Cabiling / Painter Of Dead Girls /

PAINTER OF DEAD GIRLS

Prologue

(New York City) Alexander Poplin was ready to wrap up another successful gallery event. Alejandro del Potro had just headlined another sold-out exhibit, featuring airbrush paintings of funeral processions, the monotone and duotone paintings fetching high prices. Poplin, one of the wealthiest gallery owners on the east coast, gave abundant praise to his thirty-seven-year-old protege—a rising star that was finally separating himself from the pack and joining the upper echelon of internationally renowned artists.

Poplin, now sixty-four years old, balding, wearing a suit buttoned tightly around his mid-section, was busy closing up shop with staff members and security personnel. Del Potro and Poplin’s daughter, Contessa, went out walking at Central Park.

"I loved those paintings, Alejandro. The textures were lovely. The green and brown hues remind me so much of decay. They’re a lot like charcoal sketches, with one or two tones. You’ve sold out one show after another now, and your paintings are selling for six figures."

Contessa bedazzled. Her wavy, blonde hair fell on one shoulder while the sling of her pocketbook hung from the other. Her dark cherry lipstick and light blue dress gave her an ethereal quality—much like 1950s Hollywood glamour. Alejandro had always relished her company. Contessa and Alejandro saw each other for some time before mutually agreeing to stay as friends. Neither closed the door to a reunion.

Even at night, the barren trees obscured the moonlight from the trail. Couples still sat at some park benches, staring into space. Lights could be seen from the windows across the city.

"No event is spared my vision of the world, Contessa. Death. At times, violence. Always morbid. Never understated. I’m fascinated by the darker side of the human condition. Drama lies in conflict. And what greater conflict is there but in the struggle to survive? The struggle to accept death as the final act, when dying precedes the unknown, the greatest fear—that life ends and existence is pointless, except for the moment we live and thus suffer—maybe if we were to suffer for art."

"Art imitates life. But what about your art, Alejandro?" Contessa said, smiling. "Your art exalts death and the darker side of life. How are art connoisseurs drawn to the same inspiration that reminds them to live purposefully out of fear for the opposite? How is it that you can capture on canvas what lesser artists cannot properly admire for its grotesque beauty?"

Alejandro didn’t know what to say.

"I have an eye for the unusual, I’m afraid."

* * *

(Richmond, Virginia) Alejandro del Potro, now a world-renowned artist, was busy compiling his latest portfolio. His brushes grazed the self-inflicted wounds along his arm, deepening the reddish hues used in his portraits and adding the texture and consistency of crimson gore. He sometimes painted in the nude, throwing paint onto the canvas in seemingly random vitriolic fashion, sometimes carefully smudging paint with his fingers, enacting some sort of ritualistic diabolical summoning of wondrous art. At times, he frenetically moved brushes and scalpels on the unfinished creations with the sure-handed precision of a skilled surgeon. However, in the end, he felt dissatisfied, examining the half-finished paintings from multiple angles across the studio before tearing at his own clothes in anguish and disapproval. He sent easels crashing to the floor in frustration—the paintings inadequately portraying scenes of bloodletting and violence as though he lacked motivation.

Alejandro wore a sparse beard over his chiseled cheeks and strong chin. He brushed his dark ebony hair and greased it back mobster style. He had a Roman nose and deep-set eyes. His only visible tattoo showed through his neck—a phoenix rising out of the flames.

It occurred to him to change the motif behind his work. All it takes is Inspiration, he told himself – the right ideas that would help his work along.

That inspiration took form after examining a painting he’d refrained from showing anyone—a portrait of a beautiful woman in repose after a violent assault. The painting was called Contessa—after his former lover.

Later, Alejandro picked up a prostitute to model for the new painting.

Smoke rose from a lit cigarette in the parlor as Alejandro captured the girl’s allure on canvas. The young girl posed naked, content on a few days worth of wages for the gig, and was dressed in fishnet stockings and a black dress. She carried a purse, little else—a smile that was worth a thousand giddy faces.

Her black hair flowed on her shoulders like the wings of fallen angels. Her skin had razor burns, bruises; she wore band-aids on her kneecaps, covering scabs from three straight nights pleasing strangers.

Alejandro’s paintbrush grazed the rough canvas under delicate pressure, leaving a vague outline, a hazy silhouette. Moments later, an image manifested from an amalgam of deft strokes and smudges, however far removed from Alejandro’s vision. Alejandro couldn’t quite capture the essence of his imagination: a woman caught in the grip of passion amid strangulation.

* * *

Years before, Alejandro del Potro canvassed clubs in the New York City area for suitable models for his paintings. One such club called, Mystic catered to a crowd of leather-and-boot-clad, tattooed women who sampled drugs, astrology, and underground music. In art circles, Del Potro presented an aristocratic image—a Mephistophelian connoisseur of fine art, wine, vision quests, and seances meant to inspire the creation of art both Hellenic and morbid.

Fans that flocked to his gallery events considered him an enigma. They watched him engage characters of all types in the art world with the candor of a well-schooled gentleman with no hitches. Behind the scenes, people spoke of his close ties with mentor and gallery owner Alexander Poplin and Poplin’s daughter, Contessa, who was once his fiancée. The supposedly close bond between del Potro and the Poplins was scrutinized, especially considering how del Potro seemed to spend time with no one else. People speculated that the three engaged in sex parties and orgies with other affluent locals, while others said they did so with druggies and drifters. Whatever the case, del Potro’s mystique lent him further credibility as an artist on the cutting edge of fringe culture.

So, it was well-rumored that Alejandro lived a double life. He played the part of playboy artisan in the daytime and curious nightcrawler when inspiration was found dry.

* * *

The scene was Richmond—Virginia’s historic capital city, sprawling across 162 square kilometers of bustling urban development and an eclectic art and culture scene. A body was discovered in a building in a bad part of downtown, where some warehouses and storage units were located. It was in a basin near Shockoe Bottom, where fancy hangouts and pricey condos proliferated. The brick building’s first-floor windows were shuttered to prevent looting and squatting, and graffiti smeared the doors and walls. The crime was closed off with crime scene tape. Chalk lines marked the location of a woman’s body, which could be found at the back among broken furniture and debris. A soiled twin mattress was taken from the scene; a bottle of whiskey was also brought to the lab.

First responders to the scene sent word to Police Captain Mitch Severn. A girl, a police Sargeant announced to media later that morning, was found dead by strangulation. The girl’s identity was not released; there were no suspects and no concrete leads.

Officers at the precinct checked missing persons databases for a match. Medical examiners and staff inspected her corpse for obvious clues. Who was she? Why was she killed? A girl dead after someone no longer wanted her. A girl dead after a transaction gone wrong. In cities across the United States, girls enter the flesh trade daily but leave in body bags.

Another murder on the fringes of society made fewer newspaper readers cringe in disgust. The young woman, police later reported, was a runaway.

Alejandro picked up a copy of the Times-Dispatch and saw the article on page fifteen. Murders of the sort no longer made it to the headlines. He glanced at the leaked crime scene photos and flicked the page to the funnies. He took a sip of his morning coffee and headed to work.

* * *

Alejandro wondered whether the scent of a dead girl would prove intoxicating. He tried to imagine whether he would feel the same about the smell of a live captive girl. Alejandro wasn’t sure whether he would have preferred the scent of a woman close to orgasm and close to being killed. He considered whether he would, instead, enjoy the scent of a girl’s fear, the sound of her screaming, or the sound of her encumbered breathing when experienced first-hand and not simply imagined.

Does he enact the killing, the strangulation of girls barely his age, the suffocating of life meant to be lived with copious hope? Is it passion that drives some sick, demented artists to crimes beyond reason?

Alejandro wondered whether an artist inspired by dead girls would feel any validation from critical acclaim. Alejandro found the rarely accepted reality often true—that true artists who reinterpreted reality in the form of art manifested those projections with both a healthy and unhealthy eye for subjective beauty. Did critics who venerate such art revere the violence that spawned such madness? Would they, given a choice and inspired by the same acclaim, pursue the undertaking at the cost of everything they held dear?

Alejandro couldn’t quite recreate the same instant gratification that his painting entitled Contessa provided—a portrait brought to life by carefully wrought realistic detail and expertly use of artistic technique, with the crimson and obsidian hues of real blood drawn from self-inflicted superficial wounds. It was a proper portrayal of life on the brink of destruction: the multiple folds of lacerated flesh bloodletting without restraint, the Prussian blue hue of a bruised neck deepening, inflaming.

Alejandro stared at the blank canvas, driven insane by its beige, creamy white complexion. His token words rang true in supreme self-validation: Ardor is the word that is made manifest in the flesh—art is not presumption. Art is lived, says the artist.

In the grips of frustration, Inspiration, once more, reclaimed Alejandro. He ruminated.

How can a girl’s death be captured beautifully? Is the subject’s tormented death worth the work of art that saves the starving artist?

Is Alejandro even remotely sane to consider such a thing as a justifiable homicide for art’s sake?

Is art worth the premature taking of life somehow? How does the artist value his subject—this girl brutally robbed of life for mundane art? Does supreme art validate the artist’s desire to transcend imagination as Inspiration—the artist enacting the crime for the sake of art?

