by M. Z. Kelly
He didn’t respond. Maybe I’d laid it on too thick. Dawson just continued to stare at me glassy-eyed, not saying anything. “Well?” I finally said, “Let me have it.”
“You went way too easy on me, Buttercup, just like I did with you. Maybe we’re both getting soft in our old age.”
“Speak for yourself.”
He turned away from me, pulled out a crossword puzzle, and began scribbling away.
My frustration with him was on overload again. “Are you ready to talk about our case?”
His pale blue eyes, tinged with red, came up to me. “I don’t waste my time talking about what I already know. Maybe you should go…” He looked at my hands. “Go file your nails or something.”
I stomped off and went back to the files Greer had given me on The Artist. Despite my best efforts, I found my mind wandering back to Dawson’s profile of me. The truth was he’d been right about almost everything. And as the miles flew by, despite whatever personal shortcomings and problems I had, I realized that I missed my old life. I missed Jack and my mother and the department. I even missed my crazy roommates.
I brushed a tear, pushed my sorrow away, and went back to reading about a mad man and the horrors that he’d unleashed on the world.
CHAPTER NINE
The night is spellbound, silent and dark, as though sound and color have yet to be born into the world. A breeze lifts the air, stirring a current chilled by the mountain snows across the wide flat prairie. Like an artist’s brush it slowly reawakens the earth.
A vapor, rising like smoke over the barren nighttime landscape carries the glowing image of a man walking down a road. The painted figure stops, lungs rising and falling with anticipation. The Artist’s dark eyes slide over the silhouette of a house on a hill up ahead. He knows there’s a maiden there. She’s sleeping, awaiting her transformation.
He’s followed her for weeks and knows her every habit. Weekdays she rises at seven and usually has breakfast with her parents. She makes a half hour drive to her community college classes that begin at nine and last until early afternoon. Music is her major. The girl has the voice of an angel, like nothing he’s ever heard before.
He even attended a performance at her school one night. The other students had sat amazed by her performance, but a few of them made comments out of jealousy, ridiculing her behind her back. He’d seen the tears on her cheeks when one of her friends told her what they’d said.
When her classes let out she goes to work at a mall and finishes up at nine. Wednesday nights she gets off early and stops at her church. She’s part of the choir there and a group that has something to do with building houses for the poor in Mexico during summer vacation.
The Artist’s mind surfaces and he moves into the yard, the rhythm of his breath and footfalls the only sounds in an otherwise silent world. He knows that the girl’s parents are away. She’s alone in the house, waiting for him.
He uses a screwdriver, pries open the window, and slips inside. There’s a light burning in the kitchen. He takes his time, just as he always does, enjoying this part of the journey, the moments of anticipation before he takes a maiden and everything begins.
There’s lightness in his step as he bounds down the hallway to the bedroom. He feels the blood coursing through his veins, the way it makes him tingle, the building sensation in that place he never touches.
When the door to the girl’s room creaks open he stops and watches as she begins to stir, the realization slowly dawning on her that someone is in the house.
Her voice is hesitant, fearful. “Who’s there?”
He takes a step forward, then stops and whispers, “The one you have been waiting for.”
“What…” The girl is fully awake now sitting up in bed, reaching for the phone on the nightstand.
He grabs her hand as she screams and begins to struggle. He brings his other scaled hand up to her mouth, silencing her. “Sssshhh…not another word now.”
The girl’s eyes lift. Even in the dim light of the bedroom he sees her becoming aware of his image for the first time. This moment always thrills him, that instant when the maidens realize who or what has come for them. He glances over, taking in the magnificence of his creation in the mirrored closet doors.
The Artist has been transformed. He is no longer a man. The visage that stares, blinking at the girl is something alien, not of this world. It’s painted green hands have nails that are fashioned into points, suggesting the appearance of claws. His arms and chest are painted, giving the impression of brown scales covering some ancient reptilian creature that’s been reborn. But even as he studies his own terrifying image, he knows it isn’t the creature’s body that terrifies the maidens.
