THE ARTIST~ 3 CHAPTERS

Chapter One: Crimson Angel

She didn’t smell as bad as I thought a dead body would smell.  She smelt of bleach and a strong musky perfume; the cheap kind that some women seem to bathe themselves in.  She was hanging on a crucifix that was nailed to a wooden platform on wheels.  Wrists and feet were nailed in place.  I was eye level with her stomach, where all her insides were coming out of a perfectly carved whole in her abdomen.  Her intestines were draped around her hips, like a gory scarlet skirt.  Her bottle-blond hair was expertly placed to hide her bare breasts.  Meat from her back seemed to have been pulled out in ribbons and attached to her outstretched arms, like ruby-red angel wings.  I’m guessing that the killer used lacquer to keep the cherry-red shine of her insides, painting them here and there to keep with his aesthetic.  I couldn’t see her face beyond the red painted mask, but the whole image was breathtaking.

When I reached a hand up to lift the girl’s mask off her face Karl, the head librarian, screamed, “Gabby!” 

I looked back at the few people standing at the entrance to the aisle, and those beyond it.  Some people couldn’t look at the body, some just cried in the background, and still some couldn’t stop looking.  But no one was within ten feet of the girl, no one but me.  I was captivated by her the moment I ran into the large aisle, horrified, but captivated at the same time.  The screaming brought me here. This section in the public library was designated for religious literature.  I’d never stepped a foot in it until now. 

“Gabby, step away from the—step away.  The police will be here soon,” Karl said. 

He was right.  Touching the body was stupid.  I backed away from the girl slowly, rubbing my sweaty hands on my jeans, but I stared after her.  The word breathtaking kept coming to mind.

“What do you think?” asked Shelly.  She was a library regular, like me.  We were both professional students, studying our passions to no real foreseeable end.  Her passion lied in history and world religions.  She was the one who found the body.  It was her screams that brought me to it, along with the rest of the library patrons, employees, and singular guard, Chuck.

Chuck was standing at the entrance of the library waiting for the police and making sure nobody left.  The police asked him to do this, and in a bombing voice he announced said request over the library intercom shortly after the body was found.  There wasn’t that many people at the library at ten in the morning on Saturday, but we few were now prisoners of circumstance.    

“She was killed, cleaned and posed like a sculpture, a work of art,” I said quietly.  The last of the people in the aisle walked away, leaving us alone.  Shelly’s hazel eyes narrowed on me.  Her top lip was curled up, like she smelled something awful.  I sniffed the air, but I didn’t smell anything save for the bleach and perfume. “What is it?  Did I forget to brush my teeth this morning?”  I hid my mouth with my hands, until Shelly shook her head and rolled her eyes.  I gave her a raised brow.

“Art?” she asked.  Her words were hushed, but her tone was aggressive.  “The cross, the angel wings—clearly this is an attack on Christianity.”

I looked at the girl’s body again.  She was nailed to a cross, and her insides were strewn about her, making her a gruesome angel.  She was even placed in the religious section of the library.  But it didn’t feel like an attack on anything.  It felt like a showing, a display of something the killer was proud of. 

“A lot of religions have angels and crucified gods or heroes in them,” I said.

Shelly shook her head, looking at me and not the body.  “Jesus was crucified.”

I shrugged.  “You asked my opinion, I gave it.  The killer may have used religion as his inspiration, but I don’t think religion was the reason this woman was killed.”

“That makes absolutely no sense,” chimed in a white hair man in an argyle sweater.  “Obviously the killer was a Satanist, and she was his human sacrifice. Poor soul.”  

It was a drive-by comment.  The man made his thoughts known and exited stage left without waiting for my rebuttal, which was, “That’s a ridiculous suggestion, based on religious bias.  How does this in any way resemble the work of a Satanist?”   But I was talking to myself.  Shelly left the conversation with the man, and I was left standing in the aisle alone.  I looked out at the library.  A handful of people were sitting at a long table.  Most people were quietly consoling each other.  Everyone was talking in their usual library voices.  As if anyone was reading a book.  It was then that I noticed the first suspicious look in someone’s eyes.  A woman looked at me from the safety of her husband’s arms.  It was the same look Shelly had given me, as though she smelt something awful.  I didn’t know her, so I shrugged and looked back at the body.

“Gabby, Gabrielle,” said Karl from behind me.  I looked over my shoulder at him.  Karl was in his early thirties, but he didn’t seem to age much after hitting seventeen.  He had a perpetual boyish charm about him.  His bright blue eyes looked out at me from between the puffy shoulders of two tall crime scene techs in white jump suites.  “Come with me,” he said.

