The Death Artist

by Jonathan Santlofer

  Now it was a blue Ford sedan, early nineties variety, sliding in behind the other cars. Doors creaked open, two detectives signaled the others out of their cars. The six of them huddled together.

  One of the homicide detectives, a guy about forty in shirt-sleeves, a nervous tic in his right eye, asked, “You sure he’s in there?”

  The mustachioed uniform tipped his head toward the bodega and liquor store. “According to the store owners. They say he’s been holed up in the warehouse for over a week. Comes into the stores once or twice a day. Has money for baloney sandwiches and rotgut Thunderbird.”

  “Okay.” The detective swatted at his flicking eye. “You two guys see if there’s egress from the back. We’ll wait for your signal, then head in the front.” He nodded at his partner, who already had his pistol out.

  The two uniforms fell into that half-crouch walk made familiar by TV cop shows and movies, made their way across the sad-looking street, disappeared behind the ware-house.

  “You know who the perp is?” asked one of the waiting uniforms.

  “No,” said the homicide detective with the eye problem. But that was a lie. He’d spoken to Brown, had a pretty good idea who it was, but no way he was saying anything. If it was who he thought, it would be his job to stay cool, not let the other cops know. If they did, they’d shoot the mother-fucker on sight.

  The air was thick, tension palpable.

  “Gettin’ hot,” said his partner, rocking back and forth on his heels.

  Eye-tic nodded.

  The uniform’s voice crackled over the transceiver. “No egress in back,” he whispered. “The door’s boarded up. Windows, too.”

  The detective rubbed at his eye, signaled the other uniforms to get ready. “You guys come around front,” he said into his handheld radio. “We’re right behind you. And take it easy. Real slow. We don’t need no fuckin’ heroes.”

  They scrambled toward the warehouse entrance, met up with the other two uniforms, took turns pivoting through the door, pistols out in front of them.

  The broken windows and cracked ceiling allowed in just enough of the dying daylight to illuminate the scene: four or five guys huddled around a garbage can, smoking crack.

  All the cops shouted at once: “Hands in the air, mother-fuckers!” “Don’t fuckin’ move!” “Don’t fucking breathe!”

  The junkies scattered like mice.

  But the cops were faster, grabbing one guy, then another, slamming bodies against brick walls, guns hard into backs.

  When they marched them into the street, handcuffed, shuffling, the junkies looked like a bunch of sad, lost children.

  The detectives separated Henry from the group just as the police van arrived.

  “What do you want?” Henry’s lip was trembling, though he was trying for tough.

  The two detectives slammed him against the cold metal of the police van, spread his legs, patted him down, came up with a knife he had in one pocket, a handful of photos of a young Latina in the other.

  Eye-tic looked them over, recognized Elena. “You’re under arrest.” He attempted to push Henry into the cop car, but Henry turned, bumped his chest up against the guy as if he were some NFL champion.

  The cop double-punched him in the gut.

  Henry buckled, fell to his knees, dry-heaved.

  The detectives got him under the arms, threw his sad ass into the back of the car. Two uniforms got in on either side of him.

  Back at the station, Kate could see that the cops had had then-way with Henry—one of his eyes was half-closed, turning purple; his lip split. He was still handcuffed, his arms stretched over the back of a metal chair, fluorescent lights of the Interrogation Room giving his skin a grayish cast.

  Mead was doing the interrogating. For the past half hour he’d been badgering Henry, but not really getting anywhere.

  Mitch Freeman was beside Mead, taking notes, a couple of Bureau robots on either side of Henry, ready to spring into action, as if somehow Henry could burst out of the steel cuffs, kill everyone in the room.

  Kate and Brown stared through the one-way mirror.

  Mead spread the photos found on Henry across the table. “You wanna tell me where you got these pictures of Solana?” he asked, for what Kate guessed was the tenth time.

  Henry’s eyes were glazed; he was thinking: How did I get them? He wasn’t sure. It all seemed so long ago. So far away.

  “You had a thing for the Solana girl,” said Mead. “Hey, I get that.” He sucked his teeth. “What’s the matter? She brush you off? You couldn’t take it, a girl like that. Who’s she think she is, right? Women.” He added a wink of camaraderie. “Fuckin’ kill you. The lot of them.”

