Painted Beauty

by J. M. LeDuc

  “You’re correct, and that brings me back to May 27, 1971. When we entered the front door of Ash’s residence, we heard a gunshot. We ran up the stairs as fast as possible. When we reached the fourth floor landing, I swore I heard a woman say something from inside the apartment.”

  Sin was hanging on Charlie’s every word. “What?”

  “It was garbled, but I’d swear on my mother’s grave that she said something about innocence.”

  Blake’s Songs of Innocence flashed though Sin’s mind.

  “I knocked on the door, yelled FBI, and that’s when we heard the second gunshot. When we entered the apartment…I don’t really know how to explain it, but I could sense something evil.” He hesitated again before continuing, “What we found were two bodies. Vincent was sprawled in the far corner of the kitchen with a sculptor’s knife next to his blood-soaked hand. Joanna lay a few feet away with a gun in her hand.

  “Vincent was dead; still warm, but dead.”

  Sin could feel Charlie’s intensity. It was as if he had played and replayed these moments over and over again until they’d been ingrained in his psyche.

  “I looked over at his wife, expecting the same. I mean, she was a mess. Cut like the rest of the victims. But that’s when we heard her moan. I called for assistance, and Joanna was taken away.

  “Looking at her, I would have sworn she was dead.” Charlie’s last few words seemed to fade.

  “Did you take pictures of the scene?” she asked, breaking the mood.

  “Click on the file titled, Davenport pics.”

  She did as he directed and a picture of a beautiful young woman popped up. “She was gorgeous,” Sin said. “Ashley looks just like her.”

  “That’s Joanna at the age of seventeen. It was taken a couple of months after her marriage to Vincent,” Charlie commented. “The next one was taken of her when she first arrived at the hospital.”

  Sin moved the curser to the next link and opened the photo. “Damn, you would have a hard time recognizing her. Her face looks like it was passed through a cheese grater.”

  “She looked a lot like the victims, that’s for sure,” Charlie said.

  “Holy shit,” Fletcher exclaimed, “Did she have plastic surgery?”

  “Hold that thought,” Charlie said. “Bring up the next photo.”

  “Do you have this file with you?” Sin asked. “You know the placement of every detail.”

  “No,” Charlie responded. “I’ve been through it so many times, it’s ingrained in my brain.” Continuing he said, “The next couple of pictures are of Vincent Ash. He had one bullet to the right side of his chest and one to the head.”

  “Joanna was a good shot,” Garcia commented. “I mean, Ash must have been in a rage, and with her wounds, she must have been in shock.”

  “Maybe too good,” Charlie snickered. “You’re right, Fidel. It’s another piece of this puzzle that never fit.”

  “Meaning?” Sin asked

  “Meaning, this didn’t make any sense to me then, and it still doesn’t.”

  “You need to give us a little more than that to go on,” Sin said.

  “When I noticed back then that Joanna was an incredibly good shot, I dug deeper. Autopsy and ballistics showed that the first bullet fired entered Vincent’s chest, missing his heart. To me, that wasn’t exactly a good shot because she was only a few feet away. But the second one went straight through the middle of his forehead.”

  Sin started to understand Charlie’s thought process. “Damn good shooting for someone who had just been hacked to near death. And if Ash was the killer he was portrayed to be, he would have attacked after the first shot.”

  “Precisely! That’s what Raul and I told anyone who would listen. It was just too neat.”

  “And?”

  “And they didn’t want to hear it. The Bureau just wanted to tell the public that the killer was dead and that the case had been solved.”

  “But you didn’t let it go, did you?”

  “No I didn’t. The accuracy of the second shot, Joanna’s injuries, and the position of the bodies wasn’t adding up,” Charlie said, “so I asked the medical examiner for a copy of the autopsy results, and I compared them to ballistics.”

  “What did you find?”

  “There was gunpowder residue and burn marks on Vincent’s forehead.”