I stepped aside and let the techs pass me, though it was unnecessary.  The aisle was big enough for the four of us.  Without a word, one tech began snapping pictures, while the other wrote notes on his clipboard.  I wondered how many crime scenes they’d processed, and if this one was more outrageous or gruesome than the others.  By their blank faces and relaxed manner, I’d guess they’d seen worse.  I’d seen worse too, in pictures only.  You see a lot of grizzly crime pictures studying serial killers. That was my passion. I longed to understand the mind of a killer. The act of killing, the reasoning behind it. It interested me like nothing else. I watched all the crime shows, all the cop movies. ‘Silence of the Lambs’ was my favorite, of course.

“What is it?” I asked aloud, deciding that whispering seemed silly.

Karl led me into the next section of the library without a word.  We found ourselves in the child’s section, surrounded by bright colors and miniature furniture.  He walked me deep into the open area and looked at me with the kind eyes I’d come to expect from him over the years.  I smiled and he frowned.

“What?” I asked again.

He looked down, searching for words maybe, and then back up at me.  His face was more guarded somehow.  I wasn’t used to that.  Karl was an open book, always ready to talk or dish out bits of wisdom.  Seeing him look at me cautiously made my stomach sink.

“Now that’s the reaction you should have had fifteen minutes ago,” he said quietly.

“What reaction?” 

He raised one eye-brow, giving me a flat look.  “Uncomfortable, Gabby, sick to your stomach, not curious, not enraptured.  It’s a dead body for Pete’s sake.”

I looked at him with a tilted head, my brows pressed together in confusion.  He wasn’t making any sense.  Killers, serial killers were my passion, their motives, and their personalities.  Their crimes are their personal demons manifesting themselves in the most horrific way imaginable.  The crimson angle in the next section said so much about the killer.  “But—you know how I feel about murder, murderers in particular.  You’ve always known.  What reaction did you expect?”

“I don’t know, maybe I did expect curiosity, but do you know what people are saying out there?  They’re saying that you enjoyed looking at the body.  They’re saying you could have done this, Gabby.  That’s what they’re going to tell the police.” 

“So.” 

He entered my personal bubble, my two foot comfy-space radius that no one was allowed to enter, not even my mother.  I backed away and he grabbed my arm to stop me. 

“Let go Karl.”  He brought his face within inches of mine.  It was a kissable closeness.  I could smell his toothpaste on his breath, the faint sweet smell of cologne or aftershave.  I equated that smell with a feeling of gratitude, as it usually lingered throughout the library in his wake.  Denoting a well organized bookshelf, clean tables, or freshly brewed coffee.  “Karl?”

“The police are going to question you.  They might even ask me for your check-out history.  They’ll be suspicious.  What are you going to tell them?” 

What would I tell the police?  I thought for a moment, staring down at our shoes.  He wore highly polished black dress shoes, which matched his style perfectly.  I was wearing my usual faux leather black flats.  Slowly my lips grew into a long red smile.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, bewilderment making his face seem uncertain of what expression it should hold.  I looked up at him, and I knew I was positively beaming with joy, no anticipation, no pure elation!

Chapter Two: Good Cop/Bad Cop

Karl was totally right.  I found myself sitting in one of the library’s many soundproofed conference rooms with two men.  I had expected police, but what I got was FBI agents in snazzy suites that made even Karl look underdressed.  They had a list of books I’d checked out with such titles as: Criminal Minds, The Profile of a Killer, and my personal favorite, One-Hundred and One Ways to Kill.  Was it damning? I didn’t think so, but they did.  The agent in the black suite, Kelly, slid the list across the table with a strong sure hand, as though it proved something, as though they had caught me red-handed.

“Can you explain your recent selection of reading material, Mss. Locke?” said the agent in the blue suite.  He was standing.  I guess he was supposed to be intimidating or something.  I didn’t catch his name, if he gave it at all.

I shrugged.  “I’ve been studying serial killers since I was a teenager.”

“Why?” asked Kelly.  He seemed calmer, nicer.  If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were actually doing the whole bad-cop/good-cop thing.  I had to smile at that.

“I don’t know.  I guess it started in my sophomore year of high school.  I took a class in psychology.  I remember being told that humans are the only animals that kill their own species.  I’m not sure if that’s true.  I don’t study animals, but it was that that made me first curious about what would drive one man to kill another.  Usually its jealousy or economic gain, mundane reasons like that.  Serial killers, however, their reasons defy logic.  They might kill a person based on their age, or hair color, or career.  The man that killed the girl on the cross certainly wasn’t driven by anything we could relate to.”   I was smiling, because for the first time I was discussing my passion with people who might appreciate it.