  Henry just stared at him, eyes blank.

  Kate wondered when they were going to get the poor bastard a lawyer. Something she had not worried about when she was interrogating Damien Trip. But could they possibly think Henry, this pathetic junkie, was their man? “I don’t believe this,” Kate said to Brown. “They’re wasting their time.”

  “I don’t know,” said Brown. “I’ve seen stranger things. Librarian-type guys, real Milquetoasts, who gunned down families, kids. Fall apart when you catch them.”

  Mead lifted a paper from the table. “Says here you worked for Manhattan Messenger Service. Damn good way to get in and out of places, to deliver packages, envelopes, right, Henry?”

  Freeman suggested they undo the cuffs, offered Henry a cigarette and a warm smile. He winked, too, but not at Henry; at Mead, who gave a slight nod.

  Henry sucked on the weed as if it were oxygen.

  “The way you arranged that girl, Elena Solana,” said Freeman. “That was beautiful, man. I mean, I was impressed.”

  Henry’s eyelids were half-closed; his brain playing it back, Elena’s bloodied body. But he was confused. He didn’t actually remember the killing part. Was it the junk? The crack? Maybe. All he remembered was the blood on his fingers, and the photos he took off her dresser. Right, that’s how he got them. “I took them,” he said. “The pictures. I took them.”

  Mead’s face lit up.

  “So it was you who did that beautiful work,” said Freeman. “God, you’re good.”

  Henry blinked uncertainly.

  “They’re setting him up,” said Kate. “It’s absurd.”

  “So you took Solana’s pictures,” Mead enunciated into a recording device on the table between them. “You were there.”

  “Well, of course he was there,” said Freeman. “How else would Henry have done such great work if he wasn’t there.” He beamed at Henry, elbowed him as if they were good pals. “Isn’t that right, Henry?”

  Henry almost smiled.

  “Say it,” said Freeman: “You were there.”

  “I was there,” Henry repeated.

  Kate couldn’t take it anymore. She would not stand by and watch them railroad Henry just because they needed a scapegoat. She turned to Brown. “I’ll be right back.”

  Minutes later, photos in hand, Kate pushed through the Interrogation Room door.

  “Not now, McKinnon,” said Mead.

  “Henry. I’m Kate McKinnon. We met a long time ago.”

  Henry squinted up at her.

  “McKinnon—” Mead sucked his teeth, gave her a threatening look.

  So did the two robots.

  “Just one minute, Randy.” She laid one of the photos of Elena’s crime scene on the table. “Tell me, Henry. Where’d you get the idea for this? What was your . . . inspiration?”

  Henry regarded her with a flat stare.

  “What about this one?” She held an Ethan Stein crime scene photo under Henry’s nose. “What’s this based on?”

  Henry pulled back from the picture. “What do you mean . . . based on?”

  Mead sighed heavily.

  Kate said, “I’m just looking for a couple of names, Henry. Painting names.”

  Henry repeated the words as though they had no meaning: “Painting names?”

&n
bsp; “He’s stoned, McKinnon,” said Mead.

  “Clearly,” said Kate. “And he doesn’t know what I’m talking about either.” She patted Henry’s shoulder. “Do you, Henry?”

  Henry smiled at her.

  “Sorry, fellas.” Kate shook her head. “No matter how much you’d like it to be him, it’s just not.”

  “So then how’d he get the pictures of Solana?” Mead asked.

  Kate thought a minute. “Mrs. Prawsinsky said she saw a black man at Solana’s the night of the murder, and I believe she was right. It was probably Henry. He had a thing for the girl, for Christ’s sake. But that doesn’t make him our killer.” She leveled a look at Mitch Freeman, unable to hide her disappointment. “Come on, Mitch. You know this isn’t our man.”

  Freeman sighed.

  Kate was tired, about to go home, when Brown slapped the collage onto her desk. “No postage. Nothing. According to the desk cop, some street kid dropped it by. It was given to him by another street kid—who we can’t locate.”

  “Jesus.” Kate stared at it. “Another one.”

