The Death Artist

by Jonathan Santlofer

  Back in the library, Kate scanned the shelves—book after book about painting, art history, individual artists, the titles beginning to blur.

  She needed another break, settled onto one of the living room couches, closed her eyes, tried to erase any thoughts, all images. Okay. Breathe. That’s it. Eyes open, Kate’s vision drifted slowly across one of Willie’s assemblages, a couple of Richard’s religious altarpieces, a large abstract painting, finally coming to rest on their prized Picasso, the one-eyed self-portrait.

  Holy shit!

  Kate bolted down the hall, snatched the close-up of Elena’s butchered face, raced back, held the crime scene photo beside the Picasso with a shaky hand. A dead ringer. The Picasso profile replicated—forehead, nose, and chin—down the side of Elena’s cheek in a wavy line of blood.

  Kate froze. My God, has he been here, in my house, seen the painting?

  She whisked the large Picasso & Portraiture catalog off the antique brass music stand just beside the portrait, riffled pages until she found the reproduction: Self-portrait. 1901. Oil on canvas. Collection Mr. and Mrs. Richard Rothstein.

  Kate breathed a small sigh of relief. Of course. She and Richard would be identified as the owners of the portrait in any recent book on Picasso.

  But then he chose the image knowing it was my painting. Why?

  That she couldn’t answer. Not yet. She felt as though she were on an adrenaline IV. She wanted to call Richard, tell him what she’d figured out. But she was speeding. She’d tell him later. She gathered everything up. Tapell had to see this.

  A couple of minutes for Kate to line up the crime scene photos beside the paintings she’d selected. Ten minutes to spell out her theory.

  Tapell took it all in. “You’re absolutely sure?” she asked, knowing the answer, just not wanting to admit it.

  Kate nodded. “As sure as I can be, Clare.”

  The two old colleagues locked eyes.

  “All right.” Tapell exhaled. “You’ll have to explain it all again to the Special Homicide Task Force.” She surveyed the photos and pages Kate had torn from books one more time. “I’ll make the call.”

  Kate only half listened while Tapell was on the phone, her adrenaline still pumping madly.

  “It’s set,” said Tapell, replacing the phone. “You can work along with Mead’s squad—unofficially. Naturally, the man’s not thrilled with the idea, but I didn’t give him a choice. You’ll have to demonstrate to him what you can add to the investigation.”

  “Thanks, Clare. I—”

  “You’ll have to play by Mead’s rules. And no heroics, okay?”

  Kate nodded.

  The chief of police gave her a solemn look. “I don’t want the press to get wind of this. Not a word, Kate. We just got the goddamn Central Park Shooter out of the way. The last thing this city needs is talk of another serial killer.”

  14

  Central Booking was too familiar. A lot bigger than Kate’s old Astoria station, but the story was the same, even the same stale air—smoke, sweat, day-old bologna sandwiches, bad coffee.

  Kate paced. It was clearly Randy Mead’s idea of how to show her who was boss. She took in the greasy-haired guy handcuffed to the leg of the nearby metal desk: the crude blue-black tattoo on his forearm, a really lousy drawing of an eagle, and, just below it, a lopsided heart with a name—Rita?—barely legible inside. Across from him, a tired-looking cop asked rote questions, typed with two fingers.

  The place had that curious buzz—activity devoid of life. Detectives and uniforms parading the usual perps—hookers, druggies, small-time hoods—through rows of metal desks into small cubicles, or past them into holding tanks; felons screaming about their rights or so drugged the cops had to drag them.

  “. . . motherfucker, cocksucker, asshole, faggot, junkie, whore . . .”

  The words floated on top of the stale air like funky Muzak.

  Two woman cops, detectives in plain clothes, looked Kate over. She returned their stares until they looked away, then shoved her hands deep into the pockets of the designer jacket she was sorry she had worn here.

  She wished Tapell had come with her, made the introductions personally.

  “McKinnon?” The uniform looked as if he’d just graduated from the Academy. Kate nodded. “The squad’s ready for ya.”