Alejandro wondered whether mediocre art captured creative inspiration stillborn in the mind’s eye, independent of substance and sensation. Can I deny, he asks himself, my only inherent need as an artist to suitably depict the darker side of the human condition with authenticity and devotion? For the cost of what sanity is left of me? Is supreme art in this light the only true worthy motivation?

Alejandro stared at the blank canvas and picked up his paintbrushes. Then, he realized that inspiration was lacking.

* * *

Summoned by the police captain after discovering another body, Detective Holloway put down his phone and got up from bed. He put on his briefs and trousers and placed a hand through his girlfriend Faye’s hair, taking in the scent of her shampoo and lotion. He went to the bathroom to comb his hair in front of the mirror and inspect his face. Then, he put on his shirt and buttoned it before he tiptoed out of the bedroom without showering.

Detective Holloway was a young homicide detective in Richmond’s busiest district. He had fair hair, a long face, chiseled cheeks, and hard eyes—the type that held your stare and didn’t back down despite the clean dress shirt and smart tie.

He grew up in a strict, conservative Presbyterian household but grew out of staunch stoicism altogether by his late teens when he moved to college. He wasn’t a cop who cut corners or roughed up would-be suspects. He let his attention to detail and detective work do the talking. He had become a favorite of Captain Severn since entering the force.

Outside, he got in his car and glanced up at the bedroom window to see if his girlfriend had roused from sleep. He saw no one at the window, so he started the car and backed out of the parking spot.

He drove downtown to the crime scene: a shallow grave found by some derelicts in an abandoned lot in Chamberlayne Avenue. Some extremities, like hands and feet, or fingers and toes, were already missing, partially devoured by vermin and feral animals. Detective Holloway could barely keep from wincing; he doubled over and vomited in a nearby trench like a newbie detective. Forensics were already combing through the scene to gather evidence. Police Captain Severn and rookie FBI Agent Ben Meeks were on site, discussing the case, barely twitching their noses or visibly furrowing foreheads and eyebrows.

"This is bad news, Holloway," the Police Captain said. "It looks like we could have a serial killer on the loose."

"Then, we should expect more bodies, Cap," Holloway answered. He moved closer to carefully examine the corpse for any visible causes of death. He looked at the girl’s face and barely saw traces of an identity: empty sockets, sallow cheeks, maggots squirming inside the mouth and nostrils, earlobes and lips dark and partially eaten.

Detective Holloway squinted his eyes and put on sunglasses to dim the glare of the sun. Then, he moved aside and threw up one more time before quickly rejoining Captain Severn and Agent Meeks. Captain Severn assured Agent Ben Meeks that Detective Holloway was as good as his record implicitly stated.

"This isn’t Detective Holloway’s first high-profile case," Captain Severn told Agent Meeks, omitting the part about it being Detective Holloway’s first serial killer murder spree in his six years in Homicide.

"Detective Holloway, meet FBI Agent Ben Meeks. Meeks graduated at the top of his batch at Quantico and comes highly recommended by his superiors."

Agent Meeks and Detective Holloway shook hands. Ben Meeks had to be twenty-six or twenty-seven years young, but Detective Holloway didn’t think it was a coincidence that he was assigned to the Richmond case. Word from Quantico was that he aced all his exams and training, and he was identified as someone they could groom to ascend the ranks at FBI Headquarters someday.

Agent Ben Meeks’ youthful reservation complimented Detective Holloway’s tough-guy reputation. Agent Meeks pursed his lips, furrowed his brows, and held a hard stare with the surest of intentions, but his boyish looks disguised his conviction and gut instincts purposely. Like a submarine, he sank big ships with stealthy persistence.

Detective Holloway examined the body further.

"The killer’s getting cocky. We’ve found these two bodies in as many days. This body’s old. The initial discovery is fresher."

"The killer will continue until we set a trap, and he smells it," Agent Meeks chimed in. "The killer’s confident now. But we might just get lucky. He might start getting sloppy."

"We’ve got to catch this son-of-a-bitch," Detective Holloway muttered hoarsely. "How old is this young woman? I mean, she’s just three or four years younger than my girlfriend, Faye."

Captain Severn nodded.

"You’ll get your chance. This won’t be the last time this sicko does something," Captain Severn said.

Captain Severn wasn’t about to let this case get out of hand. An undisputed but respected leader in the force, Mitch Severn was an antithetical law enforcement official; he used restraint to defuse volatile situations and rooted out corruption and negligence amongst his ranks. He was fifty-two years of age and a workhorse at the spinner, training by cycling in park trails throughout the Richmond tri-cities area. He was popular, unlike other cops.

"A popular local university’s buildings are spread out downtown, so many students walk to and from their classes in the area, and some girls stealthily work the streets masquerading as students," Detective Holloway told Agent Meeks. "That means we’ll have to cast a fairly large net to spring a trap for this guy."

Forensics closed off the scene as the three men proceeded to their cars.

Agent Meeks squinted as the first rays of sunlight pierced through the clouds.

"This building is located at some distance from the university and popular eateries close to the off-campus residences. We ought to canvas the immediate vicinity for witnesses."

"Forensics is trying to catch anything that could link the victims. Our lead technician, Tamara, is on it. She’s one of the best in the business."

Captain Severn agreed.

"Okay, gentlemen. Canvas the area. Do a background check on the girl and any acquaintances. Check for any surveillance footage. Let’s do it."

"We’ve got to get this psycho off the streets before the body count rises!" Detective Holloway told patrolmen on-watch before getting in his car.

* * *

Another call from dispatch, another girl dead in a shady area, this time in Highland Park.

Detective Holloway got out of bed in a rush after getting the call from Captain Severn. He kissed Faye goodbye before rushing out of the bedroom and hurrying down the steps. Then, he exited the apartment and sent his car sprinting out of the parking lot in the dead of night.

Somewhere in that cossetting darkness, beneath a funereal moon partly obscured by patches of clouds, in run-down apartment buildings and office buildings guarded by rusty iron fences and surrounded by broken pavement, the killer must have lurked undetected. He might have worn streetwear, flannel. He might have laced up sneakers suitable for a possible chase on the streets.

Holloway tried to picture that man, tried to see where he staked out his victims. He showed no fear peering into that man’s face as the man lowered his hood and revealed bloodshot eyes, eyes that killed for pleasure.

However, everywhere he looked, he seemed to find the same suspicious faces on the streets, the same hooded eyes that told him he was in enemy territory.

Would Holloway see a playboy aristocrat dressed for tough neighborhoods? Would he see a man carrying a tote bag full of brushes and easels?

He drove the great distance to an abandoned building with crime scene tape marking the perimeter. In the center of that small clearing, lit by police emergency lights and secured by patrolmen, was the latest body—the latest girl they couldn’t account for.

* * *

Weeks went by, and other bodies were found in similar circumstances. Local lawmakers decried the crimes, pressuring Police Captain Severn to step up the investigation and find the killer. Still, the police tried keeping details from the press to avoid copycats from coming out of the woodwork. The press was having a field day, anyway, printing pictures of the victims found within the relatively short period almost daily.

One crime after another, the body count rose.

"Girls can end up like this everywhere. Some go missing and are never found. Some like this obviously show a pattern," Agent Meeks stated bluntly.

"The kill-trend has to be unique for a man to have done the same deed once too often," Agent Meeks noted further.

"You’re right," said Detective Holloway. "It’s more than an urban legend: a night of rough sex, another strangulation."

Forensics did a second round of testing, finding no identifiable DNA evidence. There was no evidence of vaginal penetration. Their breasts were fondled; they were beaten, then strangled.

Eight women were found within four months. They weren’t chosen randomly—the common denominator between them—the identifying factor—was still a variable amongst a broad range of choices. They all lived in the city and struggled financially. They were all young—aged twenty-two or younger. Detective Holloway and Agent Meeks guessed that the girls had agreed to accompany the killer—possibly consent to the sex, without knowing that the killer intended to take it a step further. "In other words, the killer lured easy targets; serial killers often turned to vulnerable women working the streets out of convenience," Agent Meeks stated.

"The girls came willingly. They knew the killer or agreed to go with him so much as money was involved," said Agent Meeks anew.

"Fits the usual M.O.," Detective Holloway answered.

"The killer might be pretending to shoot a porn," Agent Meeks argued. "It’s less likely he’s cutting to the chase and strangling them later. The bruises show little resistance leading up to the assault."

Detective Holloway nodded.

"Alcohol. All the victims were intoxicated. With word on the street that hookers are showing up dead, girls wouldn’t be taking offers. Unless it’s a modeling call or something of that nature."

"Then, these girls could be anything from bit models to paid prostitutes to aspiring actresses. It’s unlikely these girls will use legit agencies.

"Yeah. These are runaways, after all. Desperate for a break—in the worst way."

"And exactly what this killer would want."

Detective Holloway arranged the location of the bodies on a map. All eight buildings, where the bodies were found, were in a bad area downtown, further off from Virginia Commonwealth University or the hospital and its trauma center, or the business district where the Federal Reserve Building and Riverfront Towers stood, overlooking the James River.

Detective Holloway looked at the map, fumbling for his pen. He connected the dots and found several establishments in the area: low-cost apartments, a 7-Eleven, a strip mall with plenty of boarded-up windows. They didn’t know where to start.

