away, picked up his phone, and called Cayce back.

  When she answered the phone, her tone exasperated, she said, “I’ve just barely had a shower, dammit. Now what?”

  “We have a new body,” he said tersely.

  Silence. “And that means what to me?”

  But he could hear the horror underlying her tone. “It may mean nothing,” he said, “and it might mean everything because his body was also skinned.”

  “Everything?” Her voice rose in horror.

  “No. Just the front midsection.” He stared at the alleyway. “I have a photo I want you to look at.”

  “Do I have to?” she asked.

  “Yes. I need to know if you recognize the victim.”

  Her voice was soft as she said, “Okay. Send it to me.” And she hung up.

  He quickly sent the photo to her. He waited all of one minute; then he called her back. “Do you know him?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “He’s one of the men who worked on painting the backdrops on the big installations.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. I think maybe four-ish,” she said. “I’m not really sure. I was already working on the children then.”

  “Would he have been there last night?”

  “Well, he could have been,” she said. “How am I to know? A lot of people attended last night.”

  He nodded, giving her that point.

  “Was he skinned the same as Elena?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Can you explain why?”

  “How the hell would I know?” she cried out. “I never body-painted him.”

  “Is there any reason that he would have something that would appeal to somebody doing this?”

  She took a slow, deep breath. “Meaning?”

  “Do you know if he has a tattoo? Something that somebody might have taken for a collection? That’s what I was thinking,” he said honestly. “But anything that could possibly make sense out of this would help.”

  “I have seen him without a shirt, yet I don’t recall any tattoos to speak of,” she said, “but I’m not certain.”

  “No, of course not,” he said. “Do you have any other relationship with
him, other than him painting your backdrops?”

  “He works for a company called Mediacorp,” she said, “and they work with me on a lot of my big installations. Other than that, I can’t tell you any more. He was a lovely young man. I think his name was Thorne. Thorne, hmmm, Watson, maybe. No, Matson,” she said with relief, as if finding that piece of information was everything.

  And he understood because he heard suspects, or other people who he had to interview all the time, trying to be helpful, coming up with something that would hopefully make a difference. “I’ll follow up with Mediacorp. See if we can find out his last movements last night. I’ll need a list of who was there.”

  “Anita will get you the invites list. But that won’t tell you about everyone who was there.” Her voice broke, and she whispered, “Please tell me that they’re dead when this is being done to them.”

  “I haven’t got an autopsy report on them yet,” he said, “so I can’t tell you for sure, but, yes, I would dearly hope to God they were.”

  He could hear the tears choking her voice when she said, “Detective, is somebody targeting me or the people around me?”

  “That is something we have yet to figure out,” he said.

  “I just don’t understand,” she whispered. Then she paused and said, “Unless he’s trying to do something similar.”

  “As in, body-paint, like you do?”

  “Yes, but that wouldn’t make much sense in Thorne’s case.”

  Her frown was easily picked up through the phone. But that didn’t mean he didn’t wish he could see her face. Matter of fact, he wished he could see her regardless. “What do you mean?”

  “Thorne was hairy,” she said. “And, even shaved, it’s very hard to get a smooth stroke of paint. A lot of models go through laser hair removal in order to have the skin that we need to paint on.”

  “So, as far as you were concerned, he wouldn’t have made a good model for what you do?”

  “No,” she said, “and laser surgery would take quite a while.”

  “What about if he was freshly shaved?”

  She frowned at that. “Potentially, but the hair comes through within a few hours.”