Fine Art of Murder Read online

  “Maybe you should,” Smith said sharply. “Big front page story by Tess White. Says we got two killings that are connected. She writes about these paintings left at the scene. She's calling it the Graffiti Killer. Says there's a suspicion that they're gang related.”

  I fought not to let out an obscenity. “Chief, I didn't say a word to her. Not a damned word.”

  “Well I've got a half dozen calls already this morning about this, including from the mayor and two council members.”

  “We're on it, Chief,” I said. “I'm sitting here right now going over the photos. But there's just not a lot to go on yet.”

  “Work it some more,” Chief Smith barked. “If the mayor and council start thinking I'm not doing my job, I'm going to start thinking you're not doing your job. I don't want any more stories on the front page. Get it solved!” The phone at the other end of the line slammed.

  Seething, I spent the rest of the morning snapping at lab techs and medical examiners to speed up reports. It was nearly one before I took a break for a quick sandwich. As I walked out the door into the sweltering mid-summer heat, Tess White fell into step beside me.

  “Anything new on the Graffiti Killer?” she asked.

  “The what?”

  “The Graffiti Killer. That's what we've termed the guy who's killing people then drawing pictures of it. Pretty catchy, huh?”

  I kept my head down and increased my stride. Beside me, Tess forced her short legs to move even faster to keep up. “You should talk to Portia Henshaw,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “Portia Henshaw. She's in the art department at Ball State, but she's an expert in graffiti. Street art, she calls it. Even wrote a book about it.”

  I stopped and turned, looking directly at Tess. “Why do you think she could help?”

  “She knows this stuff. She can identify gang styles. Sometimes she can even identify individual artists from just looking at a piece of graffiti. I know she could tell you if it was the same person. Might be able to tell you if it's from a black, white or Mexican gang member.”

  “How do you know about this?”

  “Did a profile story on her last year when her latest book came out. It was all about graffiti. She thinks it's among the most important art being created today. Something about it being the only form of art actually reflecting our current society. She's knows her stuff.”

  I stood silently for a long moment. “You really think she could help identify someone by the painting?”

  “It's worth asking, isn't it?”

  “Thanks, Tess,” I said reluctantly.

  “Hey, I live in this town too,” Tess said quietly. “I want to see this guy caught.” She gave me a wink. “Besides, it will make a great story when you catch him.”

  * * *

  Two days later, I was in a crowded office that smelled of old wood and dust on the third floor of the Arts Building at Ball State. Books were strewn haphazardly in scarred, dark walnut bookcases. Magazines were piled in stacks on the floor. The desk was cluttered with papers and what appeared to be unopened mail. A glass and chrome table next to the desk seemed out of place with its organized neatness. The table held a laptop computer, a single note pad, and what I took to be a portable scanner.

  Portia Henshaw was in her early fifties. She was tall and lean with a runner's body and a ruddy complexion that I had often seen on people who spent a lifetime outdoors. She wore well-worn jeans and an orange and yellow cotton shirt, open to reveal a white tank top underneath. Her hair was medium brown liberally streaked with gray, pulled back in a ponytail. She wore no makeup.

  I outlined the situation and she seemed eager to help. She immediately asked to see the photos of the graffiti from the crime scene. I sat, letting my eyes roam around the cluttered office while she studied the stack of photos. She took her time, silently examining each in turn, then placing it face down. Only when she was finished examining the photos did she speak.

  “There's no signature or tag, but I have no doubt the same artist did both of them.” She spoke with just a trace of an accent that I couldn't identify. Maybe Wisconsin, maybe New York, but definitely not a native Hoosier. “The bold colors and basic spray paint art style are the same in each. He uses dark edging lines. The facial details are much finer than in most graffiti art. The use of sharp angles and strong lines is not common in street art, but it's present at both scenes. I'd have to look at the originals, but it looks like parts of these images were brush painted, some with very fine tip brushes. That's rare in graffiti art.”

  “Is it gang related?”