  “Then why was his wife found almost eight feet away from him?”

  “I argued the same facts until I was blue in the face, but no one wanted to hear it.”

  “Back to my question from before,” Fletcher said. “Do you have any pictures of Joanna after she became Miranda? Did she have plastic surgery? I mean, judging from the pictures she must have needed it.”

  “Yeah, and whatever happened to Miranda right after the shooting?” Sin asked. “Where the hell was she for the seven years before she landed in Miami?”

  Charlie had Sin bring up another file.

  “This contains the information I have on Miranda. Although I tried to follow the aftermath of the case, I’ll admit I wasn’t that diligent.”

  “You did have a life and other cases to work on,” Sin said.

  “Whatever the excuse, I lost Joanna. I didn’t even know she changed her name. By the time I traced her, she was living in Coral Gables. I backtracked and searched through every cold case murder investigation for the seven missing years of her life, and if you open my personal file labeled unsolved you’ll see my findings. There were a string of unsolved murders in Texas and Alabama during those years. They were all of young women in their early twenties, all matching the same basic description of the Midwest Mauler and the Painted Beauty Killer. The MO was evolving. They became less gruesome, more refined over time, but all were plain looking, young women. The unsolved murders stopped when Miranda showed up in the Miami area. It’s not much of a thread, but it’s all I have.”

  “You think Miranda was the Mauler, not Vincent,” Sin said.

  “It makes sense,” Charlie said. “I think Joanna or Miranda, whatever you want to call her, cut herself and staged the entire death scene. We all know how bad facial injuries can look from even superficial cuts. I think Miranda killed those girls because she found out that they had been sleeping with her husband, and when she had enough, she killed him, too.”

  “Charlie, wouldn’t the Bureau have known by the angle of the cuts if the wounds were self-inflicted?” Garcia asked.

  “It was one of the first things I checked. The angle suggested another person, but we have to remember that Joanna was an artist.”

  “All kind of speculative, isn’t it,” Fletcher said.

  “It would be except for one thing. The one piece of evidence that ties everything together.”

  “What’s that?” Sin asked.

  “The Blake poems,” Charlie answered.

  “But Vincent was the poetry professor,” Sin said.

  “He was, and he was a huge fan of Blake’s Songs of Innocence, but he never liked his later work, Songs of Experience. He used to tell his students that those poems were the work of a mad man. A man who had seen too much pain and sorrow.”

  “But those are the poems that our killer is quoting,” Sin said. She pulled her hair back, leaned against the desk, and started biting her lower lip. “How do you explain that our killings have come years after her death?”

  “You’ve read that she was pregnant when she was found with Vincent, and that she miscarried from her injuries,” Charlie said. “Well, it seems this information came from Joanna, herself. She states she miscarried a few days after being released from the hospital. I haven’t been able to corroborate any of that information. I think you’re looking for Joanna/Miranda’s son.”

  CHAPTER 47

  “That bitch thinks my art is shit,” she shrilled, “we will give her artwork so realistic, that it will be talked about for years to come. No one gets one over on me.”

  Ash squeezed his eyes shut trying to drown out her constant droning. P
lease go away, he thought. I’ll do this one more thing and then I’m finished. No more.

  He parked his van in the public beach parking lot and walked south towards the Fontainebleau. It didn’t take long for him to board Sin’s houseboat. He did what he came to do and walked off as if he belonged there.

  As soon as he returned to the van, she started up again. “Now we’ll see who gets the publicity.” Her words turned to maniacal laughter as his trembling hand started the van.

  He drove away feeling a slight sense of closure. Nothing more to do than go back home and wait for the newscast.

  George was a mess when he left the meeting earlier that morning, but decided that he would no longer be a passive bystander. It was time to take matters into his own hands.

  He thought back to all the torture and trauma that Miranda had caused him when he was younger and decided that only he could stop what had been happening.