CCTV footage in the area showed some foot traffic. Holloway and Meeks paid careful attention to men walking the streets alone—men who could’ve shown up in other footage with a young woman, especially if they were headed inside a derelict building or boarded-up shop. They were also looking out for men who were staking out hotspots frequented by call girls.

* * *

Another random night in the week, another dead girl to add to the body count. The latest was found behind a dumpster near Byrd Park. The girl might have carefully posed naked on a bed. She might have curled her body like a cat, showing off the curve of her breast, the roundness of her buttocks.

Then, the killer would have come over, strangled the girl as she tried in vain to resist, then left the body to be discovered easily.

Byrd Park was located in Richmond’s historic Museum District, which was home to an affluent demographic. Members of the community who saw law enforcement crawling all over the parking lot where the dumpsters were located feared the worst. In such cases, only a violent crime would have drawn so many police officers. It was too soon to tell, but residents guessed that the body must have been the latest in the recent string of murders. This time, the killer breached well-traveled public areas to stake out a victim, and not an abandoned or remote area where the other killings could be carried out more conveniently.

Tucked away behind a patch of trees, close to the public tennis courts, at the far end of the parking lot where only park employees visited to get supplies or throw trash, the lifeless body lay behind a garbage bin, limbs awkwardly spread out, the girl’s torso twisted, her face tilted in the opposite direction of her waist. The body looked like it was left behind after a big flood like it wasn’t carefully set down out of fear or reverence. Forensics determined that the girl had died of strangulation. Detective Holloway and Agent Meeks could only look on as forensics experts on-site reported that the girl was suffocated, allowed to breathe only briefly before suffocated yet again. This was done repeatedly until she was finally killed. Agent Meeks and Detective Holloway both agreed. She was tortured. The killer was taunting the police.

The next body was found in a warehouse in the Chamberlayne Industrial Center, marked by urban decay, loitering, drugs, and violent crime. Detective Holloway and Agent Meeks initially doubted whether the victim could have been one of theirs. The Byrd Park victim showed that the killer was developing the urge to stalk victims outside his comfort zone—locations where victims were more accessible, where abandoned or remote areas could easily be breached.

Detective Holloway and Agent Meeks examined the scene in the wee hours after a vagrant noticed the stench and promptly led first responders to the body.

Detective Holloway and Agent Meeks discussed the new findings.

"This body must be weeks old," Meeks told the noticeably quiet Detective Holloway. "Either it’s not one of ours, or more bodies are lying around."

"The girl doesn’t have a record, lives in an apartment close by, and works as a waitress at a diner making scrap change."

He wasn’t finished. He inspected the neck area.

"Looks like deep bruises on the neck."

"Another one fitting the usual M.O.," Agent Meeks answered.

"This victim’s African-American. The first time the killer targets a minority."

"What are we missing?"

"The killer must be a sadist. No sex, just strangling."

"Why this woman or that? What links the victims?"

"Convenience?"

"Such as location…"

"Something else. Does she have a certain look?"

"Various hairstyles. All girls looked pimped for a night out. How does he find them?"

Agent Meeks took a call.

"Forensics says the girls were intoxicated. The Byrd Park victim fits the M.O. Just fondling then strangling."

"The timeline is whack! Could we have a copycat or several killers in the same area?"

"It’s unlikely we have multiple perps here. We’d be hitting worst-case scenario, then."

Agent Meeks and Detective Holloway didn’t have to wait long for the killer to leave another body.

The body was found at a condemned office building downtown, still fresh. Indentations from the killer’s fingertips marked the bruises on her neck. This time, the girl was Asian. She was Thai—a runaway who hadn’t been seen or heard from since she was thirteen. Her social media profile had a lot of pictures of her modeling with provocative clothing. Agent Meeks couldn’t trace any messages to her phone; Forensics would confirm. Meeks concluded that the killer went up to his victims. The police inspected the scene but found no fingerprints, semen, or any other evidence to break the case wide open.

"This killer knows his way with underage girls. He must look like a catch. Someone worth the risk of going somewhere unsafe."

Then, Ben Meeks did another inspection of the crime scene and found a cut article from the Times. A local artist was being featured in a New York gallery exhibit, the report said. The exhibit was called Dead Girls. The featured artist’s picture appeared front and center, looking like a debonnaire—a cross between a Las Vegas illusionist and a playboy Hollywood actor.

* * *

Another gallery exhibit, another gala night. Celebrated gallery owner Alexander Poplin hosted the event, featuring his protege Alejandro del Potro’s latest slew of paintings. Alejandro del Potro was Poplin’s precious find—an artist with an uncanny ability to depict the darker side of life through paintings. Entitled, The Shrew, this particular exhibit showcased twins conjoined at the pelvis, midgets in taboo sex positions, and minors distinct for physical defects. "Where you get your ideas, Alejandro, I’ll never know," Poplin told Alejandro about his latest portfolio.

Alejandro shrugged. The colors used for the subjects were smudged and blended with aplomb, but they were set in backgrounds that provided antinomic contrast. Some paintings utilizing sex partners as subjects depicted them with wild contrasting hues and intense silhouettes, portraying them as bipolar forces of attraction that sought extreme violence, as well as sex. Critics gave the technique, syncopation, and taboo concepts rave reviews, which had become expected of Alejandro since he had burst onto the scene. The exhibit fetched for hefty prices.

After the formal gallery showing was over, Alejandro del Potro and Alexander Poplin led guests to an auditorium at the back of the building. Guests wound down a long, dark hallway with no doors or windows, lit only by bleak, blue lights on the floor that licked the bare walls. At the very end, Poplin opened a set of double doors and held them open for guests. Guests made their way out to a stone path leading through a garden. Alejandro led the way; guests arrived at a glass building where the night’s proceedings would continue.

Guests beheld the sight of a movie theater with a large projection screen, posh leather seats, and a bar/kitchen located off to the side. Each guest took a seat as del Potro, and Poplin took the stage and allowed everyone to acclimate.

"Welcome to our next presentation. Our preview of the next gallery event. We are excited to show you what the next batch of paintings will look like," Poplin announced.

Del Potro prepared to speak. The audience eagerly anticipated the presentation. Guests exchanged smiles.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we present my next batch of masterpieces. I call the next collection "Dead Girls."

* * *

"I have a lead from a man who says he’s a journalist, Detective Holloway," the Dispatcher said. "He was covering an event when he discovered something unusual—something pertinent to the River City Strangler case."

Holloway perked up. "Okay. I’m on it. Patch it in. Thanks," he said.

The dispatcher patched the call through, and the person on the line nervously spoke.

"Uh, hello? Hello?"

"Yes, sir. This is Detective Holloway of the Richmond Police Department. What can I do for you? I’m told that you have a lead for me."

The journalist cleared his throat then spoke more assuredly. His baritone showed.

"Yes, Detective. You see, I was covering an event—an art exhibit by none other than Richmond artist Alejandro del Potro. Are you familiar with him, Detective? He’s big in the Richmond arts scene."

"I may know of who you’re speaking of," Holloway answered. He gestured at a colleague from the precinct to trace the call. Agent Meeks hurried to the adjacent desk and picked up the other telephone receiver to listen in.

"My name is Arn Selbst, Detective. I write for the Richmond Gazette. I was doing an arts and culture feature column on del Potro’s event when I witnessed something unusual that night. I happened to be following the River City Strangler case...like just about everyone. The case has gotten nationwide coverage now, even."

Detective Holloway shook his head when another detective asked whether to cut the trace on the caller.

"I assure you that I am completely transparent and will offer my full cooperation. I can provide my contact details if you would like."

"Yes, Mr. Selbst. That would be helpful. We’ll do a background check. Now please...what information do you have for us that could be useful? Could you offer us a headstart before we can speak to you face-to-face?"

"Not a problem, Detective." Arn Selbst coughed loudly on the line, prompting Holloway and Meeks to grimace. Meeks frowned as Selbst continued coughing loudly into the receiver.

"Del Potro gave a preview of his next exhibit. There would be a collection of paintings comprised of dead girls. In fact, that’s what the event is called.

Holloway and Meeks looked at each other, remembering the newspaper clipping. "Yes, go on. I believe it’s been featured in another paper already if I’m not mistaken," Holloway replied.

"Yes. Our paper. We were given an exclusive." Selbst coughed again, but Holloway and Meeks didn’t flinch or give a reaction this time. They looked right at each other as if electricity was about to pass through them.

"The film feature that del Potro showed us featured a snapshot of the paintings. They look like the girls murdered during the River City Strangler murder spree."

Holloway and Meeks waited for an anxious few moments as Selbst gathered himself. Holloway sensed a bombshell revelation dropping.

"Mr. del Potro promises more paintings...which indicates that he somehow knows that there will be more murders. But what if..."

Selbst hesitated, yet again. He didn’t cough this time.

"What if he had something to do with it?"

* * *

Detective Holloway and Agent Meeks parked in front of an old apartment building in affluent, historic Porter Street in downtown Richmond. The building had a gray stone facade, and gargoyles stood to watch over the rooftop. Archers lined the large windows and the walls, lending an archaic quality to the building. It looked like a medieval manor, with old Gothic furniture, heavy drapes, and sculptures peeking out of the large vistas. Alejandro del Potro resided in the penthouse unit, his unit shielded from view.

