"This is the first one," Monty explained. "The killer writes that he murdered Linda Courtnell out of revenge. He won't say what her transgression was, but apparently she humiliated him. He admits he was a failed artist and that killing Linda in Bill's studio was a way to get back at both of them. He claims he never thought the police would arrest the professor and convict him of murder, but he says…"
Monty looked down at the letter. "'It was the feather in my cap.'"
"He writes a lot of arrogant, cruel things," Jacob added. "He's clearly insane."
"Or wants us to think so," Monty said.
"Back up to the failed artist thing. Could the writer be Ronald Stevens? Or Charlie Haynes himself?"
"Or Harrison Courtnell," I said, remembering the third person Montgomery had mentioned as a possible suspect.
"We'll show you it couldn't have been Charlie," Monty answered. "But yes, Ronald Stevens and Harrison Courtnell are definitely still on the suspect list."
"The important thing to remember right now, though, is that these envelopes and their disgusting contents are proof of your innocence, Bill. We can't focus on the 'who.' We have to let the police do that."
"For now, at any rate," Montgomery agreed.
The tone of his voice suggested there would be retribution in the future. I found myself wanting to egg him on.
"How do the pictures and photos prove Bill's innocence?" I prodded, anxious to move forward in some way.
"Each of the envelopes is dated."
Montgomery put a typed list out in front of him. January 1, February 1, and March 1, all clearly postmarked.
"They were all delivered from Langford, B.C."
Will and I looked at each, gasping.
"I did check, Bill. You were not anywhere near Langford on those dates. The police may want to verify my findings and perhaps question the postal workers to see if anyone was mailing them for you, but once they see these photos and letters, I don't think they'll go any further."
Montgomery hesitated.
"There was something you never admitted to, something the police kept questioning you about. Of course you couldn't admit it. You were innocent. But do you remember any odd question that stood out?"
Bill closed his eyes, trying to slide back thirty years in memory. Finally, he shook his head.
"I'm sorry, Monty, I really can't."
"They might have asked you something about The Artist…"
Suddenly Charlie's wheedling, condescending voice echoed in Bill's ear. "Were you jealous of her, Professor? Do you think of yourself as THE Artist? Was this upstart little girl going to surpass you?"
"Yes!" Will interrupted. "Now I remember. Haynes kept asking me if I thought I was the Artist, better than anyone, certainly better than 'that little upstart,' as he called Linda."
"There was a signature on her body," Montgomery said carefully, putting down his plate and sipping again on the scotch as the source of strength to continue the revelations.
"On the inside of her thigh. In cursive writing, just like a regular autograph—The, capital T and Artist, capital A. They searched all of your paintings and sketches and found no such signature. They tried to get you to brag about your work, maybe admit you thought of yourself as The Artist. But you never faltered. So all of a sudden, the signature was forgotten, dismissed as unimportant."
Jacob continued, as though to halt the locomotive of our dismay by getting to the good part.
"The murderer killed many other people, as Monty said. He painted and signed their bodies, which he then photographed. In each of the pictures he sent to Haynes, the sender made sure we spotted his signature, which exactly matches the one found on Linda's body. At least the crime scene cops had taken their pictures properly, if nothing else."
"This afternoon, buried in an evidence box, we found one crime scene photo that, if you look carefully, shows the autograph. Unless you knew what you were searching for, it was easily missed, since it ran along a rivulet he had painted."
Involuntarily, I shivered at the image.
"Each of the photographs the suspect sent is dated," Monty continued. "The murders took place before and after Linda's death. Some of them long after you were incarcerated, Bill. You can't possibly be the culprit."
"Could the pictures have been staged? I mean, how do we know they are authentic?"
"He used one of those old instamatic cameras," Montgomery said. "It's very doubtful they could have been Photo Shopped in any way. However, the police will have to follow the trail the killer has left to check out his claims. According to the letters, some of the bodies are buried in specific places, while the rest he dissolved in sulfuric acid."
"My god!" I said. "This is absolutely horrid. How could such a man not have been caught?"
"He says that, with the exception of Linda Courtnell, he murdered people he termed lowlifes, prostitutes and druggies. No one missed them. Even if they were reported missing, it was assumed they had disappeared on purpose."
"Jesus. Just like that pig farmer's victims," Will commented, thinking of the Port Coquitlam murders.
"Yes, very similar," Jacob said, his voice thick with sadness and disgust. "This killer believed he was taking souls out of their lives of drudgery and futility into a higher plane. They became true art, experienced the perfection of art, through their suffering and dying. He was their conduit to a union with something he called the Creative Spring."
"He was nuts," Monty barked. "Is nuts, I should say. He developed a perverted philosophy out of his desire to kill. Made it a mission instead of a crime. We will get this man. I promise you."
"Monty, I believe you'll get this guy locked up, and soon. I think he confessed because he wants to be caught and you are the man to do it. In the meantime, once the police have the evidence, the legal team and I will be shouting to the courts, the minister, hell, the whole world," Jacob said. "William Thompson will once and for all be declared innocent."