  “A lot of street art is connected with gangs. That's how most street artists get their start. Graffiti is used to mark off territory, sort of like a dog pissing on his side of a tree. It's also used to show gang pride. But nothing in these is consistent with any gang in Muncie, or any gang I've studied for that matter. Can't rule it out, but I don't think it's gang related.”

  “Tess White said you can sometimes actually identify the specific person that did the graffiti. Can you do that here?”

  “I can link the work. I can point out similarities and identify with some degree of probability that the same artist was responsible for different pieces of work. But just to look at something and say who did it, no, I can't do that, at least not with these paintings.”

  I held out my hand for the photos. “Well it was a long shot.”

  Portia placed her hand across the photos. “Do you mind if I hold on to these? I make a habit of going around to the common graffiti sites when I have time. I take photos of anything I find interesting. I've used them in my books. I'd like to go back through the photos I have and see if I can spot something that might look like the same person. Would that be okay?”

  I pulled my hand back. “Sure,” I said. I fished out one of my business cards from my wallet and handed it to her. “Just call me if you come up with anything. Anything at all.”

  Portia called back about a week later. “I may have something,” she said. “This isn't definite, but when I went back through the photos that I've taken around Muncie, I found several pieces of graffiti from about seven years ago that have definite similarities in style. These earlier pieces aren't as complex or as bold. I could see this as being from a younger version of your artist, or maybe from someone who learned from him.”

  I could feel my pulse quicken, but tried to keep my voice calm and steady. “So you're saying this is the guy?”

  “No,” she said firmly. “I'm saying there are similarities. It could be the guy.”

  As I was writing notes, Portia continued.

  “This earlier guy, he signed his work with a symbol. A crescent moon with a tear drop falling off the bottom point. From what I can tell, he painted for about a year, then disappeared. But I have no idea what his real name is, or even his street name.”

  I thanked Portia and hung up. If the case wasn't difficult enough, it now seemed that I was chasing a ghost with a spray can and a brush.

  * * *

  The third body showed up on a cold, drizzly, early November afternoon. A nosey elderly woman driving back from a trip to the grocery had noticed what she thought was a bum taking a nap outside a long-abandoned truck terminal building off Meeker Avenue on the south side of the city. She called 911, telling the dispatcher that such people shouldn't be free to run around the city sleeping wherever they wanted. It was nearly two hours later when a patrol car drove by, the officer no doubt hoping that whoever it was had woken up and moved on. But someone was still there. It took the officer only a single glance at the graffiti painted wall of the terminal to know this wasn't a drunk sleeping it off. His call to dispatch was immediately forwarded to me.

  The scene had become all too familiar, the process too routine. A body lay crumpled on a long-abandoned concrete pad once used for truck parking. The nearest wall of the aging block building was painted with a ten by six mural. This time it showed a man's head exploding in vivid colors of red, pink and
white as he was hit by what looked like a metal pipe held by a single, black-gloved hand.

  The victim was a middle-aged male, dressed in a dark suit and a stylish, full-length navy overcoat. The back of his head was deformed, struck multiple times by a blunt object. Rain rinsed blood in a thin sheen across the gray concrete.

  I knelt beside the body and with a gloved hand, gently turned the face. I had long ago given up being shocked at crime scenes, but now, crouched in the rain, my mind slid into numb disbelief. It was Rob Kendall.

  Our paths had crossed on many occasions during the eight years Rob served as a deputy prosecutor. Now he had his own law firm. Talk around town was he would run for prosecutor in the next election, and he would likely win.

  This wasn't someone who had spent his life dealing in drugs, shoplifting and prostitution. No tattoos. No gangs. This was a successful businessman, a politician, a local man of influence. Crouched there next to the body, my entire working theory of the Graffiti Killer washed away in the chilled November rain.

  I took a few steps away and called Chief Smith. “We've got another one,” I said, my voice grim. “And it changes everything. It's Rob Kendall.”