  “What’s it mean?”

  “It means the death artist is still out there.” Kate studied the image, thought a minute. “Okay. You’ve basically got two images put together here. One of a black man. The other, a landscape. The figure is easy. It’s a Basquiat.”

  “A what?”

  “Jean-Michel Basquiat. An eighties hotshot artist. Over-dosed on heroin before he hit thirty. I’m pretty sure what you’re looking at is one of his self-portraits.”

  “And the landscape?”

  “That’s easy. Frederic Church. He was part of the Hudson River school. A nineteenth-century group of landscape painters. I’d say this is a view of the Hudson.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Brown. “You’ve got a self-portrait of a black guy, and a river scene. It does sound like Henry Handley.”

  “But it’s not,” said Kate. She was sure of it.

  Willie had actually started to enjoy his walk. He picked up his pace, weaved in between bikers and Rollerbladers that filled the narrow path between the highway and river, every-one taking advantage of the warm night.

  At the Christopher Street Pier, a scene out of The Rite of Spring—an orgy of men, displaying muscled physiques, strolling back and forth on the groaning planks of the old jetty. Willie took it in, thought maybe he should spend a bit more time at the gym. But by the next pier, or what remained of it—a cross-hatching of planks, a few upright posts over murky green water—there were no more beautiful men, just homeless ones passing a bottle, and the thought of pumping iron, of washboard abs, just seemed absurd.

  Willie leaned against the fence, stared at a bunch of moss-covered wooden pilings jutting out of the river. They reminded him of Venice—minus the glamour or decadent beauty—and of his time spent with Charlie Kent, who had stood him up only yesterday and was not returning his calls. Apparently, she had gotten what she wanted from him—his painting.

  He looked across at the New Jersey coastline, the high-rise apartment buildings on the Palisades, a series of stark monoliths against a darkening sky.

  Ahead, a few construction sites had shut down for the day; just beyond them, what appeared to be an old docking building built out over the river.

  Willie checked his bearings. He had just passed Jane Street.

  That must be the place.

  Mead had his head cupped in his hands, elbows on the conference table. “Henry Handley’s in lockup,” he said, without much enthusiasm. “Just until we know for sure.”

  Mitch Freeman sat across from him, the two robots still on either side of him.

  Clare Tapell’s arms were folded tight across her chest. “Okay,” she said. “So, I understand it’s not Henry Handley. Who, then?”

  Kate handed Tapell, Mead, and Freeman copies she’d had made of the death artist’s latest message—the cutout black man pasted on top of a river view, while she and Brown leaned over the original.

  “Spell it out for me, Kate. Please.” Tapell’s dark eyes regarded Kate’s with a hint of desperation. “I just came from the mayor’s office.” She expelled a breath, shook her head. “Don’t ask.”

  “I’ve looked up the paintings to be absolutely certain,” said Kate. “The painted scene is definitely Frederic Church. It’s a view from Olana, the artist’s home near Hudson, New York, painted around 1879, just before the artist’s arthritis made it nearly impossible for him to paint at all.”

  “What’s that tell us?” Freeman asked.

  “I’d say, location,” said Kate. “Hudson being the clue—as in Hudson River. I think that’s mainly what it’s about. Maybe there’s more, but if so, I’m not getting it. Not yet.” She tapped the figure, which was almost totally black—big hands, spiky hair, white ovals for eyes, a checkerboard mouth. The death artist had added a big red knife, crayoned on top of the black figure, stabbed into its chest. “This is a Basquiat painting, for sure. From 1982. It’s a self-portrait, but not a likeness,” said Kate. “I’ve seen plenty of photos of Jean-Michel Basquiat, and this looks nothing like him.” She thought for a minute. “I guess it’s a symbol of generic black youth. It could be any kid with dreadlocks.” It only took a moment for the words to sink in: Any kid with dreadlocks.

  “Oh my God!” She got her cellular to her ear.

  “What is it?” asked Tapell. “What?”

  “Wait a minute.” Kate put one hand up to quiet her, the other pressed the phone to her ear. She hit her autodial. “Damn. A machine. Damn.” She clicked off.