The stone pillars that guarded the entrance looked ancient. The faces on the doorknobs looked sinister, but not to Holloway and Meeks, who weren’t superstitious.

The cobblestone pathway outside the building was undulated with age and use. Holloway and Meeks had to be careful not to trip. They rang the doorbell, and the rust and electricity made a harsh ringing noise, like a man executed in an electric chair. Meeks kept pushing the button, and holloway looked at him quizzically, perplexed that he was so impatient; Holloway was also amused at Meeks’ candor.

Eventually, the door clicked open, and the two detectives glanced at one another. Meeks let Holloway go in first, and Holloway barged through. The sound of the rusty hinges opening filtered through the gloom of the lobby.

Empty chairs sat behind the front desk, waiting for unwanted guests. Holloway tried to turn the switch on, but the lights stayed off. Meeks used a flashlight. He spotted the lift; there were cobwebs, a thick chain, a padlock. Alejandro del Potro must have used the stairs.

Seven flights up? The two detectives found del Potro’s ardor for the stairs rather fanatical and absurd. Perhaps, the lift was busted. Meeks shrugged as he and Holloway proceeded up the stairs.

The stairs creaked. The floorboards shook. Meeks was lighter. Holloway took heavier steps. They made their way to the third floor, the fourth. Holloway led the way. When the two got to the top landing where Alejandro’s penthouse was located, they stared at the double doors and the sculptures on either side. Holloway felt his gun in his holster and signaled to Meeks to be ready. Then, they knocked on del Potro’s door.

The doors mysteriously opened.

"Come inside," a voice said. It was Alejandro del Potro. He was eating from a bowl of fresh fruit overlooking the terrace. "I’d already seen you make your way up," he said. "What can I do for you?"

Meeks and Holloway looked at each other before starting the inquiry. They didn’t beat around the bush. They admired del Potro’s posh penthouse villa, styled like Rennaisance Period Italy. Meeks, particularly, looked around like he was marveling at the interior decor and fixtures.

"Mr. Del Potro, we won’t waste your time. We have a few questions. For starters," Holloway began. "What about that exhibit you’re doing that’s raising eyebrows? Dead Girls, it’s called. They’re inspired by the River City Strangler Case."

"Inspiration," Alejandro responded. "Inspiration is key for any artist. Without it, there is no art. Art is a damnable exercise in futility so much as lesser inspiration drives its sails," he said.

Holloway and Meeks had an impression that Alejandro del Potro was a fanatic about art.

Del Potro ventured with a question.

"Do you love art, Detective Meeks?"

Meeks was caught off-guard. Yes, he was a connoisseur of fine art. How did del Potro know this? How did del Potro preternaturally know things he wasn’t supposed to know, even?

Holloway looked at del Potro suspiciously, knowing that a debonair sophisticate was bound to play mind games. He refrained from flatly refuting del Potro’s line of questioning, choosing instead to redirect it so del Potro might give himself away—to deflect the attention del Potro had placed on the younger, more inexperienced Agent Meeks.

"If you’re such a fine lover of art—a practitioner, at that, Mr. Del Potro—why would you indulge in the realistic portrayal of brutally murdered victims—women, at that. Wouldn’t a gentleman consider it a violation in etiquette to portray violently murdered young women in a self-indulgent aesthetic format?"

"I’m going for something different, Detective," Alejandro del Potro answered. "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder."

"Even the dead girls in the River City Strangler Case?" Meeks said, interrupting. "Can we see the paintings, Mr. Del Potro? Do they look just like the murder victims?"

"Do you have a search warrant, Agent Meeks? Do paintings constitute as evidence?"

"They can if they look just like the murder victims, Mr. Del Potro. Only you would have seen them if that were the case."

"You mean the killer would have seen them. I have to ask you to leave, gentlemen."

Holloway and Meeks knew that they couldn’t wrangle del Potro’s feathers. They knew he was suspicious, though—no doubt about it.

"You have a good day, Mr. Del Potro. Sorry to bother you," Detective Holloway said. Del Potro smiled like a villain. He knew the cops had nothing on him. He was a painter. Painting dead bodies wasn’t a crime.

Agent Meeks gave him a parting shot.

"We’ll be back if we have something."

Holloway and Meeks went down the flight of stairs and out the Gothic manor, feeling like del Potro was playing cat and mouse, and they were no closer than two cats chasing their tails.

* * *

The canvases were empty, the paintbrushes dry, and Alejandro’s inspiration vapid as dry ice.

He screamed at the walls, tore the canvases from the easels, threw the paintbrushes across the room. He tore at his shirt and bellowed at the top of his lungs.

The neighbors heard. Although Alejandro’s unit was at the penthouse suite, the neighbors easily heard from beneath the decrepit wooden floors—it was an older building.

When Alejandro took a spatula and started flailing it about, cutting his arms with it, blood-spattered the canvases and walls. Some of the finished paintings were colored with specks of blood. It added a nice touch.

Alejandro didn’t care, though. He grabbed a scalpel and began cutting his arms like they were loaves of bread. The blood dripped onto the floor, and Alejandro cried out, laughing, while in pain.

A neighbor called the police, and the police responded to the scene quickly.

When Alejandro opened the door, his bloody arms, bloody floors, and bloody walls signaled trouble. The officer reported the incident, and Detective Holloway and FBI Agent Meeks were informed.

* * *

Alejandro del Potro was led from Triage to a room with a chair and nothing else. Del Potro sat in the plastic chair and waited. His bloody arms bandaged, the veins on his biceps and pectorals swelling from the violent episodes and drugs, Alejandro looked like a man on the edge after having successfully walked the tight-rope by fearlessly tiptoeing.

Dr. Rashford Gray walked in with a glum expression on his face. His twelve o’clock shadow appeared ill-suited, clashing against his smooth, light-colored suit and tie.

Alejandro del Potro was about to be a celebrated case. The doctor was given a chance to properly evaluate him and explain the motives behind his suspected crimes. Del Potro’s arms showed scars from several lacerations. The tattoos on his body revealed violent scenarios similar to his paintings, providing a counterpoint to his reputation as an aristocrat, which he famously played for show.

Dr. Gray took a seat across from Alejandro. Alejandro stared at Dr. Gray, who continued to take his time. Dr. Gray wiped the lenses of his glasses carefully. He took deep breaths. He adjusted his coat pocket. He leaned back against his chair and waited quietly to give the impression that he was procrastinating on purpose—that Alejandro would not leave unless he was content with the results of the interrogation. Alejandro didn’t move. He didn’t so much as blink either.

"Do you know why you are here today, Mr. del Potro," the doctor asked.

"I am accused of crimes I did not commit. What else would I be doing in custody?" Alejandro answered without emotion.

Doctor Gray watched Alejandro’s facial tics closely. He came away impressed with Alejandro’s composure and use of restraint.

"Do you know what crimes you’re suspected of perpetrating?"

"Wouldn’t that be funny if I knew and didn’t do anything?"

"Do you know where you are?"

"Tinseltown?"

Alejandro didn’t laugh. He didn’t know the doctor’s name. Dr. Gray didn’t wear a badge.

"You are in Staunton, VA." Dr. Gray said.

Alejandro was silent.

"Central State Hospital. You were remanded to my care after your psychotic episode."

* * *

Detective Holloway, Agent Meeks, and Captain Severn made their way to the lab after Forensics reported additional findings in the case.

Holloway was excited; he talked up a storm. Meeks nodded his head, anticipating a breakthrough. Captain Severn was tight-lipped, preferring to hear the findings before speculating.

When Holloway and Captain Severn reached the lab, their lead forensics expert, an African-American woman in her early thirties named Tamara, a top graduate from local Virginia Commonwealth University, greeted them at the door and smiled at them. Captain Severn and Detective Holloway greeted her warmly. She was dependable, hard-working, and always accurate with findings. She had been a killer find for the State.

"Captain, Detective," she said, bowing her head almost reverently. "We did a thorough workup of the crime scene, and we made some startling discoveries. We felt that you needed to know immediately."

"Yes, of course, Tamara. We appreciate you informing us at once. What do you have for us?"

"Captain, we dusted the place for fingerprints, for any DNA, particularly on the bodies and the debris left behind, and we found partial fingerprint indents on the girls’ breasts. The girls had bruises on the breast areas, which means that the killer had pressed and fondled them hard. It was his sexual preference. There was no vaginal penetration. No sodomy. No smearing of lipstick or trace of the killer’s saliva present in the oral cavities."

Detective Holloway cussed loud enough for the other staffers in Forensics to hear. Agent Meeks shook his head and looked down. Captain Severn looked perplexed. He managed to say, "are you sure? Just partial indents?"

Tamara took in a big breath.

"Let me show you."

Captain Severn, Ben Meeks, and Detective Holloway went over to Tamara’s desk and examined the photographs shown on her computer monitor. Each zoomed image on the screen showed a part of a fingerprint. The fingerprints corresponded to various fingers, not just one—but they consisted of only a portion of the print.

"It looks like the killer might have used something sharp to slice off most of his fingerprints to prevent a positive I.D., gentlemen. But what I did was take each partial capture of the fingerprint and make a composite 3D model to show us what the fingerprint might have looked like if it were whole. Here are the results.