  The conference room was gray and beige, someone’s idea of sober, serious decor, but it was simply depressing. The overhead fluorescents bathed everything in a cold bluish light. The only “life” in the room snaked out of about thirty color crime scene photos pinned to a cork-board wall—ashen bodies enlivened with purple bruises and maroon wine blood. Among them Solana, Pruitt, Stein—three bodies Kate had become too familiar with. She sat back in a stiff metal chair, rapped her fingers on the folder she had brought with her, tried hard not to eyeball the other detectives whom Tapell had summed up in one-minute histories.

  Floyd Brown: ace homicide cop, difficult by reputation, a lifer.

  Maureen Slattery: formerly of vice, two years with the Special Homicide Squad, smart, tenacious.

  Kate took in Detective Slattery’s teased blond bob, bubble-gum-pink lipstick outlined in cherry red, asked, “How long you been in homicide?” even though she knew the answer. Something to break the ice.

  “Two years,” Slattery answered, not much emotion in her Brooklyn- or Queens-tainted speech. “I did a nickel in vice before this.”

  “Five years is a long time in hot pants and halter tops.” Kate smiled.

  Slattery rolled her eyes, something wary pulling at the corners of her mouth. “Tell me about it.” The way Maureen Slattery saw it, homicide might not be all that different from vice, except that here the men wouldn’t be looking at her ass. She took in Kate’s expensive blazer, the grooming that went along with privilege, wondered why this obvious up-town gal was slumming.

  Floyd Brown leaned against the far wall sipping coffee from a styrofoam cup, his eyes skirting the rim. When Kate was introduced, he nodded. Barely.

  Randy Mead bolted into the room with a stack of manila file folders under his arm. “So, everybody get acquainted?” He swallowed, and his Adam’s apple did a little dance just above his bow tie, this one with blue polka dots, which, Kate thought, made him look about twelve. He made that teeth-sucking noise she remembered too well from their first meeting. He threw Kate a sideways glance. “McKinnon, here, has got a little theory that Chief Tapell wants her to share with us.”

  Kate decided to ignore the condescension in Mead’s tone. “First of all,” she said, “I’m here unofficially—but on Clare Tapell’s authority.” She let that sink in, then: “For the record, I was a cop, in Astoria, for over a decade.”

  “Wait a minute.” Brown shook his head, confused. “Aren’t you the art lady from Channel Thirteen?”

  Kate smiled. “I had a series about art, on PBS, yes.”

  Maureen stared at her blankly. She’d obviously never seen it.

  “So you’re here . . . why?” Brown asked.

  “I think that will become obvious, Detective Brown.” Kate opened her folder, placed a Pruitt crime scene photo beside the image torn from her book. “What you are looking at is The Death of Marat, a famous eighteenth-century painting by Jacques-Louis David. Note the similarities. Not just the tub, but how Pruitt’s head is cradled by the towel, the way his arms are placed, just like Marat’s. Pruitt even has a note in hand, as does Marat in the painting.”

  Brown leaned in.

  “The fucking laundry list,” said Slattery. “Like Pruitt was just sitting there, reading his goddamn laundry list, and had a heart attack—”

  “But it’s no heart attack,” said Kate. “I’m sure of that. The laundry list is merely a prop.”

  “Staged,” Brown mumbled, almost to himself.

  Slattery asked, “Why’s he in the bath, this Marat guy, in the painting?”

  “A nasty skin condition,” said Kate. “He had to stay immersed in his bath because of the pain.”<
br />
  Mead sucked his teeth again. “Any significance between Pruitt and the guy in the painting?”

  Kate thought a moment. “Well . . . Marat was a political leader in the French Revolution, and Pruitt was a museum president. Maybe it’s that the two guys were leaders.” She thought again. “And one could say that the Contemporary Museum is somewhat revolutionary.”

  Mead appeared to take this in. Brown made a note.

  Now Kate laid an Ethan Stein crime scene photo on the conference table beside the picture she’d torn from her book on Renaissance painting. “This one’s by Titian. It’s called The Flaying of Marsyas.”

  “Damn.” Brown eyed both sets of pictures.

  “The crime scenes are very carefully staged,” said Kate. She sat back, waited until all three sets of eyes were on her. “The guy is making art. Living tableaux—except that they’re not living. They’re re-creations.”

  “But why?” Mead pressed.

  “When you catch him,” said Kate, “ask.”

