Sleep When You're Dead

by Chris Hollenback

  One woman had been posed like an expressionist painting, resting her right elbow on a table and her right knee on a stool. She wore an orange sweater and an olive skirt.

  Another victim was seated, dressed in an immaculate white French dress and a black bonnet with a striped ribbon tied below her chin. As with Jenny, her elbow rested on her thigh, her chin on her palm.

  Perhaps the most beautiful of all, however, was the one that depicted a woman wielding a sword aloft.

  Nell frowned. “I’ve seen that before!” She grabbed her phone and did a quick internet search. “I knew it!” she exclaimed. “It’s based on the image of Motherland Calls, the world’s tallest statue, in Volgograd, Russia. Says here that the statue commemorated the Battle of Stalingrad—a victory over the Nazis.”

  Casey wondered if Hailangelo viewed his gallery as a similar triumph—but in this case, over law enforcement. His statue also wore the scarf around her head and the large pearl earring, with an innocent countenance that defied the setting.

  “Wait a second,” Nell said. “The statues left on campuses were all based on famous paintings. I wonder if each one is in homage to a famous work of art.”

  Casey quickly ran a search for famous paintings of women. “The one in the bonnet appears to be this painting,” he said, handing his phone to Nell.

  “Yes. And this other statue seems to be modeled after the Johannes Vermeer painting, Girl With the Pearl Earring.”

  “They all match a masterpiece. Except for Jenny.”

  “Most first victims are experiments for serial killers,” Nell said. “The serial killer adapts as he goes, just like anyone else learning a trade.” She paused in disbelief. “He thought he could bring the classics to life.”

  “How do you explain the warmth?” Casey said.

  “Heating coils, maybe?”

  Casey glanced down and saw extension cords leading from the ankles of each statue—each victim, he reminded himself—the cords adhered to the ground with clear packaging tape.

  “His permanent harem,” Nell said. “No need for souvenirs to remember the crimes. He can literally relive his ritual with ultimate control, forever.”

  Casey approached the bulletin board that displayed all the photos. There were at least a dozen showing Rihanna.

  Nell stood among the statues. “Well. That explains why Rihanna was in the refrigerator.”

  Casey turned from the bulletin board to look at her. “Why?”

  “At room temperature, rigor mortis sets in on facial tissue as quickly as an hour after time of death,” Nell said. “And the limbs are usually stiff in four to six hours under normal conditions.”

  Casey turned back to the images on the wall. “This ain’t normal.”

  “Exactly. He’d want to maximize elasticity in Rihanna’s skin, and keeping her in the fridge would buy some extra time by delaying decay.” Nell joined him by the bulletin board and pointed to a collage of photos. “Here’s Elena.” Indeed, the pictures showed Elena Ortega leaving and entering her apartment, with a date and time written below each image in black ink.

  “He was stalking her too,” Casey said, with an urge to look over his shoulder to ensure none of the statues crept toward them.

  Nell opened her cell, dialed, and paced. “I found him, sir. I’m in a basement at the Art East Gallery & Taxidermy Shop in Green Bay. He’s preserving them like animals.”

  While she spoke to her boss, Casey examined a photo of one of the victims. Hailangelo had labeled it Aqualibrium by Mark Cross. Casey had never heard of the painting. When Nell was off the phone, he showed it to her.

  “This mean anything to you?” Casey said.

  Nell typed it into Google. “Looks like a realist painting of a woman in a blue dress wading in clear ocean water.”

  “Another work of art to ‘bring to life.’”

  “Elena and Rihanna were murdered for art. But why kill Skeeto? What’s the common thread?”

  Casey swallowed. “I’m afraid to ask.”

  “I think I know. They all knew Elena.”

  Casey dug the shard of credit card into his palm to remain alert.

  Nell took a deep breath. “Let’s go back to the last contact with Elena. I talked to her on her cell phone while she was at the gas station.”

  “Then she gets in the cab.”

  “Right, and the cabbie drops her off at the church. Maybe Hailangelo grabbed her there.”

  Casey stole glances at the statues to make sure none of them moved. “But what does that have to do with Skeeto?”