Captain Severn, Agent Meeks, and Detective Holloway watched the screen change as Tamara pressed a button. The fingerprints appeared on the screen. Despite only small portions of the prints recovered, Tamara used A.I. to predict a possible map of the print to create a model.

"One of these may be a one-hundred-percent match, everyone. I can’t promise the rest of these will be accurate. It’s a starting point. The Judge will throw this out if the case has to depend on it strictly, but we can certainly build a case around it if we can gather more evidence."

Detective Holloway, Agent Meeks, and Captain Severn squinted at the screen, reexamining each fingerprint. Was del Potro a match? Was he the killer? Was he one step ahead of them? Two steps? Was he toying with them, or was he just an artist with a morbid imagination?

"Cap, we’ve got to dig more dirt on del Potro. I still think he could be our guy," Holloway said.

"We’ll run background checks. We’ll canvas his neighborhood, stake him out, see what we can find," Meeks added.

"Right, gentlemen. We’ll have to keep looking. We just can’t let del Potro know we’re snooping around. His attorneys will throw a monkey wrench in the investigation."

* * *

Dr. Gray, Captain Severn, Detective Holloway, and Agent Meeks met in Dr. Gray’s office to discuss the case. Agent Meeks glanced out the window at the courtyards, which spanned long and wide and were lush and green. Detective Holloway anxiously stood by the door, rubbing the back of his neck. Captain Mitch Severn sat quietly, going over details with Dr. Gray as Dr. Gray sat with his legs crossed, his chair reclined. Dr. Gray fumbled with a pen while Captain Severn expressed a sense of urgency in making del Potro talk. They needed something.

"The newspaper clipping of his exhibit was found on-site, and he’s a Richmonder, even though his paintings grace New York City galleries now," Captain Severn mentioned briskly.

"But it’s not nearly enough to get the charges to stick. We need a motive. He’s respected. He doesn’t have priors—no violent past. We won’t even get him arraigned," he said further.

"Maybe you’ve got the wrong guy," Dr. Gray answered. "Dig deeper. What do you have to say, Agent Meeks?"

"The upcoming event he’s hosting is called Dead Girls. Ring a bell, Doctor? All the victims are young girls working the street. He just has to present with the right psychodynamics to explain his propensity for this type of patterned killing. Besides, a witness came forward and testified that the girls in his paintings look just like the victims."

"Circumstantial. Not overwhelming. It could be leaked photos inspiring his paintings. Ever thought of that?"

"We need you to work him to see if he cracks, Doctor. Get in his head. Serial killers take pride in their work. This guy won’t let someone else take credit for the killings."

"Do you suggest doctoring my findings to fix the case? Why does your DA need me to seal the deal? Del Potro isn’t talking. There’s a good chance your detaining order will lose in an appeal when his attorney gets that underway. There’s even a potential lawsuit on the State for this mess, don’t you agree?"

"We don’t have any leads. This guy fits the bill. Do you have any theories for us, Doctor?"

"Here’s one: a really sick man is killing these girls out there and happens to love art that suits his temperament. The Judge will throw this case out on the spot."

Captain Severn shook his head.

"We were hoping you could rankle his feathers—get him to owe up to the crimes if he’s truly guilty. Don’t these sickos do that?"

It was Agent Meeks’ turn to speak.

"Give us something, doc. We’re all ears."

"Have you seen the paintings? What does he paint?"

"Weird shit," Detective Holloway said, unable to resist taking a stab.

"He has a history of psychiatric illness, but he’s also very composed and controlled. If there’s one thing, a psychotic person wouldn’t be capable of masking psychosis, but Mr. Del Potro doesn’t look rattled, at all."

Captain Severn, Agent Meeks, and Detective Holloway stared at Dr. Gray as Dr. Gray stood up and looked out the window onto the empty courtyards.

"He’s hiding something. But he knows you don’t have enough on him."

He paused.

"Be prepared to turn this one loose, gentlemen. He’ll either drop out of sight, and the murders will stop, or he’ll play catch-me-if-you-can and see if you can stop him."

"Doctor," Dr. Gray’s assistant interrupted the discussion. "Mr. Del Potro’s attorney is here, demanding a release. AMA, Doctor. Against Medical Advice."

Dr. Gray smiled.

"There’s your case, gentlemen," he told Severn, Meeks, and Holloway.

* * *

Alejandro del Potro sat in a chair in front of a steel table with a blank expression on his face. His attorney, Anita Boschco, sat beside him. Captain Severn, Detective Holloway, and Agent Meeks knew they were on a tight leash.

Detective Holloway and Agent Meeks felt they had their guy. The order to check all of del Potro’s toll and travel records returned a positive result—del Potro was in Richmond during the crime spree. His name or credit cards did not register on any transactions made outside the city for the duration of the spree, despite the New York City event, which would have required del Potro’s presence to prepare for proceedings. Finally, his fingerprints didn’t match with Tamara’s composite. Holloway and Meeks knew they had nothing.

"Mr. del Potro, we have reason to think you might be involved in a case we’re investigating. We’d like your cooperation."

"Sure. But I had a nervous breakdown in my apartment, and I’m suddenly a suspect in an investigation. What investigation? You can’t hold me if you don’t charge me."

"This newspaper clipping was found at the latest crime scene." Detective Holloway said. Detective Holloway showed him the clipping in a plastic bag. "Look familiar?"

"Hell, no, Detective. Nice to know I might have fans outside my status quo. Art is universal, don’t you agree?"

Del Potro’s attorney, Anita Boschco, interrupted. "You can’t be serious. That’s not even circumstantial evidence you’re presenting. You’re falsely accusing my client."

"We’re trying to establish the relevance between the clipping and Mr. del Potro’s art exhibit."

"Mr. del Potro, you don’t look the least bit concerned that these paintings of yours are based on twelve murders. Real-life murders. Doesn’t that strike you as funny, sir?"

"No, it doesn’t."

Alejandro del Potro smiled sarcastically at Detective Holloway, who leaned in across the table after getting up from his chair to stare del Potro down. Del Potro wasn’t fazed. Del Potro’s attorney prepared to call out Holloway’s bad cop act.

"We’ll give this city a lawsuit it won’t soon forget, Detective," Attorney Boschco warned Detective Holloway.

"I didn’t kill anyone," del Potro told all of them in conclusion, smiling.

* * *

Police Captain Mitch Severn and District Attorney Tom Philipps watched Detective Holloway and Agent Meeks go in circles as Alejandro del Potro continued to divulge nothing. Holloway and Meeks even tried the good cop bad cop routine, with Holloway putting the heat and Meeks softening him up for a confession.

Attorney Anita Boschco would whisper every so often into Alejandro’s ear, and silence would reign. Holloway and Meeks knew what they were up against. Bochco was art gallery entrepreneur and multi-millionaire Alexander Poplin’s long-time ace defense attorney. She knew all the tricks that they could throw at Alejandro del Potro.

"Nothing. He won’t talk. His lawyer’s in the way. This art bigwig friend of his, Poplin, is demanding an immediate release if we don’t file charges. The press is running the story, and it’s catching like wildfire. What do you think, Tom? Do we still have a chance?"

Tom Philipps crossed his arms and pursed his lips. Then, he raised his chin and examined del Potro like del Potro was something fascinating to look at.

"We’ve tried getting a psych eval to demonstrate his capacity for pathological violence. This isn’t any regular murder trial. We can get the Judge to order a detaining order to get a psych eval done, so we know what we’ve got."

"Judge Sternberger going to hear us out?"

"We didn’t have enough evidence for an arrest. We might just have enough to get the Judge to order an eval. Based on his episode."

Captain Severn had a feeling that the DA was neglecting to tell him something.

"What is it, Tom? What’s your gut telling you? I’ve known you for twenty years, and I haven’t seen you look like that."

DA Tom Philipps was African-American and studied law school at Yale. He boated around the Chesapeake Bay area when he was on holiday, but this kind of case upset him because his two daughters lived with him downtown and felt relatively safe there. The case struck too close to home.

Despite that, he could picture himself in the Governor’s Chair after winning this case by any narrow margin—the more challenging, the better. Either that or a senate seat.

District Attorney Philipps didn’t look at Captain Severn. He still watched del Potro like del Potro had been excavated from a religious site—a prized relic that didn’t bedazzle the eye—it was the sort that vexed it.

"I have a bad feeling about this, Mitch," Philipps muttered. His lips barely moved.

* * *

Judge Sternberger ordered the evaluation, but the DA and Captain Severn were warned to let del Potro go should no conclusive findings be made. There was little chance of finding enough evidence to file charges after an evaluation, but Philipps and Severn were up against the wall. Detective Holloway and Agent Meeks, meanwhile, were on field duty looking for clues.