The agents spoke over each other.  Kelly asked, “What makes you think it was a man?” While the man in blue asked, “What makes you think this was a serial killer?”

I looked at both of them in turn like they were being foolish, but their eyes were trained on me.  They really meant to get their answers.  “Come on guys.”  I sighed and relaxed into my plastic chair.  I looked at the agent in blue, still standing, “You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t a serial killer.  The FBI shows up for only a handful of reasons, and a woman found dead in a library isn’t one of them.”  I turned to Kelly, “And even if we overlook the fact that it would have taken a lot of muscle to push or pull that platform into its location, women serial killers are rare.  They usually kill children, man and the elderly in low profile ways, like poison or suffocation.  I can tell you something else about this man.  He’s probably white, with above average intelligence.  He’s probably well liked by others, a kind seemingly thoughtful man.  This library is important to him somehow, so he’s probably a current or former employee, or a regular.  He’s showing off, obviously. His audience may have been well planned too, so he may have a connection with someone here.”

Kelly nodded, but the other agent smiled and finally sat down.  It wasn’t a happy smile though.  “So, we shouldn’t suspect you.  Is that what you’re saying?” he said. 

I shrugged; I do that a lot.  “Do what you want.  You’ll just be wasting your time.  Meanwhile your killer will be out there, killing and mutilating another person.”

Kelly nodded rapidly while flipping though a thin stack of papers in front of him.  They were statements written by all the people in the library this morning, including my own.  He found the report he was looking for and quickly read it under his breath before looking back up at me, his eyes narrowed, holding a question for me.

“Someone stated that you called the crime scene, ‘art.’  Is that how you see it?”

“No.  That’s how the killer sees it.  I think he sees himself as an artist, and the woman’s body was his medium.  If he’s a serial killer than there’s more out there somewhere.  More pieces to his collection than just his…crimson angel.”

Chapter Three: Coffee drip 

It’s strange how the air smells so much better outside when you’ve spent too much time inside?  The air outside the library smelled of rain and freshly cut grass.  I closed my eyes to the partly covered sunshine and took in long deep breaths, and let them out slowly.  I listened to the other library patrons walk down the steps in front of me, but I stood and waited for Karl.  He was talking to a police officer.

“Just leave these keys in the book drop slot by the door when you’re all ready to lock up.  I have another copy at home,” Karl said to the police woman.  She nodded and he placed his keys in her hand.  And even though it wasn’t all that cold outside, Karl slid his heavy black wool coat on as he walked toward me. He buttoned it all the way up, nice a snugly to his long neck.

“Are you waiting for me?” he asked.

“Yes.”  I stared at my feet as we descended the cement stairs to the sidewalk.  “I wanted to ask you how someone could have gotten that platform inside the building without you or Chuck seeing it.”

He nodded, “You and the FBI both.”  He paused for a moment, looking at me with a long smile and questioning eyes.  “Do you want to get some coffee?” he asked.

I wanted to say no, but I couldn’t be the cause of a frown on his face and sleep well at night.  ‘Yeah, sure.’

“Sure?”

“Yes.”  He laughed with more joy than I thought was necessary and we made our way to his car.

My hands were hot, almost too hot as they hugged my pumpkin spice latte. T’was that time of year for damn near pumpkin everything, and for that and many other reasons I loved every exquisite day, hour, minute and second of the Fall season.

Karl was still buttoned up tight in his coat as he stood at the counter. He was waiting for his order with a straight back and an easy-going face. I couldn’t help but question his intelligence at that moment. I’d always admired the man up until the moment he invited me out for coffee and ordered a bottle of diet coke and a breakfast sandwich left over from the morning. That’s what he was waiting on. Apparently it takes two minutes to make a large latte and four to heat an old croissant that’s been cut in half and stuffed with cheese, egg product and sausage.

“I thought you liked coffee,” I said as he finally took a seat opposite me at our raised table in the café.

“I do, but I wanted something cold and with bite,” he said thoughtfully.

“It’s past noon,” I said eyeing his breakfast.

“It’s the most important meal of the day. Why not have it twice?”

I knew that was supposed to be cute or funny, so I smiled at him before looking away.