  They were all waiting—Mead, Tapell, Brown, Freeman, even the robots—hanging on her words.

  “Willie,” said Kate. “Willie Handley.” She put her hand up again, hit that autodial again, this time left a message: “Willie. This is Kate. If you get this message, I want you to call me ASAP. You hear me, right away? Do not go anywhere, Willie.” She snapped her phone shut, drew a breath. “I think the death artist has targeted Willie Handley.”

  “Why?” asked Brown.

  Kate pushed her hair behind her ears. “To get to me,” she said. “Look, the guy’s been on my tail from the beginning. Getting closer and closer. He wants to get to me, and now he’s figured out a sure way to do it—through someone I love.” The words rippled through her. She shuddered. “But Willie’s just the bait. It’s me he wants.” Kate snatched up the death artist’s collage. “It’s all here. Simple. Clear. Just what I asked for. The Hudson River. A young black man. That’s got to be his next victim.” Kate took a breath. “It was supposed to be me in Venice, remember? My face on the dead saint. But Slattery got in the way. Now he’s calling me, beckoning me to him. This is a fucking invitation. It has to be.” Kate stared at the picture. She had a sense of him imagining this very scene—her figuring out his little preparatory sketch, the terror she would feel at losing Willie. Oh yes, he knew her, all right. But she knew him, too. “He must have a place by the river.”

  “His safe house,” said Freeman.

  Kate tried calling Willie one more time. Still no answer. She turned to Mead. “Get a car out to Willie’s place—in case he comes back. Don’t let him leave.” She looked back at the collage. “There’s no indication of time on this picture. We’ve got to get moving.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Tapell. “About the safe house on the Hudson, I mean?”

  Kate looked again. “I can’t swear to it, Clare. But I feel it. In my gut. This is where he is. Where he plans his work.”

  Freeman nodded.

  Kate regarded the image again. “And he’s waiting for me.”

  Tapell eyed her gravely. “Well, you’ve been right so far.” She got the phone to her ear.

  “Suppose he hasn’t even got Willie Handley?” said Mead.

  “Well, then, it’s time I met him, no matter what.” Kate got her Glock, checked her ammo. “It’s an opportunity, Randy, to get him—whether he’s got Willie, or—”

  “I want you alive, McKinnon.”

&nbs
p; “Me, too,” said Kate, shoving the Glock into her jacket pocket. She got her .38, too, hiked up her pant leg, strapped it to her ankle.

  “I’ve got to let the Bureau know what’s going on,” said Freeman.

  Tapell nodded as he cut out of the room, the two robots on his heels.

  Tapell worked two phones. Mead snapped orders at a couple of uniforms.

  Ten minutes later, they laid it out.

  “The SWAT team is being assembled,” said Tapell. “But they need about forty-five minutes to mobilize.”

  “Patrol is putting two dozen cars at our disposal,” said Mead. “Half the cars will start at Battery Park and work up. The others will be starting north and meet up with them.”

  Freeman called in to say that the Bureau wanted agents in every car.

  “Let’s get a helicopter,” said Brown. “To light up the riverfront, move up and down with the cars.”

  Tapell made the call.

  “I can’t wait,” Kate said to Brown. “I’m going.”

  “You don’t know where to start,” said Mead.

  “Let me call Ortega, in Housing,” said Brown.

  Kate checked her watch. “It’s too late. It’s long closed.” She was getting impatient. She couldn’t wait much longer.

  “I can call him at home,” said Brown, the phone already to his ear.

  “The chopper will be taking off from the Thirty-fourth Street heliport in twenty-five minutes,” said Tapell.

  Kate paced to one end of the room and back.

  Tapell was back on the phone, mobilizing the troops.

  “Ortega says there’s a computer map of the entire river-front,” said Brown, his phone in hand. “It can tell us which buildings are new, which are old, anything under construction.” He grabbed hold of a rookie who had just walked into the conference room. “You must be able to work this thing.” He maneuvered the rookie into a chair in front of a computer, handed him the phone. “Talk to Ortega.”

  A few minutes later, the rookie printed out a map.

  “It’s not much,” said Kate.