Dr. Gray was running out of time to crack Alejandro del Potro’s rigid exterior. Dr. Gray checked all the boxes, indicating a good bill of health, and consequently, found no reason to hold del Potro in custody much further. Dr. Gray was tasked with the most challenging case of his lifetime–to crack the code, the labyrinth psychosis of a man who didn’t give anything away. Alejandro was the only suspect that made sense—the only arrest in the case, the only lead. Dr. Gray knew that the case was slipping, despite feeling certain that Alejandro was guilty. Was it all a case of the police trying desperately to name the fall guy? When Dr. Gray asked del Potro questions, del Potro did not reveal tell-tale signs of a disturbed man, despite the incident at the apartment—the blood, the self-mutilation, the screaming, the violence. Alejandro remained perfectly calm in the face of the accusations, and he always knew what to say.

Twelve dead women and a case against the suspect slipping with each second. When the police found another badly decomposed body, they knew the serial killer remained at large...

"Tell me," Dr. Gray beseeched. "If you are innocent, why stage an exhibit featuring the twelve murder victims from the River City Strangler case, and why get caught in a rampage in your apartment over confounding reasons? By the way, what are those reasons? What caused you to be so upset? What caused you to become so violent?"

"It’s your job to prove that I’m guilty. Your job to tie together two totally different cans without any strings," Alejandro answered.

He continued. "You have yet to establish a motive or plausible theory by any account. Eyewitnesses can’t place me in any crime scenes. I’m a respected artist. Art mimics life—even Death. If I paint pictures of dead women, it doesn’t prove that I’m responsible for killing them. People have seen photographs of the crime scenes. You have nothing on me. I have nothing to explain for."

"I’m an artist and your killer could have simply heard about my event. A crazed fan, dare I say."

Agent Ben Meeks interrupted the inquiry, asking a word with Dr. Gray in private.

Dr. Gray left the room and joined Agent Meeks.

"This is our last chance. We get nothing; he walks, Dr. Gray."

Dr. Gray stared into Alejandro del Potro’s eyes and thought his eyes were laughing.

* * *

Faye knew better than to walk down some streets in the Fan District at night. Cary Street, Main Street, and Grove Avenue were well-lit and safe for nightcrawlers. One night, Faye risked walking down a few blocks from her place to Cary Street without taking her car. There was nothing in the fridge, and she didn’t feel like ordering Chinese or pizza. She put on her coat and kept her guard up as she made her way down the dark two-lane road.

She felt eyes watching her from the shadows. Trees occasionally stood on front yards, and fences behind apartment buildings looked like good places for muggers to hide. It didn’t help that she was walking alone on the road. She took out a flashlight and felt her taser in her pocket to ease her nerves. She managed to make it to a deli at Cary Street and the flood of warm lights and cheerful people gave her solace. She decided that she was going to book a ride on Uber to get home safely after dinner. She felt relieved for some reason. Like there was reason to get spooked.

After she safely made it to the diner, a man in a black hoodie slipped out from beneath a thicket and watched her walk inside. Faye didn’t realize that she was that close to being a mugging victim—or worse.

Was he the River City Strangler?

* * *

By then, news about the case made it to the press, and fewer women were expected to agree to jobs posing for paintings. Simon Clarke knew that he had to get creative. He visited a dive in a seedy part of town and planned on bringing the next girl home instead of taking her to a site. It was more than a daring stunt.

Venues were harder to find. Abandoned buildings were too risky to use as dumping grounds while police patrols made the rounds. Clarke thought of getting the girls drunk at his home and strangling them as they passed out, away from the 7-Eleven where he stalked them.

The dive was a hellhole of dirty old men, downtrodden women, and alcohol. He ordered a rum to summon his nerve and approached a blonde sitting at the bar. The blonde girl smiled at Simon Clarke like she was waiting for a hook-up.

"What you lookin’ at?" she asked him.

"What you here for?" he answered.

Simon knew he’d be placed at the bar should the woman go missing. It was a dive, and hook-ups took place there all the time, but the cops put the word out about the spike in killings. Clarke knew that the cops would be on to him sooner or later.

With the press in a feeding frenzy over the killing spree and one more killing in his sights, it hardly even mattered. He charmed the blonde-haired girl into downing a few vodka shots and asked her what she was doing there.

"Looking for someone suitable to marry," she answered sarcastically.

It excited Simon Clarke. He went for it, despite the risks.

"Aren’t you scared of all this talk making the rounds? Some killer muddying the waters?"

"You some killer now? What makes you think I’d end up with some sicko?" the girl said, eyeing Simon Clarke from head to foot while sneering.

Simon Clarke was South Asian, middle-aged, short, and scrawny. Not someone who looked imposing.

Or someone, a girl with big dreams, would have liked to string along.

"Anyone could be. My place is safe, though. I heard the killings have been taking place at abandoned sites, you know what I’m saying?"

The girl eyed him head to foot again, scrutinizing him one last time.

Simon Clarke licked his lips. He checked out the front and rear exits in case the girl got spooked. All the excitement was making his underarms and shoulders wet.

"How much you pay for a couple of hours? Ain’t nobody here worth my time, anyway," the girl said.

"Fridge full of beer and a hundred bucks. I don’t look rich, do I?"

The blonde girl looked disgusted to hear it, but she agreed anyway. It was the best that she could do that night.

* * *

Drunk, prostrate, the young prostitute raved in Simon’s arms, telling him that he used to be a poor little girl in a black ghetto, and never felt like she belonged.

Simon lay her down and began to mount her. She took off her top and exposed her breasts. The harness came off with a click, and Simon pressed her breasts with his hands. Then, without unzipping his pants, he placed his hands around her neck. She began to choke. She saw the look in his eyes that moment, her eyes widening after struggling to take in mouthfuls of oxygen. He looked like a pure psychopath, smiling horridly and loving every second of her suffering while choking to death in his arms. She willed herself to live. She thought of all the times she came home from working the streets and cried in bed because she needed to take care of her Dad, who had Alzheimer’s. She thought of all the times her friends were reported missing and were never found, and she realized that she was about to be next. I don’t want to die, she said to herself. I don’t want to die. God help me.

Struggling underneath his weight, she reached behind the loveseat to grasp hold of a blunt object to smash over his head. Growing dizzy, kept alive by adrenaline and a depleting supply of oxygen, her hands clawed for anything she could. Then, she felt something. It was a large vase. She tried to grab it, and nearly knocked it over, but ended up securing the large cylindrical shape in both hands before raining it down on Simon Clarke. The thing shattered to bits. Clarke was stunned by the blow. He fell to the floor and felt the wound with his hand. Blood trickled down his fingers. He felt dizzy after the force of the blow stunted his awareness.

The young prostitute scampered towards the door. She climbed down the steps and found her way to the exit. Then, she left the apartment and hid behind a nearby garbage bin. Simon Clarke chased after her, looking for her in the parking lot, realizing the trouble he was in. He got in his car and searched the nearby streets. He assumed that she hadn’t gotten far.

When the coast was clear, she went out of hiding. She got as far as a phone booth, where she managed to call the cops.

* * *

When Ben Meeks and Detective Holloway arrived at Simon Clarke’s apartment, the apartment was empty save for debris leftover from the struggle.

"The first time the killer gets sloppy, we still aren’t lucky enough to catch him."

"We have a witness. A sketch. A description. We’re closing in."

"He’ll be more careful. He’ll disappear."

"He’s got to still be around here somewhere."

"We’re canvassing the entire area. He couldn’t have gone far."

"What do we have?"

"He’s Central Asian. Middle-aged. The place is clear of photographs. Forensics is dusting the place for fingerprints."

"Son-of-a-bitch!"

"We’ll have to release del Potro. This proves he’s not the killer."

"We had the wrong guy all along. He did such a good job looking suspicious."

"What did Clarke want? He was a strangler. Just a plain killer. But what was the newspaper clipping doing at the murder site?"

"We don’t know his angle. Not just yet," Agent Meeks said.

"Detective," said an officer over to Detective Holloway. "Forensics has a fingerprint match."

Both Detective Holloway and Ben Meeks looked up.

Both of them headed for the precinct to strategize.

"Come on! Let’s catch this son of a bitch!" Detective Holloway exclaimed on the drive back.

Meanwhile, Dr. Gray was preparing to discharge Alejandro del Potro from custody at Central State Hospital. Charges were not filed due to a lack of evidence. Attorney Anita Boschco and Alexander Poplin were suing the State for holding del Potro longer than necessary—alleging that the Judge’s court order was without due justification.

"Mr. del Potro?"

Alejandro looked up.

"You’re free to go."

"Why, I’d known all along that I was innocent."

"We had to find out if you were a danger to yourself or others."

"Creating art is hazardous, on occasion."

Alejandro was escorted out of his quarters. One of the personnel asked Dr. Gray if Alejandro needed to be placed on restraints.

"That won’t be necessary," Dr. Gray answered him.

The cuffs were taken off Alejandro’s wrists. Alejandro was led out of the hospital triage department. Armed guards waited while his official discharge was being processed. Dr. Gray smiled at Alejandro for the first time.

"My apologies for any inconvenience your stay here may have caused you, Mr. del Potro."

"Indeed. But it’s too late for that, I’m afraid. I have been inconvenienced enough."

"What are your plans now, if you don’t mind me asking."

Alejandro rubbed his wrists, having been unshackled and glad for it.

"Paint. What else?"

* * *

Agent Ben Meeks and Detective Holloway forgot the 7-Eleven in the middle of the map where all the bodies were discovered. When Agent Meeks returned to the precinct, he found the map with the forgotten 7-Eleven in the middle, among other buildings, they’ve staked out and checked for clues.