The café he took me to was not particularly unique or charming in any way. The dirty walls were smothered in framed pictures of cartoonish coffee cups. The small kind that no one uses anymore. The furniture was worn and grimy. The music was too loud, and being that it was recent pop hits, it didn’t match the old rundown mystique the owner was obviously going for. 

Actually, Karl and I were two of the few patrons in the café, and I was beginning to regret my decision to accept his offer. I mean, it was always obvious to me that he was attracted to me, and while I appreciated him; his particularly, his tidiness and his helpfulness in my studies, I didn’t necessary feel the need to physically or emotionally attach myself to a male—or female. Not at this time. I’ve told him as much before. Perhaps the exposure to high levels of stress hormones I experienced earlier impaired my judgment.

I shook my head and felt so much like a fool. I let myself down and I lead Karl on.

“I know this is just coffee, Karl. But I want you to know I’m not interested in having sex with you or anyone.”

“What?” he said. He looked confused, maybe hurt. I felt awful.

“Karl, Karl,” I said patting his arm exactly three times, not lingering too long between pats and certainly not making them too quick either. Being comforting is tricky business, especially when the person you’re consoling wants your sex organs to meet in an intimate fashion. It’s a precarious balance between cold and hot. “My decision to withhold fornication from you in particular isn’t based on your outward appearance, your intelligence or our personality compatibility. I’m simply uninspired by the thought of having a man penetrate my most defenseless orifice with his most filthy empennage.”

I tried reading his reaction as I spoke, but he surprised me with a curt laugh. I felt confused at first but the lingering hilarity on his face made me feel embarrassed or hurt or something equally disagreeable.

I stood from my seat, coffee in hand. “Thank you for the coffee, Karl, but I think I should go.” But when I moved to leave he grabbed my hand. I looked back at him with an unspoken question.

“Stay,” he said, and just then a man wearing a mask, the same white mask of comedy that the crimson angel had been wearing, walked into the café pushing something on wheels that was covered by a red silk sheet.

The man wore all black. The only thing I could tell from him, besides that he had the build of a man, was that he was close to seven feet tall, overweight by at least eighty pounds, but strong. He had very poor postures and favored his right foot over his left, which turned inward. Something about his stature and presence seemed familiar.

He pulled the sheet off whatever he’d been pushing and looked directly at me. My eyes lingered on him, trying to read from him anything and everything of any significance. I could hear screaming from around me, and I was sure he’d just revealed yet another masterpiece, but I’d have time to look at that later. He, on the other hand, wasn’t going to stay. He turned and ran out the door, pivoting on his right foot, dropping the sheet and slamming himself into the door.  The door had a large sign that read “pull” yet he pushed and let out a frustrate growl. The mistaken pull rather than push put him at average intelligence, but the aggressive response to the mistake dropped him to below average. I frowned as he ran down the street.

It was only when the man was out of sight that I could hear Karl calling my name, or at least, calling me Gabby.  What it really so hard for him to call me Gabrielle? I gave him an annoyed glare.

“I hate that nick name. Gabby,” I exhaled with a role of my eyes. I let my eyes fall from the role onto the artwork before us.

“There’s another dead woman!” Karl yelled at me.  “I’m going to call Agent Kelly and Fields,” he said before pulling out his phone and stepping away from the small group staring or pretending not to stare at the body before us.

I didn’t set my coffee down as I approached the woman. I sipped it carefully, enjoying the pumpkin flavor, artificial as it may have been. Loaded with high fructose corn syrup, no doubt about that. What I did doubt was if what was pouring out of that woman was actually coffee.

I kneeled down. The woman was lying face down pm a glass table. She was nude, but her sex organs were covered by skin, artfully pulled back, draped just so, much like an apron around her waist. What wasn’t covered were her breast, larger, they were left to hand down like cow utters as black liquid fell into large cups below, as if she was actually lactating coffee. There were many empty cups under her and I grabbed one with dainty fingers.

“Oh my god! What are you doing?” shouted a man from his seat where he sat horrified.

I gave him only a blank stare before I quickly replaced the half full coffee cup under her left breast with the empty one in my hand. I brought the cup to my nose and the woman behind the countered gave a loud gasp. Maybe she thought I was going to drink it. What a sick minded individual… I sniffed the liquid.

“It’s coffee!” I yelled out with a smile. No one seemed as excited by that discovery as I was. I looked at Karl, but his face scared me. He looked at me with an uneasy awe about him. I set the cup down and awkwardly took my seat at the raised table. The FBI would be here soon and I was sure they’d like to know how I managed to be at both crime scenes. I’d like to know some things, too.