  “So,” said Brown, looking at one picture, then another. “Our killer knows something about art.”

  “Yes. But anyone with an art book or poster could stage the scenes.” Kate tapped her lip. “I was just thinking . . . In the Titian painting, Marsyas gets flayed because of his vanity. Perhaps that’s another message. You know, the vain artist.”

  “Poor bastard,” said Maureen Slattery. “So what’d this guy, Marsyas, do?”

  “He challenged the god Apollo to a music contest—and lost.”

  “Tough crowd,” said Slattery.

  Kate regarded the mask of horror on the dead artist’s face.

  “What tipped me off was the skinning, the flaying. Just like in the painting. Also the little picture of a violin stuck onto Stein’s painting.” Kate pointed it out in the photo. “You can see it clearly under a magnifier. I’m sure the killer put it there. Did anyone take it?”

  “It’s probably still there,” said Brown. “We’ll get it.”

  Kate looked back at Stein’s file. “I’d also guess that when you get the toxicology report, there’s going to be some kind of paralyzing drug in Stein’s veins. No one could sit still for that.” She turned to Mead. “Did your crime scene boys notice anything about the lights in Stein’s studio?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think the killer was aping the painting right down to the chiaroscuro.”

  “The who?” Maureen frowned.

  “The intense black-and-white side lighting. Rembrandt used it. So did Caravaggio. A lot of painters have. Titian uses it for dramatic effect.” Kate placed another one of the crime scene photos of Stein’s body on the table. “I think if you revisit the Stein scene, you’ll find that half of the spot-lights in the studio have been unscrewed or unplugged.”

  Maureen made a note. “We’ll check it out.”

  “So, if you’re right, then we’re looking at the same unsub for Pruitt and Stein,” said Brown.

  Unsub? Oh, right. Unknown subject. “Yes,” said Kate.

  Brown said something to Slattery, the two of them whispering.

  Mead put up a hand to silence them. “Look, no one is saying anything definite here. Let’s not go jumping on any serial-killer bandwagons—not just yet.” He offered Kate what she guessed was a look of sincerity. “I know Tapell thinks you’re onto something, and hey, maybe you are, but we gotta substantiate everything—and I mean everything—before we go saying serial.”

  “I absolutely agree,” said Kate.

  “Good. Now what about Solana?”

  “Also staged,” said Kate. “Though you might say it’s a bit more subtle.” She strained to sound matter-of-fact as she opened the Picasso & Portraiture book to the one-eyed self-portrait. She selected the crime scene photo close-up of Elena’s face, laid it beside the Picasso self-portrait. “Notice that the Picasso portrait has two faces in one—a full face and a profile right down the middle. The killer has selected the profile, which he’s painted along Elena Solana’s cheek.”

  “In blood,” said Brown. “Economical.”

  “Or maybe he wasn’t quite prepared,” said Kate.

  “What’s with the one eye?” asked Slattery. “Any significance?”

  For a moment Kate realized it could have been worse—that the psycho could have gouged out Elena’s eye if he’d wanted to replicate the entire portrait. Thank God for small blessings. “Picasso tended to paint fast,” said Kate. “When he felt as though he’d painted enough, gotten his message across, he’d just stop, move on to another painting. He left studios, houses, filled with paintings in all states of what you might consider unfinished.” She paused. “Maybe that’s also true with the killer—that he felt he’d left us enough of a message.” Kate paused again. “But the choice of this particular Picasso is significant because . . . it’s my painting.”

  “What do you mean, yours?” Mead’s small eyes narrowed.

  “I mean, I own it. It’s in my living room.”

  Brown looked alarmed. “You mean this guy’s been in your house?”

  Kate put up a hand. “I thought that too, but look at the book. It’s right there, my name, the fact that I own it.” Kate couldn’t stop looking at the profile in blood on Elena’s cheek. “I don’t know why, but I think he chose it for that very reason—that it’s mine.”

  Mead leaned toward her. “You got any enemies, McKinnon?”

  “Half the art world, I imagine.”

  Slattery cocked her head toward Kate. “Why’s that?”