  Driving away from his home on the top floor of his gallery, he headed to the one place he thought Joel might be living; an apartment complex way past its prime in the heart of Coral Gables. By the time he arrived, he was shaking in fear.

  He sat in his Audi in front of the building, running through every reason to turn around and go home. He had almost convinced himself when he realized that he could never live a normal life until he knew the truth…until he faced his demons.

  Entering the foyer of the building, he walked up to the receptionist and introduced himself as a friend of Joel’s and asked if he stilled lived there.

  She appeared surprised to hear that Joel had a visitor. “It’s nice to know he has some friends,” she smiled. “I’ve worked here for a number of years and he hardly ever gets any visitors.”

  George didn’t ask any questions, he just stood there waiting for her to allow him access.

  “Hmm, that’s funny,” she said, “he’s not answering my call, but I know he’s up there. I just saw him walk in about fifteen minutes ago. Oh, well,” she shrugged, “he could use a nice surprise. He’s seems to be down in the dumps lately.” She beamed a full-wattage smile and buzzed the inner door open. “His apartment is number 204, second floor. Go on up. It will do him good to see a friend.”

  George thought about turning and running from the building, but he gathered his courage and walked through the open door. His heart was pounding as he rode the elevator to the second floor. As the doors slid open, the air smelled sterile, like a hospital. By the time he reached Joel’s apartment, his heartbeat was so rapid, he thought the organ might burst from his chest. From the hall, he could hear the TV inside. It was loud. From the voices, he knew that Joel was watching Action News, the twenty-four-hour cable news station.

  He knocked on the door and waited. No one answered. He knocked again with more force.

  “Go away,” he heard Joel yell.

  George took a deep breath and stood steadfast. “It’s George,” he yelled back. “We need to talk.”

  He heard the television being turned down and footsteps nearing the door. “George who?” came a whisper of a voice.

  “George, from school; from Water’s Edge. Do you remember me?”

  He heard the sound of a deadbolt being unlocked and a chain being released.

  The door opened and he stared directly into the eyes of the devil.

  CHAPTER 48

  Ashley was frantic. She had been calling her brother for the past two hours with no luck. After she and Anthony had left the FBI that morning, she spoke to George and didn’t like his tone. It was the same voice he’d used as a kid when he would stand up to Miranda.

  That choice had never ended well.

  Panicked, she drove to his home, but there was no answer. She checked in at his gallery and was told that he hadn’t been in all day.

  Even Bobbi seemed frightened. “This is the first time in like ever that he hasn’t at least called,” she said. “I mean, you know he’s a type A, or, is it B? Anyway…personality, I can never keep those two straight, but you know what I mean. He’s a control freak.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing,” Ashley replied, oblivious to Bobbi’s rambling, “he wasn’t feeling well this morning, so he might have gone to the emergency room. George has always been a bit of a hypochondriac.”

  Ashley turned to leave and spotted a curious painting leaning against the wall. “Where did this painting come from?”

  Bobbi beamed. “That’s one of the reasons I’m so bummed George isn’t here today. Last night, right when I was closing up, someone brought that into the gallery. He said it was one of Miranda’s last paintings before she died.”

  Ashley knew all of Miranda’s work and this painting was not part of her collection. But studying it, she had to admit it did look like an original. The painting was her style, and was definitely her stroke.

  “Who brought this in, and where did they get it?”

  “He didn’t say,” Bobbi shrugged. “He just left a card with his name and asked for George to call him about price when he came in today.”

  Ashley stuck out her hand. “Show me.” Her words were blunt and quick. Her voice mirrored her actions.

  “Here it is,” Bobbi said, handing the small rectangular card to Ashley. “I hope I didn’t do anything wrong by accepting the painting. The man was really nice and stuff.”

  Ashley’s complexion paled when she looked down at the name. Ash was written in the exact same handwriting as the murder notes.

  Miranda’s handwriting.