  “These kinds of crimes are about fantasies. The more intelligent the criminal, the more complex the fantasies and the more meticulous the execution of the crimes. If he lusted after Elena, and it’s pretty clear he did, I could see him clearing a path to both get her and take out anyone he thought might stand in his way.”

  Casey scanned the bulletin board. There were fifteen different women with multiple images. “How many do you think he’s killed?”

  “Obviously the six women in here, plus Rihanna makes seven, and possibly the four statues left in Colorado Springs, Iowa City, Galesburg and Columbia.”

  “Wow,” Casey said, shaking his head. “Eleven victims?”

  “Maybe more. Hailangelo feels no remorse. They’re just clay in his hands. He’ll do it again and again until someone stops him.”

  A door opened and Nell pointed her gun up toward it. They heard multiple pairs of feet coming down the steps into the room. “Police,” said a uniformed officer.

  Nell lowered her gun and flashed her badge. She nodded toward Casey and said, “He’s with me. Special agents from the Milwaukee office are already on their way.”

  “The exterior is secure,” one police officer said. “The perimeter is set.”

  Casey saw two tall wooden dressers against a wall. “Nell, look.”

  She pulled another pair of rubber gloves out of her pocket. “Here, put these on.”

  Casey opened a drawer. Inside were panties in plastic bags, each with computer-generated labels, including details on each woman’s name, measurements, birthdate, and address. “Think he obsessed much?”

  “His childhood trigger was his mother’s demise. He has always connected panties to sexuality.”

  Casey nodded. “Doesn’t every guy?”

  Nell placed her hands on her hips. “But you don’t keep a bag of women’s panties in the same room as your statue harem, do you?”

  “That would be a no.”

  The bottom drawer contained a stack of unlabeled photos. Casey grabbed them to see if he could recognize the woman in the photos. “Aaah!” He threw them in the air as if they were tarantulas.

  “What?” Nell said, grabbing one of the photos and flipping it over.

  Casey could say nothing and when she looked, Nell knew why.

  “It’s your sister.”

  33

  WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 26

  Hailangelo drove toward Hail Stadium, wondering if the reporter had discovered his treasured statues. Yes, he had to have. He couldn’t believe he had led Thread down there. But what choice did he have? He knew better than to battle a federal agent to the death; he was a sculptor, not a pugilist. He could have run out the front of the shop instead of exiting from the basement. But he had the fed’s blood on his shirt. Besides, how was he supposed to know the reporter would come out of his little trance right then? He cursed, knowing he should have stabbed Thread when he’d had the chance. But, at that moment, he’d wanted only to get out. He was sure that the fed had called for backup.

  Even if Thread hadn’t discovered the statues yet, it was only a matter of time until he would. Hailangelo cared deeply about his statue Young Lady in a Boat because the original artist, James Jacques Joseph Tissot, was his ancestor. Or so his mother had told him. He had no reason not to believe her, but also had no evidence. Thomas “Hailangelo” Meintz chose to envision Tissot’s blood pulsing in his own veins, to channel the painter’s genius. Tissot—w
ho fought in the Franco-Prussian war to defend Paris, who later studied there, whose 15 large-scale masterworks La Femme à Paris exhibited to high regard, whose ability to portray dramatic lighting had taken art connoisseurs’ breath away—inspired Thomas Meintz.

  In this regard, Casey and his FBI girlfriend had taken his family from him — his supposed great-great-great-great-uncle — not to mention his beloved Galatea. Hailangelo would never, ever forgive Casey Thread for this. He would make him pay. He wished he had killed the fed but, alas, could tell that her wounds had been little more than superficial. She would survive; the FBI would comb his shop and basement for evidence, confiscate his sculptures, and hunt him.

  The thought of them in his studio was like pond scum in Perrier. The indignity of it all. He reached over to the passenger seat, grabbed the bottle of vodka, and drank from it as he drove. He knew he would be healthier if he abstained from these passions. Was he addicted to the alcohol, pornography, and sculptures? Was addiction even a vice? Could anyone blame him for desiring something, anything, to numb the pain of his mother’s demise? To get him through the day with a little less pain?