We were stunned into silence once more by the ferocity of Jacob's determination, by the hope that surged through the room.
Will reached for my hand and I turned to see that tears were flowing down his cheeks. I threw myself out of my chair and into his arms.
"Everything is going to be wonderful, Em," he said, stroking my hair.
Those words echoed down the lines of memory, through the years of agony, past the time of being someone else, and collided into the present. Flash of Will's arms around me, our baby still alive and tucked safely in my womb. Flash of a dreadful bang from behind as piercing headlights forced me down a lonely, mist-enshrouded embankment. Flash of my mother's face drenched in tears. Flash of Will, pale and quiet, behind a glass panel.
Had someone truly orchestrated the terrible events that had thwarted our lives? Had someone tried to kill me? Had someone deliberately framed my husband? Would everything really ever be wonderful or were we forever doomed to be the targets of a madman who could try to make art out of gruesome tragedy?
Chapter 21
March 2009
The Artist
A thrill of excitement started in his chest and spread downwards, goose bumping his entire body. Even his toes felt a tingle. Never had he imagined he would be given such a gift. It had not occurred to him that he, too, could experience perfect art.
The fact that he was The Artist had seemed to preclude him from the encounter. Whenever he had imagined his death, it was a simpering, dull kind of end. In bed melting from the inside through cancer or hit by a car in the street or keeling over from a heart attack. Mundane, just like most ordinary people.
Shortly after he'd heard the news about the Taylor-Thompsons, he had been struck by the number one hundred. He saw and heard it everywhere. It was a shock when he realized the number of people who had been transported to the Creative Spring was in the nineties. Of course—the sudden appearance of One Hundred on television, radio, and print was a message. He was supposed to stop at one hundred.
He was astonished at t
he simplicity, the purity, and wondered why the goal hadn't been revealed to him before. Perhaps he would have rushed and made a mistake. Got caught before he reached the One Hundred.
Even more astonishing, a voice began whispering in his ear. He would turn around in the middle of a room, or a street, or a bus, but no one would be there. At last he realized his own personal Creative Spring was speaking to him and him alone.
A Creative Spring that had evolved to an even higher plane than he had. He was special, the voice told him. He would conduct the one-hundredth death and his work would be complete.
Through the guidance of his Spring, The Artist began to realize he had been somewhat of a fool. He'd allowed emotion to cloud his judgement at times. He'd felt jealousy, acted out of revenge. Now the only thing that mattered was arranging the proper death.
He had reached his pinnacle by mid-March: ninety-nine people had been given the gift of a painful and glorious death. Then lo and behold, the Thompsons came to town. Now he knew on whom to bestow the One Hundredth mantle.
In the meantime, he prepared the altar, the place where number One Hundred would be led into the Spring through pain and a slow ebbing of life energy. He could barely contain his joy.
Even people whom he saw every day remarked on the happiness that glowed from his face. "Hey, you sure look happy," some had said, or "Wow, you look ten years younger. What's happened?" another had remarked.
He felt like jumping up and down, sharing with all of these poor deluded people that the ultimate knowledge was open to all of them. They had only to allow it to happen. But of course no one did.
They wandered around in their pathetic bodies in this wretched world of things. Things like paintings by Langford Taylor, whose style The Artist had copied and mastered so easily so long ago. What absurd creatures humans were!
Everything was ready. The paint, the tattoo needle, the ropes, the acid.
Chapter 22
March 2009
Once Will and I had regained our composure, Montgomery went right back to business. He held up a packet of thin white examination gloves.
"I want us to read some of the letters, on the assumption that once the evidence is deposited with the police department, we won't get this chance again. I didn't want to make copies—too risky. Hence the gloves."
We peeled off two each and guided them onto our hands.
"Although I agree with Jacob that our prime task is to acquire your declaration of innocence, I can't help but be angry enough to want to punish this son of a bitch."
Monty once again was almost breathless. His obvious effort to contain his wrath was almost as great as my own. He waved his gloved hand in Jacob's direction, his eyes flashing, as though he were a mime saying one thing with his hands and another with his expression.
"I know, Jacob, I swear I can read your mind. I promise you I won't interfere with the police investigation. But I really want Emily and Bill to hear the voice in these letters."
Jacob said nothing, but he gave a nod, granting permission without saying yes out loud.
Monty continued, satisfied.
"Notice anything that sounds familiar. A phrase, a particular word, a saying. People often have a distinctive quality to their speech that also comes out in their writing. Maybe this guy has revealed himself in some way."
He carefully removed the letters from inside the envelopes, three long diatribes of several pages in length. Then Montgomery paused, looking at us directly and honestly, as though trying to temper his own impulsiveness.
"You don't have to do this. As you know, Jacob doesn't think it's a good idea. Plus, it's going to be difficult. All you really need to do is tell me to take the evidence to the police, acquire your declaration, and let the law do the rest. And if that's what you want me to do, I will of course honour your wishes."
For an answer, both Will and I reached out to grasp a packet of letters in our latexed hands.