"Come on," he told Detective Holloway. "I know where we’ll find him."

"Where? Who, the suspect?"

"I’ll drive."

Agent Meeks got in the driver’s seat, half-expecting the perp to have crossed the border by then. Maybe, he thought. Maybe, they would get lucky.

And boy, were they. Agent Meeks and Detective Holloway drove to the 7-Eleven and recognized the 7-Eleven employee from the sketch. Simon Clarke was not in a uniform. The 7-Eleven was closed, and he was busy cleaning out the money from the vault when he saw Detective Holloway approach from the front entrance. He made a dash for it. He ran out from the back of the store and tried to climb the high fence protecting the backend of the property. There, he met Agent Meeks in the squad car after Meeks had headed him off, waiting at the other end of the alleyway, beyond the fence, with Detective Holloway in pursuit from the direction of the store. Simon Clarke realized that he was trapped. He raised his hands up, knowing he was cornered. Detective Holloway and Agent Meeks approached Clarke slowly, their guns aimed at him. The lights from the police helicopter circling above the area shone down on Simon Clarke. Holloway and Meeks frisked Simon Clarke and cuffed him. Then, they led him to the back of the squad car and waited for Forensics to arrive before taking him to the station.

* * *

In the precinct, the air was alive with excitement. Having cracked the case, FBI profiler Ben Meeks decided to head out, while Detective Holloway and other detectives got ready to head over to a bar to celebrate.

"Meeks, aren’t you coming with us to celebrate? Afraid you’re gonna get carded? We’ll pay for the lapdance," Detective Holloway joked.

Agent Meeks laughed. "Something came up. I gotta run. I’m heading back tomorrow."

"Geez, genius. You’re no fun. Run along, okay?" Holloway said. "It was a pleasure."

"Get laid, Holloway."

"Later, gator."

"After a while, pedophile."

There was more laughter. Agent Meeks went to his car.

It was 5 o’clock, and the evening shift took over. Penetrating into the womb of the precinct, darkness greeted the light like smoke obscuring the streetlamp’s glare. Perhaps, an ancient evil was coming. Or, perhaps, the notion was absurd, and there was nothing to fear.

In a jail cell secluded from others so as not to endanger the lives of other detainees, Simon Clarke sat and read classic literature he’d requested from his lawyer—Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment—proving quite fitting in light of the circumstances.

Like smoke moving invisibly through the darkness, someone emerged from the parking lot and walked up to the front desk, where he asked to see Simon Clarke.

"No, you can’t," he was told by the receptionist. "No one may see him after visiting hours."

Wearing a black hoodie hiding his arms, shielding his eyes from the glare of fluorescent light, he lowered his hood and looked into the receptionist’s eyes.

Soon after, the receptionist escorted the man in a hoodie downstairs. She stopped at a room at the end of a long hallway filled with men awaiting trial, all scared somehow by something they couldn’t quite describe. A man loomed inside the cell at the end of the hall—isolated, but you were almost certain that they feared the man in the black hoodie headed for the cell instead.

The detainees might have heard low, unintelligible mumbling. The detainees might have looked into the hooded person’s eyes and saw nothing, precisely nothing: no love, no hope, and no compassion.

The female officer stopped by the door at the end of the hallway and unlocked it, so the hooded man could walk inside. The hooded man entered the room without apprehension. The palms of his hands sat on top of each other along his waist like he was a monk. He spoke to the prisoner.

The hooded man asked the detainee a question. Simon Clarke, the detainee, was silent. Clarke was certain he smelled insense—the smell of which brought him back centuries into the past when Priests of Sodom sacrificed young women for favor.

Simon Clarke spoke, and the man in the hoodie listened. In between the pages of his book, Simon Clarke extricated some camera film. He gave it to the visitor. Then, the visitor walked out, and the door was locked, yet again. The officer saw the visitor out.

The logs didn’t show anyone coming after 5 o’clock.

A guard came to check on Simon Clarke a few hours later. Clarke was found in bed, with his bare limbs entangled in twisted sheets, in a position that suggested he suffered excruciating pain before succumbing to death. Early reports from the medical examiner’s office indicated that he had swallowed his tongue.

When the receptionist was told about what had happened to Simon Clarke the previous night, she scoffed. The other officer on duty asked her what was funny, and the receptionist told him she wasn’t sure. She vaguely remembered taking someone down there. She tried hard to think of who: Detective Holloway, Agent Meeks, Captain Severn? They were supposed to be gone by then. She wouldn’t have let someone in—someone without authorization—that was against protocol. Perhaps, it had been a dream. She remembered taking three cups of coffee by the start of her shift and feeling like she could have used some more. She tried to remember the face she might have seen that night and realized that she could have been imagining things. She pictured Agent Meeks’ face; stars, moons, and astrological symbols flickered across his glassy eyes. The receptionist imagined Agent Meeks taking off his hoodie, picturing him, saying, "take me to him." She pictured a stranger with eyes that gleamed with obsidian. A glint in Meeks’ eye shone like a bright light refracting over the edge of a sharp diamond. His mouth appeared to be moving, mumbling some unintelligible spell. The receptionist was startled when the sound of a file cabinet closed shut behind her, ending the nightmarish sequence of visions. She shook her head. She told herself that she needed a vacation. She was told that Agent Meeks had headed out at the same time Holloway and the other detectives went out to party.

* * *

In a gallery in New York City, a celebrated artist’s exhibit was the subject of conversation. The exhibit entitled, “Dead Girls” was a resounding success. Profiler Ben Meeks attended the exhibit, finding the lifelike paintings similar to the girls he and Detective Holloway had found dead during the Richmond murder spree. Down to every convincing detail, the portraits were almost photographic. Ben Meeks guessed as much. Simon Clarke was dead, and the case was closed. The woman Clarke had picked up from the bar, the lone survivor of the serial murder spree that gripped the city, identified Clarke as the man who’d attacked her. She was sure of that beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Agent Meeks examined all the paintings in the exhibit: twelve in total—the same number of victims in the River City Strangler case.

A man walked up to Ben Meeks as the latter examined a painting of a woman, he didn’t recognize.

"You like it?" the man asked.

Meeks appeared disgusted.

"It’s violent," Meeks added. "But inspired. You see, these brushstrokes merging with finger smudges are delicately rendered. The colors are exactly as they should be. These paintings are masterpieces."

The first painting—of the first victim they discovered—showed the girl with her eyes half-open, maggots crawling out of her ears, her nostrils. She lay half-buried in gravel in an abandoned factory, vermin chewing at her fingers, crows pulling ribbons of red meat from her scalp. "The minute brushstrokes and smudges lend this painting stark detail," Meeks offered as attestation.

Another painting showed an African-American girl in a poor ghetto, lodged in a boiler room behind some pipes, her skin dissolving into a tar-like substance due to the steam and heat from the pipework. Her eyes bulged out of her sockets. "Black paint resembling tar smudge the top of the canvas, richly and vividly; these red smears representing raw, burnt skin portray violence and pain. The gritty textures contrast upon close inspection; they fit perfectly from the right distance, like a Monet," Meeks said, once again, offering his endorsement of Alejandro del Potro’s wizardry.

The next painting showed the Asian girl behind the bin in the park. She looked like a raggedy doll in the painting. The bruises on her breasts and on her neck stood out, owing to the advanced decomposition of her corpse. "This was all captured beautifully by del Potro’s deft skill. The paint applied by knife and cutter and charcoal linings used to provide stark emphasis are radiant and realistic," Meeks enthusiastically proffered. He lit up while pointing and gesturing the aforementioned sections of each painting with his hands.

"You seem to know your art," the old man answered. "I’m Alexander Poplin. I’ve just opened this gallery. I live in Richmond, Virginia. I know the artist personally."

Alexander Poplin was exquisitely dressed for the evening in a tux perfectly contoured and cut. He was sixty-four years old, had gray hair, and friendly, disarming eyes. He never once showed frustration or irritation of any kind.

Agent Meeks knew that Poplin would be just as tough to crack as his protege, Alejandro del Potro. It wasn’t worth trying.

Still, he felt like investigating further. His gut was telling him.

"I’d like to meet him," he said to Poplin, taking a chance.

"He is upstairs at the penthouse. We’re having a party. Why don’t you come to join us? It’s normally for invitees only, but seeing how you’re such a fan of Alejandro’s art, I’d like you to get a chance to meet him."

Alexander Poplin led Agent Meeks upstairs through the lift.

"How much was that painting? Perhaps, I’d like to buy it."

"It’s priceless. It’s not for sale. The rest of them were, but we sold everything within the first ten minutes of the exhibit."

"Sold out?"

"Why is that hard to believe?

"I doubt Mr. del Potro can explain just how he came up with it," Ben Meeks retorted.

Poplin didn’t speak.

"He’s a sick man, Mr. Poplin. Don’t you recognize the woman in the painting?"

"Who would it be?" Poplin asked, seemingly mesmerized by the accusations.

"Your daughter, Contessa," Meeks answered.

Poplin laughed.

"But Contessa’s upstairs with Alejandro. They used to be lovers, but now they are friends, you see."

Poplin smiled proudly.

"Very good friends."