  He figured other people would judge and chastise him, but they did the same thing—except they used nicotine, caffeine, sugar, chocolate, alcohol, or the stimulation of exercise. It was all dopamine flooding their brains, just a matter of what triggered it. He had created gorgeous statues that brought masterworks to life and immortalized beautiful women. They’d never wrinkle, fade, or return to dust. You’re welcome, he thought. He considered himself enriched and better educated than those who had no idea what he felt. And yet, he knew full well that what he did was illegal. Man-made laws were pathetic attempts to nanny others. Like a drug addict, Hailangelo rationalized that he would prefer a shorter life with titillation than a longer one without the euphoria he garnered from his dark thoughts and statues. Screw the feds, he thought, they can have my old works. I’ll sculpt a new collection.

  But first, he had unfinished business with one of his former muses. He parked along the curb near the Hail practice field, among other vehicles left behind by fans who had come to observe the team preparing for the big game. Passing those who stood along a chain-link fence risking frostbite just to get a glimpse of their heroes, Hailangelo walked to the parking lot where players parked their luxury vehicles.

  He had met Narziss a year before during the creation of the statue bearing the athlete’s likeness. At the request of the team, he had gone to the star’s mansion and created a mold of Narziss out of plaster. It had been a painstaking process to coat the bare tight end with the soft plaster and, at times, he had had to remind Narziss that this would immortalize him in the atrium of the most popular football team in the world. That equated to endorsements and a political future. Once he had sold Narziss on that, he could have dipped the man in bronze if that’s what it took.

  Now he recognized Narziss’s red Dodge Ram pickup truck. Compensating much? Hailangelo climbed into the back of the truck and lay down. Fortunately for the artist, the temperature hovered around thirty-six degrees. He kept his gloved hands warm in his coat pockets. Like a surgeon’s, his hands were his most valuable asset— for procuring his materials, sculpting, and painting his materials. He had to protect his hands and pamper them.

  Some people liked to be spontaneous. Not Todd Narziss. The team’s co-captain made no secret of the fact that he took pride in arriving first at the Hail facility and leaving last. He spoke about it in the media as if he deserved a purple heart, how he’d catch hundreds of passes from the “jugs” machine, a device that used two spinning rubber wheels to shoot footballs harder and farther than most humans could throw or kick them. Hailangelo loathed the tedium of waiting for Narziss to return, but the excitement that came with his plan outweighed it. When it came to his craft, his patience knew no bounds. Better to take longer and do it right.

  The team practiced outdoors despite the wind chill because they knew they’d be playing in the same conditions on Sunday. Hail fans viewed it as home-field advantage. Players viewed it as a price to pay for fame, fortune, and glory.

  Thirty minutes after practice ended, Hailangelo heard the truck beep twice to signal that the locks had been opened. If adrenaline rushed through Hailangelo’s system, he didn’t feel it. His heart rate remained the same. Narziss’s defenses would be down—he’d be exhausted from the workout at the practice facility and ready to drive leisurely to the locker room to shower and change.

  When Narziss opened the truck’s door, Hailangelo stood up from the deck and stabbed the syringe into the player’s neck. Before he could deliver the full dose of poison, Narziss reached back, grabbed Hailangelo’s hand and bent the needle into the shape of an L. The needle broke away from the plunger, came out of his neck, and fell to the ground. Narziss turned toward his assailant, his eyes bugging.

  Hailangelo could tell Narziss wanted to sculpt him into an ashtray. As the superstar reared back to strike, the partial dose of hydrocyanic acid stunned his system. He dropped to his knees on the parking lot, then went down in a heap. Hailangelo, who’d spotted pedestrians coming down the sidewalk, leapt out of the truck and risked being seen by standing over Narziss. “You tried to steal Elena from me,” he said. “You defiled her, you hack. You led them to my studio. You’re about to die, but don’t worry. Your statue will live on.”

  With that, he calmly walked back toward his car.

  A man in his fifties followed about thirty yards behind. “Hey! Stop.”

  Hailangelo kept walking. He had never made such an egregious mistake. Then again, he’d never killed in such a rash fashion.

  “Hailangelo, stop!” A man in a Hail sweatsuit hustled behind the sculptor. Hailangelo froze, pivoted, and came face to face with one of the assistant coaches.