It’s his face.
Tonight the head is painted from hairline to neck in phosphorescent hues of green, gold, and red. The mouth is blood red and glows in the darkness like a gaping, oozing wound. The eyes that study the girl are dark and empty, as though they belong to something that has slithered out of the darkness of eons past. They are outlined in a heavy dark liner, made perfect by his meticulous artistry.
His lips turn up when the girl’s eyes lift and she sees the head covering. She stares at him in what he imagines is both horror and disbelief. The covering is attached with leather straps that support horns taken from a ram. Feathers are affixed to the headpiece over a partial skull, the remnants of a kill when he was still perfecting his skills. The covering still carries the faint odor of something rotting and dead.
The girl screams again, the terror of what’s happening now fully hitting her. The Artist reaches into his bag, brings out a syringe, and stabs her in the neck. In seconds the silence of the night returns. He bends down and strokes her hair. “Sleep well my sweet one. Soon we will begin.”
CHAPTER TEN
“Are you fricking kidding me?” I stood in the parking lot of the Tulsa Oklahoma Greenbriar Inn. “I don’t even believe this.”
Last night Joe Dawson had agreed to meet me at eight in the morning and drive us to the local police department. It was five minutes before eight as I watched my new partner give me a middle finger salute, smile, and blast through the parking lot out onto the interstate.
Half an hour later, after calling a cab and arriving at the police station, I spotted Dawson inside talking to one of the local cops. I stomped over, coming within inches of his big, stupid mug. “Why the hell didn’t you wait for me?”
“You were late,” he growled. “What is it, your time of the month?”
My brow furrowed, my lips parting in disbelief. I glanced over at the officer he’d been talking to and saw that even the big cop appeared shocked by what my new partner had said. I found Dawson’s eyes again. “I was early and if you keep up this shit up, I’ll…”
“You’ll what?” Dawson demanded. “Head back to fairytale land? Go ahead. Maybe you can get an acting job—maybe they gotta new show and need a lesbian cop.”
I exhaled, turned away from him and said to the Tulsa cop, “I’m Detective Kate Sexton.” I motioned to Dawson. “This big ball of bigotry is my partner. Can you tell me where I can find your chief?”
The cop was almost as tall as Dawson but overweight and doughy. He had a shiny gold badge affixed to his belt buckle and a forty caliber Smith and Wesson in his holster—something big enough to bring down a moose or maybe even a jackass.
“I’m Detective Barkley,” the Tulsa cop drawled. “The chief’s finishing up with his press conference. I can get y’all set up at a couple of spare desks and he’ll see you when he’s free.”
“What’s your chief’s name, Barney?” Dawson demanded. “And where the hell is he?”
“It’s…it’s Barkley,” the cop stammered.
“No, that’s your name,” Dawson fumed. “I’m talking about the chief.”
The tubby young cop went on, “I know…I know what my own name is. What I meant is…the chief…his name is Dewey…Dewey Gallagher.” He motioned over his shoulder. “T
he press briefing’s in the conference room. He’s with our deputy chief, Skip Conrad. They should be wrapping up real soon.”
Dawson pushed past both of us, heading for the press conference. Barkley said something about the briefing being closed to outsiders as I followed them.
My new partner stopped at the door and turned back to Barkley. “Listen to me, Barney. I’m a federal agent, not an outsider. You make sure that message gets around. And I’m not here to take shit from Huey, Louie, or your fucking Chief Dewey.”
The police chief took that moment to come through the door, maybe hearing profanity attached to his name. Behind him I saw that the news conference appeared to be over, the reporters heading for the exit.
“What’s going on here?” the chief asked, coming over to us. Dewey Gallagher was probably in his early fifties. His sparse hair was turning gray and his moustache drooped. He had the bureaucratic, beat-down look of an administrator who hadn’t worked the streets in years and wasn’t fond of dealing with the press either.