I struggled through each of the three letters, the knot of anger twisting inside me. Most of the time the writer repeated himself. Often he went into disgusting detail about the murders, describing the reactions of his victims.
Charlie, my dear boy…
The Creative Spring is the energy we all came from and we all desperately want to return to. Haven't you read anything, my dear Charles?
At times I would gasp out loud, shake my head. Once I even stomped my feet. I couldn't withhold the emotions roiling inside me—disgust, fear, shock and yes, hatred. I despised this monster who attempted to explain his killing spree with a twisted thesis on creativity.
I have brought all of these people to the Spring. When you look at them, be happy for them. See how I have painted mountains and rivers and skies for them. Their skins became art. Their souls became free.
How dare he! He had crushed the life from the helpless, the misguided, the most vulnerable members of society.
Will was the first to finish reading. "I have never encountered anyone quite this insane. Even in prison. The psychotic inmates were mostly zoned out with meds or transferred to an asylum. This guy…how is he wandering around? How do people not see he is crazy?"
Montgomery shook his head.
The words of a psychopath reverberated through each of us, branded in our minds, stained forever by what we read.
You know how we're born in liquid, Charlie my lad. That's the Spring. We go back to the Spring when we die. It's like immersing yourself in perfect beauty, like soft warm water, like a spring pumping life, energy.
"At the risk of sounding like a television shrink," Jacob said, "I do believe this guy is disintegrating very quickly. He may have been walking around unnoticed up until now. He's been able to maintain some kind of façade to hide his murderous side. But I don't think that's going to be possible much longer. The trigger had to have been hearing about your return."
I skimmed over the words once more, disgusted and terrified.
If a person wants perfection, they need to experience the perfect death. They have to be one with Creativity. Inside each of us, we have this creative urge, my dear boy. You have it. I have it. We use it. Some people do not. They have to be led toward it.
"The first of these letters arrived at the beginning of January. He must have heard we were still alive. We just told everyone in Burchill in December."
"The letters were posted from Langford," Will said. "Why Langford? It has to be someone who knew I was born there."
"Or someone who heard your new name. I think he was taunting you," Jacob said.
"So he was presuming Charlie would give us the letters," I added.
"Do you notice any patterns in the letters, Bill? Anything that triggers a memory?"
We both reread, despite the revulsion, as though swallowing detested food.
People have it all wrong, Charlie my boy. It's not life that's precious. It's death. It's dying. Slowly and painfully. You should see their eyes when they know death is upon them. The world suddenly spins to a halt and they see the light dancing on the stream.
The best way to experience True Art, Original Creativity, is to suffer. We suffered when we were born. We were born in pain. We must die in pain. The greater the pain, the more the suffering, the more perfect the death.
Will looked up at Montgomery, his face lined with thought.
"I wish I did. I was practically willing myself to find something. But nothing in these letters triggers any memories or connections."
The PI tried very hard not to look disappointed, but by now we were used to his expressions and we could see he was frustrated. We had the proof of William's innocence, but not a clue as to the identity of the real killer.
"Okay. What about the photographs?"
"The images will haunt you forever," Jacob cautioned us. "I've never seen anything like these pictures. Monty, even you were shocked by them and you've seen some pretty bad stuff in real life for god's sake."
Monty sighed.
I was beginning to get irritated th
at they were talking as though we weren't in the room.
"Jacob is probably right. But I think you can certainly handle the paintings."
"The paintings are not as graphic because they're an artistic rendering," Jacob agreed, "but I still think you should bypass them. I don't know if trying to trigger your memory is a good enough reason for having them on your minds for the rest of your lives. And I'm not just talking about the actual images."
"They aren't painted on real canvas, are they?" I asked.
Will looked at me with a puzzled expression, but I could see I was right by the shock on the faces of the other two men.
"They're painted on skin, aren't they?"
"Yes," Montgomery said, in one word opening a world of horror, a collective memory of human torture and revulsion, a reminder of the depths to which some people can plunge.
Will stood up and paced. "I have to ask again. How has this creature been able to walk around in the guise of a normal human being?"
"We'd have to acquire the services of a forensic psychologist to give us a real answer," Montgomery said, "but it has mostly to do with his victims, I think. He picked on people who wouldn't be missed, or if they were missed, there were other plausible reasons for their disappearances."
I tried to imagine living a life that would not be missed by anyone. No students, colleagues—no family, no Cate or Carly or siblings—no friends. Tears formed in my eyes, an ache for all those people in the world who died without love.
Because May had a strong desire to share her largesse, I longed to talk to her about what we could do for people like these. Victims whose actual skin had been used as an implement. Victims exploited for the purposes of fear and contempt.
Jacob brought me back to the present.
"He must be a very clever person too," he said. "A fiend who can pretend to be ordinary. A predator who can form relationships, at least enough of them to appear to be an average person. Either that or he is naturally different in some way, such as being in a position of authority that few would question. He has to be someone you know, Bill. And perhaps who knows you too, Emily.
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