  The old-timer huffed and puffed. “Can I get your autograph?”

  Hailangelo raised his brows, smiled, and peered over his shoulder at Narziss’s truck. The athlete’s body lay out of sight on the other side of the Ram. Hailangelo took the coach’s pen and signed his clipboard.

  “Thank you so much,” the coach said, “I walk past your statues every day. Sometimes I still have to tell myself they’re not real.”

  Hailangelo forced a chuckle. “Thank you, very kind of you to say.” He turned to leave.

  The coach didn’t want him to go. “Are you going to do another statue soon?”

  “Oh, I’m always working.”

  “Thank you so much, it’s an honor,” the coach said.

  Hailangelo strode to his car and drove away. That had been too close. None of this would have happened if that damn reporter hadn’t stuck his nose into it. Hailangelo knew just how to repay him.

  Ten minutes later, he parked outside Leila Thread’s apartment. He walked to the front door of the complex and buzzed her room. After a moment, someone answered via intercom.

  “Who is it?” An older woman’s voice.

  “Thomas, a friend of Leila’s from Fixate Factory.”

  “Leiiiii-la…” the woman called. “It’s for you.”

  Hailangelo could hear her through the intercom. A girl giggled. “Oooh, Thom-as and Lei-la sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.” That’s odd, he thought. He knew Leila didn’t have kids from his thorough surveillance.

  Leila scoffed. “Hardly. Thomas? Is that you?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “First comes love, then comes marriage,” the kid sang.

  The intercom cut out. The door buzzed and unlocked. Hailangelo opened it, scaled a flight of steps, went to her door, and knocked.

  The door opened.

  Casey and Nell vaulted the steps leading from Hailangelo’s basement, and the door they reached indeed opened to the outside. They sprinted to the Z4, got in, and sped toward Leila’s apartment.

  Snow had begun to fall. Casey examined his hands and slapped his own face to ensure this whole ordeal wasn’t a narcoleptic hallucination. His brain felt like it would boil over while his fi
ngertips tingled from the cold. Breathe. He mentally cursed the snow for impeding their progress as he picked up his cell phone and called his sister.

  Voicemail. He hung up and tried again. No answer. He gripped the armrest tighter. “Think he’s inside her apartment?”

  “He probably went to his own place to collect his things before leaving the country. But if he did go to your sister’s, I think he would hover around and wait for Leila to come out. That would be the easier way to surprise her and take her to a vehicle without anyone noticing.”

  “What about my mother? He threatened her life.”

  Nell pressed down on the accelerator.

  Hailangelo stood in Leila’s doorway, grinning. “Hello, Leila.” His pea coat covered the blood from Nell on his shirt.

  Leila smiled. “Hi. Come in.”

  Hailangelo stepped in and nodded at Elzbieta. “Hello, Mrs. Thread?”

  “Yes,” Elzbieta said.

  “I’m Thomas, a friend of your daughter. It’s a pleasure.” He took her hand, bowed, and kissed it.

  Elzbieta chuckled and said, “Charmed, I’m sure.”

  Leila looked impressed. “He’s taking me out to dinner.”

  “That’s nice,” Elzbieta said.

  Hailangelo smiled. “We met by chance at Fixate Factory, and I must say you’ve raised a wonderful young woman.” He noticed animal fur on Elzbieta’s sleeve.

  “Oh, well, thank you.”

  Hailangelo grinned at Leila. Their date was off to a stellar start. And now, having watched her in Madison, her interaction with Amelia, and the shooting of Brian Twig, Hailangelo knew just what to say to Leila. He would relate to her in ways nobody had ever done before. Tell her what she thought before she said it. He might not even have to use blackmail or poison.

  Shantell marked an o on the Tic Tac Toe grid, looked up at Elzbieta and said, “Your turn, Mrs. Thread.”

  Hailangelo looked at Shantell. His grin evaporated, replaced by wide eyes. Rihanna’s daughter! How could it be? Crap crap crap. Had Leila known Rihanna and picked her up? Was this the reporter’s doing? The FBI’s? He had to get out of there before the kid recognized him and squealed.