  “My art book was a bit unconventional—and way too popular. Then the PBS series.” Kate shrugged her shoulders. “Success. It breeds envy—and enemies. Maybe.” Kate looked from one crime scene photo to the next—Elena, Bill Pruitt, Ethan Stein. “There are just too many connections here,” she said. “Elena was a graduate of Let There Be a Future, and William Mason Pruitt was not only on the board of Let There Be a Future, but also served as its financial adviser. Plus, he was president of the board of the Museum of Contemporary Art, which was the last place Elena Solana was seen . . . alive.” Kate faltered a moment. “I should add that I’m also on that board and that I knew the victim—Elena Solana—well.” She paused. “But you already know I was one of the people to find the body.”

  For the next twenty minutes the squad reviewed the grizzly details of Elena Solana’s murder: the seventeen stab wounds, the position of the body, the lack of fingerprints.

  Kate surprised herself at how she could listen to it all, as though it were any ordinary case. Funny, she thought, how quickly the cop thing kicked in, the ability to detach.

  “There’s evidence here to suggest you’re dealing with a very organized killer,” she offered. “Not only does he take his time with the crime scenes, but he cleans up. And according to your tech boys, he left no prints. And I’d say that both the Pruitt and Stein murders took some serious planning, too.”

  “I agree.” Brown tilted his head in her direction, narrowed his eyes. “But why do you say that?”

  “You ever try to slip past a Park Avenue doorman, Detective Brown? Not easy. If someone wanted access to Bill Pruitt’s building they would have to know when the door-men switched shifts, or waited, possibly for hours, for the doorman to leave his post, and then slip in. It would take planning or patience—or both. As for Stein, well . . . who’s seen his place?”

  Brown nodded. “Gates on the windows. Police lock on the front door. Neither tampered with or broken.”

  “So Stein let the killer in—which is what I’d guess about Solana.”

  “Unless Solana is a crime of passion,” Slattery offered. “You said before that the unsub may not have been prepared.”

  “Or the girl could have been hooking,” said Mead.

  Elena? Hooking? Mead’s words shot through Kate like amphetamine.

  The other detectives turned toward her, waiting to see what she would say, do. She’d already told them she had been close to Elena, and now, she guessed, th
ey wanted to see if she could take it.

  Kate gripped the edge of the metal table. “Maureen, you searched the apartment. Did you find any sexy outfits?”

  “Mostly flannel PJs.”

  “I see. How about a little black book with lots of initialed appointments? Anything like that?” Under the table, Kate’s foot was tapping.

  Maureen shook her head.

  “And the contents of the medicine cabinet? Any condoms, poppers, amyl nitrite, ludes, ecstasy, that sort of thing?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “Very tame hooker.” Kate locked her eyes on the young blond policewoman. “You said you worked vice for five years, so you would recognize a prostitute’s apartment, yes?”

  Mead cut in. “We get your point, McKinnon.” He offered up a cheesy smile. “All I’m suggesting here is that your scholarship girl might not be so squeaky clean.”

  Brown displayed a sheet of paper from the Solana file. “Your statement here says you were with Solana earlier that evening, before she got killed.”

  “Not together per se.” Kate felt the slightest crack in her armor. The amphitheater, Elena onstage, alive. “She gave a performance. At the Museum of Contemporary Art, which I attended.”

  “Says you left her around nine.”

  The quickest good-bye. A kiss good night. “Yes. Right after her performance. We had planned to go out for dinner, but Elena was tired and—” Elena’s broken body. A pool of congealed blood edging into cracked linoleum tiles. Kate almost gasped, the image so vivid in her mind. She took a deep breath. “It was a few days later that I, we, that is, me and Willie Handley, found her body.”

  “So, let me get this straight,” said Brown, scanning one file, then the other. “You knew both vics—Solana and Pruitt.”

  Kate blinked. “Yes. That’s right.”

  “What about Stein?”

  “I didn’t know him, but I own one of his paintings.”

  “You seem to know everyone, McKinnon.” Mead’s tiny eyes narrowed even more.

  “Not everyone. I don’t think I ever met Ethan Stein, though I may have, in passing—because of my art-world connections.” Kate took another breath. “There’s more.” She slid the graduation photo onto the table. “This was somehow planted on me. It’s of me and Elena Solana. I got it before she was killed. That is, before I knew she was killed. Look closely. Her eyes—”