  “Shit.” That was all Smith said. There was a long silence and then he hung up, undoubtedly to call the mayor. Politics before family. Notifying Kendall's wife would have to wait.

  Thirty minutes later, as the crime scene techs went about gathering evidence, I saw a familiar car arrive. Tess got out of the driver's side and made a beeline toward me. Her face seemed drawn and pale. She had none of the excitement of a front page story in the making. “Is it true what I heard? It's Rob Kendall.”

  I nodded but didn't say anything.

  “This is getting real ugly,” she said, shaking her head as if in disbelief. “This isn't just gang bangers and druggies now. People are going to get scared.”

  I couldn't think of any response. I shrugged, then turned and walked back toward the body.

  The next day's newspaper led with a four-column headline: “Graffiti Killer Claims Third Victim.” I had to give Tess credit. The story didn't push for the sensational. But it didn't have to.

  It didn't take long for Chief Smith to barge into my office, yelling at me about the news story and the serial killer panic sweeping through the city. An hour later, the mayor himself told me, “Get off your ass and solve this.” At two that afternoon I was summoned to a meeting in the Chief's conference room. The Chief established a multi-agency Graffiti Killer task force. He named Chief Deputy Ted Clark as head of the committee, but Clark's job was to coordinate efforts with the FBI, State Police, and other agencies. To my surprise, I was still in charge of the field investigation.

  Federal and state crime labs evaluated and analyzed every trace of evidence, then evaluated and analyzed it again. A dozen investigators interviewed every person connected to the victims, then different investigators re-interviewed them. Rob Kendall's current client list was examined, and his case files from his time as a deputy prosecutor were scrutinized. Detectives tracked down every violent felon and gang member. Some were still doing time. Several had moved to other parts of the country. A few were dead. All were quickly ruled out.

  The crime techs could not come up with anything useful. Attempts were made to track all local spray paint purchases, but with the volume of sales and the lack of records on such sales, it was a futile effort. I went back to Lacy to talk about the gang angle, but he convinced me that it was a dry hole. I went back to Portia Henshaw, and she confirmed the graffiti image at the latest murder was done by the same person, but she still was no closer to identifying the artist.

  After two months of intensive work, there wasn't a single solid lead, so the investigation sat at a frustrating standstill. That changed with a late night call on a bone-chilling night in mid-January.

  * * *

  It was after midnight. I was sitting at the Fickle Peach, a downtown bar specializing in craft beers. I was working on my fourth pint of the evening. Or maybe it was my fifth. My cell phone rang, but the number was blocked. I answered with a curt, “Yeah?”

  “You're the guy handling those graffiti killings, aren't you?”

  “Who is this?”

  “I ain't givin’ my name. But if you want to solve those murders, you need to get down to the Cardinal Trail.”

  “Who is this?” I repeated. My voice was adamant, but I became aware of a slight thickness to my words.

  “You know where the trail crosses Jackson Street between the old wire mill and that deserted Brodericks factory? There's something going on there. If you show up now, you might break this thing.”

  I drained what remained in my glass and sat it back on the bar. “I'll call it in. We'll get a car down there to take a look.”

  “No.” The voice at the other end of the phone was sharp. “You want to find who's doing this, you come now. Just you. Anybody else comes, you'll see bodies stacking up so fast you won't be able to count them.”

  The phone went dead.

  I knew it was a crank call. Someone was pulling my chain, wanting to see a cop traipsing around on a frigid night. It was a perverted version of an adult snipe hunt. But what the hell? There was no one waiting for me back at my apartment. Not even a damned cat.

  I threw two twenties on the bar to cover the tab, slipped on my winter coat and gloves, and headed out to my car.

  Ten minutes later, I pulled into a small parking area near the trail. Once a railroad line that carried rust-belt products to the rest of the world, the Cardinal Trail was now a paved path for walkers and bikers, extending nearly seventy miles from Marion to Richmond. This time of night, with the temperature no more than fifteen degrees, it was deserted.