“What’s going on here,” Dawson said, “is a rescue operation. I’m a federal officer here to save this one-horse cow town from a killer.”
“That so,” Dewey said, looking from Dawson to me. I introduced myself, trying to take the edge off what my partner had said but knowing it was impossible.
The chief shook my hand, exhaled, and waved for us to follow him into his office. Dewey Gallagher didn’t appear to have much fight left in him after the news conference, and certainly not enough to deal with someone like my rope-a-dope partner.
“Hope you’re better than the last guy,” the chief mumbled as we followed him. “Heard he shot himself.”
As I walked beside my new partner to Gallagher’s office I said, “Ever hear the term common courtesy?”
Dawson checked his watch. “Seven hours, sixteen minutes.”
“What?”
“That’s how long Susan Wellington has to live.” His eyes narrowed. “While you’re busy doing curtseys for Dewey you might wanna keep that in mind.”
We took seats as the chief settled in behind a large mahogany desk. When I arrived at the station, I’d noticed that the Tulsa PD was located in an historic building, probably built around the turn of the last century. Outside Dewey Gallagher’s office, there was a scattering of cubicles and modular furnishings interspersed with the antiques. A few cops and civilians were milling around the station, probably worked up by the news conference.
The chief looked over his glasses and started to fill us in on what we already knew. “We have a second victim, Susan…”
Dawson made no effort to conceal his irritation. “I know all about her and I don’t need another news conference. I need the letter The Artist sent to the press, photos of the crime scene, lab reports, any other evidence you’ve collected. NOW.”
The chief shook his head slowly. His cheeks filled like a couple of sallow bellows, then deflated. He reached into a folder on his desk and started to remove some items, but apparently thought better of it and handed the entire file over to Dawson.
“I’ll need that back after you’ve reviewed it,” the chief said. Dawson didn’t make eye contact, which caused Dewey Gallagher to look over at me. “I’m going to assign detectives Hass and Barrett to work with you both fulltime. They’re my best guys. We’ve also got a profiler here from the state, Kent Zender, who seems like he knows what he’s talking about.”
I thanked him but Dawson didn’t respond. His eyes were fixed on the materials the chief had provided.
Gallagher’s deputy chief, Skip Conrad, who looked like the heir-apparent for the chief’s job, popped in the door and introduced himself. He was young and full of enthusiasm. Dawson just grunted, didn’t make eye contact.
“We appreciate all the manpower you can give us,” I said to Gallagher after Skip Conrad had left. “Maybe we can meet with your officers as soon…”
I turned and saw that Dawson was on his feet, headed out the door. I called after him, “Where are you going?”
“To study the evidence,” he growled, slamming the door behind him.
After apologies to the chief, an hour later I’d convinced my new partner to join a meeting with the two Tulsa cops assigned to our case and the state profiler, only after agreeing to buy him dinner if he came to the meeting.
Even though our day was just starting I was already exhausted. I’d had trouble falling asleep last night after talking to Jack and explaining about my new assignment. At the end of our conversation I again sensed he wanted to say something about our relationship growing closer and how he felt about me. Just like before I’d cut things short, unsure how I felt about everything.
Dawson came to the meeting late and took a seat at the far end of the table, grumbling about me wasting his time. He set a crossword puzzle in front of him but also had the file Dewey Gallagher had given him.
We made introductions, or, I should say, I made introductions. Dawson just sat there studying the evidence, ignoring the Tulsa cops and the profiler.
Detective Bill Hass was a heavyset guy with black hair and deeply set brown eyes, who was probably around thirty-five. He spoke quickly, going over the facts of the case but telling us nothing new.
Ray Barrett was much younger. He was blonde, good looking, and made a point of saying he was single. He had the cocky attitude of a young cop who was way too sure of himself. He speculated that The Artist would probably stay in the area for some time after his latest kill, enjoying the results of the reign of terror he’d visited upon the citizens of Tulsa.