"What are you suggesting, Mr. Poplin?"

"These paintings are inspired by the Richmond murders, by the serial killer, Simon Clarke."

"..."

"You falsely accused Alejandro of the killings, but all he did was take inspiration from the incident—therefore, the paintings."

"Intriguing," Agent Meeks could only whisper in rebuttal.

The lift opened onto the rooftop bar. There was a costume party, and everyone wore dark colors: midnight blue, nightmare black, purple paisley, satin obsidian. Men and women danced, laughed, passed glassfuls of scotch and vodka. The music blared, a mix of synthwave, digital hardcore, and industrial techno—the harder stuff you used to find in raves back in the drug-dazed nineties. There were crowds of affluent freaks, lawyers doubling as make-believe goths, and young Turks who typically showed up for Halloween parties. There were fishnet-clad female art curators and historians, leather-clad female industrial club regulars. There were young model-types that liked to get high.

Agent Ben Meeks felt sick to his stomach. People eyed him as he made his way past. They parted like the red sea before Alexander Poplin, smiling at him and offering their congratulations. Fireworks erupted amid the chaos. Loud, raucous laughter made its way everywhere. There was dancing and hollering. A woman crashed her booty against that of Agent Meeks, and she tried in vain to apologize. He shrugged it off and tried to keep up with Poplin through the maze of partiers.

Poplin stopped in front of a large lounge area at the far side of the rooftop, in the open air, with a view of the entire party, located just a stone’s throw from the bar.

Seated and waiting was Alejandro del Potro and Poplin’s daughter, Contessa. Del Potro was still wearing the obligatory tux from the exhibit downstairs. Contessa wore her long, blonde hair in a double braid, tied behind her head in a bun. She looked like a priestess in Apollo’s temple, radiant and golden, with eyes that seized lesser mortals and beauty that slew foul Gorgons.

"Alejandro, I’m sure you remember Agent Meeks. Agent Meeks was interested in acquiring a painting from the exhibit. He knows his art, and he’s quite a fan. Contessa, this is Agent Ben Meeks of the FBI. He helped solve the Richmond serial murder spree very recently."

Contessa spoke first.

"We’re particularly honored that you’ve chosen to attend our event, as well as our little after-party. Alejandro has sold out another show. Business is doing well."

"Yes, ma’am. Congratulations are meant for you, as well," Meeks replied, not giving away that he felt in awe at the sight of her. She was stately, grand, like a goddess more than a priestess. She sparkled like a rare jewel held against the glare of the rising sun.

Pyrotechnics erupted towards the east wing of the rooftop, positioned along the edges of the building. It was lavish. Del Potro was famous, wealthy, notorious.

"Care to have a drink with us, Agent Meeks?" Alejandro asked. He didn’t wait for Meeks to answer. He motioned the waitress over and told her to fetch a brandy for Meeks.

Agent Meeks looked around. He found provocatively-dressed, lavishly-dressed women of mixed races with brown mocha complexion and women with smooth nigredo sheen coating their arms and legs. He found blondes and brunettes with tresses winding down bare, cocoa-butter-coated smooth, spare shoulders. He didn’t find any faces that looked like the girls in del Potro’s exhibit.

"Agent Meeks, did you plan on buying a painting tonight?"

Alejandro del Potro sipped some bourbon, still holding Agent Meeks’ gaze. The waitress returned with Meeks’ brandy. She handed it to him. He obliged. He looked at it; he thought against drinking from it.

"Why, yes. I’m a frustrated artist," Meeks replied. "I love art. If not for the FBI, I would have embarked on a career in art and multimedia. Maybe, an advertising or design firm. But I can’t fathom doing paintings."

"Multimedia is wonderful," Alejandro answered. "I’ve dabbled in it. I’ve worked on mixed media, mostly. Ever consider an apprenticeship in painting? Who might your favorite artists be?"

Meeks was taken aback. He wondered just what del Potro was thinking. Meeks thought that he saw through him. Del Potro easily passed the eye test as someone devious and calculating. It was part of his appeal—a Mephistophelian quality.

"Picasso, Van Gogh, Goya, Caravaggio, to name a few," Meeks said. "What do you mean, apprenticeship?"

"Precisely what that means, Agent Meeks." Alejandro said as he leaned back and crossed his legs. "I thought you happened to like my work."

Incredible, Meeks thought. An apprenticeship with Alejandro del Potro—a living legend, a present-day Francisco Goya or Theodore Gericault. He didn’t grant opportunities like these often.

Or ever.

Meeks took a sip of his brandy. He smiled and admitted the obvious.

"You’re a fantastic artist, I’m sure, Mr. Del Potro."

He didn’t entertain the offer, though. Rather, he couldn’t.

He felt light-headed. He watched as the lights swirled and the faces moved, pulled askew, and rendered like clay as they distorted in his vision. Their eyes bulged, and their lips stretched like they were cartoons on T.V.

Goddamnit, Meeks thought, his vision swirling with the bright lights and the music. I need to get out of here.

Meeks turned around and staggered towards the lift, leaving Alexander Poplin and Contessa wondering what had happened to him. Not Alejandro, though. He watched Meeks scurry off with a raise of the right brow. He smiled at Contessa as if to say something—that they might have just been spared Meeks’s bold assertions regarding del Potro’s hypothetical love of all things perverse and weird.

Meeks gathered himself in the lift, realizing as an FBI agent that he’d committed a technical error that his superiors weren’t about to forget...or forgive: setting off alone to stake out a suspect and confronting them.

One thing was sure, Meeks had no way of proving that Alejandro del Potro was guilty of the crimes. He decided to fly back to Quantico in the morning and settle in for the night at a hotel nearby. Meanwhile, he headed to the washroom and splash water on his face before leaving. He found the restroom at the gallery close to the exit.

What didn’t make sense, most of all, was that art as realistically detailed and inspired by brutal violence would drive art critics and buyers the world over mad with excitement. That part was just plain nuts.

What was even more nuts was what Meeks was about to ask Alejandro del Potro. He splashed some cold water on his face and exited the restroom. He stared at his reflection—the young face of a man who had pretended for some time to love his job at the FBI and forget the career he longed for more than anything.

Then, he headed back up the penthouse through the lift and parted the crowd, seeing eyes peering out of masks—goblin masks, troll masks, and an assortment of others he didn’t see the crowds wearing when he’d been up there the first time.

Finally, he reached the lounge area where he left Alejandro and Contessa seated and found him wearing the mask of Death. Contessa held up a theater mask painted gold against her face, the mask’s handle consisting of a skeletal arm and hand. Alejandro’s mask was affixed to his face without a handle; it was a shiny, obsidian black, and it shimmered like ebony against the pyrotechnics and fireworks. He and Contessa stared at Meeks as Meeks crossed the length of the floor in front of them.

Finally, Meeks stood before them, squinting his eyes, looking drunk, nearly delirious. He wasn’t suspicious that del Potro and Poplin might have laced his drink. He simply believed that he had found the offer for apprenticeship far too good to be true. Maybe he had refused to believe it at first. Yes. Maybe that was it.

"I want to become your protégé," Meeks said, stuttering, grinning like a man who had just landed the opportunity of a lifetime.

Epilogue

Somewhere in New York City, Alejandro del Potro smiled at his rooftop penthouse while holding a margarita. Contessa got into the pool, making a perfect swan dive by hardly splashing water. Alexander Poplin sat at the lounge area with Alejandro, wearing a tropical shirt and Bermuda shorts, enjoying the sun.

He spoke. "What a nice morning? Any new paintings, Alejandro? What’s next?"

Alejandro grinned. He seemed quite fulfilled after doing splendidly with his last batch of paintings. Was it time to move on to other things? Not quite. Alejandro was letting his ideas flow, fermenting in a frenetic, electric, excitable part of his hypothalamus, where every person’s ‘shadow conscious’ cooked things up.

"I’m working on it," he said. He took a sip of his drink. Then, he closed his eyes and daydreamed of god knows what.

* * *

Detective Holloway and Faye had breakfast at a sub shop downtown when Faye brought up the news that she had decided to paint.

"Painting, babe, what do you need to do that for?"

"Don’t be so defensive. I’m just taking an art class, okay? I’ve always wanted to do it."

"I’m sorry, Faye. It’s just that my last case involved a weirdo who strangled women and an artist who happened to love painting the strangled women for his big exhibits. Yuck!"

"Alejandro del Potro? Is that him?"

"The artist? Yes. Do you know him?"

"He’s only the biggest artist in the area—a living genius. My art class is being headed by a contemporary of his. Well, sort of..."

"What? You can’t be serious, Faye! Del Potro is a weirdo. Who’s teaching this class?"

"Not del Potro, ok, Detective."

Faye smiled sarcastically.

"The class is going to be taught by Contessa. She’s quite good too. She used to be a prodigy herself."

"Oh, brother. What does she paint? Strangled men?"

Faye smiled, then laughed out loud. Detective Holloway was not amused.

"Nudes. She paints erotic scenes. Not particularly violent scenes. Not like Alejandro."

Detective Holloway watched Faye smile and sip from her glass of orange juice. She seemed genuinely excited to join the art class.

"In fact, I can’t wait," she told him.

THE END

Next Chapter: Third Story: The Black House