  I turned the engine off and sat in silence, feeling the effects of the alcohol swimming in my head. This was a bad idea. I was in no condition to go walking down a dark trail. I should call in for some patrolmen and let them investigate. I reached for my phone, punching in the number to the dispatcher. “This is Rigsby,” I said when my call was answered. “I got an anonymous tip on that Graffiti Killer case. Can you send a black and white to back me up while I check this out?”

  “Sure thing, Hammer,” the voice said. “Where are you?”

  I gave my location.

  “Bobby Hoffman and Alexis James have just finished up an OWI arrest. They should be there in ten, maybe fifteen, minutes.”

  I gave my thanks and hung up. I sat in the cold, listening to some late-night talk show babble on my car radio. I was tired and the alcohol was making me drowsy. I nodded off for a few seconds, jerking myself awake. If I didn't get out, whoever showed up would find me asleep in my car. “Screw it,” I said out loud. “They can catch up with me.” I got out of the car.

  As soon as I started down the trail I saw a soft glow ahead. The paved path bent to the right and disappeared under a bridge for one of the few still-operating train lines. As I followed the bend, I saw the source of the light. A battery-powered camping lantern was suspended from an overhanging bare branch just past the underpass.

  As I walked between the ancient concrete bridge supports, something on the left side caught my eye. Among the decades-old graffiti that covered the concrete, there was an area of fresh, brighter paint. I stood directly in front of it. Even with the alcohol, I could tell it was done by the same person as the murder murals.

  The colors were muted in the dim light, but the image was clear. A man stood in the underpass, arms flailing wide, his back arched. A disembodied gloved hand was driving a knife into the man's back.

  But there was one difference. A sheet of paper held by duct tape covered the face. As a matter of habit, I reached for my latex gloves, but I didn't carry them in my jeans. With my heavy winter gloves, I reached out and pulled off the tape. The paper fluttered down revealing an anguished face.

  My face.

  Maybe if I wasn't dealing with the effects of the beer I would have heard a sound behind me sooner. But I didn't. I only heard
the distinctive metallic click of a gun being cocked and felt the chill of the barrel being placed against the skin at the back of my neck.

  “Recognize the face?” The male voice was as cold as the January night.

  “Yeah,” I said softly, trying to keep my voice calm. “But it's not a very good likeness.”

  “Good enough, though. So, you figure out who I am yet?”

  “Is that what this is about? You're afraid I'm ready to break the case?”

  From behind me there was a laugh that put me on edge more than the gun at my neck. “You don't even remember, do you? It was right here at this spot. Seven years ago. You busted a kid for painting on this wall. And when you searched his pockets, you found a bit of weed.”

  I searched my brain. Through the fog of alcohol I couldn't recall what he might be talking about.

  “You wanted a snitch. Wanted me to be your spy on the street. Your bitch. And when I wouldn't do it, you threw the book at me. I was sixteen, but you worked with the prosecutor to charge me as an adult. You were going to teach me a lesson. Wanna guess who the prosecutor was?”

  “Rob Kendall?” I asked, softly.

  “Yeah. And you remember who was your witness? The one who lied and testified against me so you wouldn't bust her for hooking?”

  It was coming back to me. “Bren Taylor,” I said.

  “Now you're gettin’ it. Just too bad that son of a bitch judge died of cancer, cause I would have done him too.”

  “So what's the connection with Zayas?”

  “Oh man, you don't know nothin’, do you? Thanks to you, I didn't get sent to no juvie. I got sent to Wabash Correctional. And Zayas was there to greet me. Every night he was there to greet me in my cell. And you know what he did to me, don't you?”

  I didn't say anything.

  “And when I stood up to him, he did this!”

  A hand grabbed my shoulder and whirled me around. A young, white man stood in front of me. He was short and extremely thin. The right side of his face was leathery and scarred in a way I often had seen on burn victims. His right eye was missing and only a stub remained where his right ear once had been. Below his left eye was a tattoo—a crescent with a tear drop hanging from the tip.