Kent Zender did an eye roll after hearing Barrett’s prediction. The state police profiler was tall, probably six-three, about forty, with a mop of curly brown hair. He began his talk by making a point of telling us that he was an adjunct professor of criminal science at the state university.
Professor Zender wasted no time in irritating the hell out of me. He discussed each victim in excruciating detail as he pinned the photographs of all ten young women on three easels he’d set up, including a photo of our most recent victim, Susan Wellington. I was surprised that Dawson didn’t insult him and walk out.
When Zender pasted a blow up of The Artist’s most recent letter to the Tulsa Times it caught my attention. There was something about seeing the brief typewritten paragraph in a larger scale that was haunting. I read the letter again, trying to put Zender’s play by play analysis out of my mind.
The tenth maiden, Susan Wellington, has been taken. She sleeps, awaiting her transformation into a portrait of timeless grace and beauty. My exhibition will be on display in twenty-four hours for everyone to see.
Regards,
The Artist
I saw nothing remarkable about The Artist’s hand-written signature. I’d read in the reports that the profilers and hand-writing experts hadn’t come up with anything worthwhile concerning it. Instead, I concentrated on the three key words in the paragraph:
transformation…timeless…exhibition.
Something registered with me about those three words. As the professor’s lecture continued, I turned and whispered to Dawson, “I think he’s creating a tableau.” I realized he wasn’t listening to me. He’d set the file on the case aside and was working on his crossword puzzle. I leaned over and said to him, “The least you could do is pay attention.”
As I’d said the words Zender was going on about our subject cycling faster, the latency period between his crimes decreasing. I looked over and saw Hass was yawning. A moment later, Barrett slipped me a note, asking me out to dinner.
I shook my head at him and ripped up the note. Dawson put down his pen and looked up from his puzzle at the professor. His voice was animated, as though something had suddenly occurred to him. “The latency periods haven’t changed.”
Kent Zender was startled by the outburst. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. The latest abduction occurred several hours earlier than in past cycles.”
“Bullshit,” Dawson said. Before Zender could
respond, he turned to me and said, “CCTV’s. You got a computer?”
I nodded and motioned to my laptop on the chair next to me but had no idea what he was talking about.
“Get Google Earth up.” He turned to the professor, the other cops in the room. “The church where the girl was taken, what’s the address?”
Hass had the report in front of him. “The New Life Church, 342 Market Street, Tulsa.”
“Is that out in some cow pasture?”
Hass scratched his beefy chin. “I think it’s in one of those newer industrial centers. Seems like a funny place for a church to me.” He turned to the younger cop for confirmation.
Barrett nodded. “I was out there yesterday. It’s near an intersection off the main highway.”
Dawson came over to where I was sitting. “Type in the address.”
“What’s going on?” Zender asked. The professor came over to us, obviously perplexed.
“Got it,” I said. “Yes, it’s in an industrial complex—sort of a strip mall.”
“Do the earth map and zoom in,” Dawson said.
I did as instructed but apparently wasn’t focusing in on what he was after. “Give me that,” he said, pulling the laptop away from me.
I watched as he zoomed in on the businesses near the church. “What are you looking for?”
“CCTV’s.” Without looking up from the screen Dawson asked the two Tulsa cops. “Did you guys check the security cameras on the businesses near the church?”
Hass looked at Barrett and shrugged. “I don’t think anyone thought…”
“Figures,” Dawson growled.
“You think maybe…” The professor’s question was cut off by Dawson.
“Got it. There’s a gas station and a market on the corner. Both have closed circuit TV’s. Let’s go.” He grabbed his coat, shouted over to Hass and Barrett, “You’re with us, cowboys.”
“What about me?” Kent Zender asked.
Dawson glanced over at the state profiler. “I heard there’s a zombie apocalypse coming. Why don’t you go see if Gilligan and the Skipper need some help with it, professor. We gotta go catch a copycat.”