  Ashley grabbed the painting and tore out of the gallery. After tossing it in her trunk, she dialed Sin’s number as fast as her unsteady fingers allowed.

  She sat in her car and listened to Sin’s phone go straight to voicemail for the third time, and for the third straight time, she left the same message. “This is Ashley. I think George might be in big trouble. Call me!”

  Not knowing what else to do she decided to drive back to the FBI field office…praying Sin was there.

  CHAPTER 49

  Sin hadn’t slept in well over two days. She needed sleep, but more than that, she needed a shower and a change of clothes.

  Fletch and Garcia were in the same predicament. On the way back from the Keys they decided to stop off at Sin’s houseboat for a shower before heading back to HQ.

  Fletcher pulled the jeep into the parking garage across the street from the boat, and the three of them dragged their tired, aching bodies from the vehicle. They decided to leave their gear in the jeep since they wouldn’t be very long. Walking out of the dark garage into the late day sun almost blinded their oversensitive, overtired eyes. They dropped their shades for protection and waited to cross the street.

  “Thank God for the sea breeze,” Garcia said, “or this heat would be unbearable.”

  The other two didn’t respond, they just stared at the traffic light and willed it to change.

  Walking down the sidewalk toward the boat, Fletcher raised his nose in the air. “What’s that smell?”

  Sin and Garcia followed his direction. “It smells like every city,” Garcia said, “just a little saltier.”

  “There is a French bakery a block up on 41st Street, just over the bridge,” Sin said.

  Fletcher looked in every direction. “Whatever I’m smelling isn’t coming from a bakery.”

  Sin’s mind was mush, and she was too tired to give his comments any credence. The last thing she needed to unravel was his odd weather report. As they approached the boat, she sighed, “The old girl has never looked so good. That tiny shower is going to feel like heaven.”

  They stepped onto the deck at the stern, and a strong wind blew off the Intercoastal. “Shit,” Fletcher yelled, “it’s tar!” He went to grab Sin and Garcia but they were a step ahead of him. The three of them dove off the side of the boat just as the entire thing blew in a series of giant fireballs.

  Under the water, Sin felt and heard the concussive force of the explosion. She was disoriented but knew enough to dive as deep as possible, as fast as p
ossible. With each consecutive blast, the water around her grew hotter, and the pressure in her ears increased until her eardrums felt as if they would implode. Even with all the adrenaline coursing through her bloodstream, she still felt the sharp pain that accompanied getting shot, or in this case, the piercing of flesh by sharp metal fragments.

  Sin surfaced under a dock about thirty yards north of where her boat used to be. She grabbed hold of a barnacle-encrusted pylon and tried to catch her breath. Not seeing the others, she dove back down to try and find them. As soon as she submerged, she felt a hand pull her back up.

  It was Fletcher.

  She was relieved when Garcia emerged seconds later. Both men were bleeding from facial and head lacerations, but thankfully…breathing.

  “You two don’t look so good,” Sin huffed. “You’re both bleeding pretty bad.”

  “I hope I don’t look as bad as you do,” Fletcher said as he tried to catch his breath.

  Sin didn’t understand his comments; she knew her leg was bleeding, but how did he know.

  He pointed to her face and ran the palm of his hand down her cheek. It came away streaked with blood.

  “That’s the great thing about shock,” Garcia shivered, “you d-don’t f-f-feel a thing.”

  “We need to get out of here,” Fletcher said, “before we catch some type of mutant flesh-eating bacteria.”

  Sin was now starting to shiver along with Garcia. She grabbed Fletcher by his torn shirt and shook her head. “No. The bastard wants me dead. W-we n-n-need him to think I am.” She peeked her head out from under the dock and saw emergency personnel racing to the fire that was her boat…Charlie’s boat.

  “These docks line the Intercoastal a long way up Collins Avenue. W-w-we need to stay hidden and keep moving. The movement will help f-f-fight off the shock. Once it’s dark, we’ll be able to surface and call for help.”