Fine Art of Murder Read online

Alex sighed and checked the aisle. Ahead of them, the aisle was blocked by the food service cart, but, behind them, there was only a short way to the restroom. He stood, making a move in that direction, but the tattooed man put his foot out and tripped him.

  “You got a problem or what?” Alex asked, maintaining his balance.

  “I don't like the way she's staring at me.” He stood and grabbed Alex by his collar and said, “She makes me nervous.”

  From the cockpit, there was an announcement. “This is your captain. I have turned the seatbelt sign back on. We're heading into some turbulence. All passengers must return to their seats immediately and fasten your seatbelts.”

  Then, the plane pitched sharply forward, causing the two men to fall into one another with great force. Alex accidently jabbed the man's tattooed arm.

  The man yelled. “What the hell? Mother-fucker stuck me with a needle!” He slugged Alex in the nose and Alex fell, hitting his head on the floor. The syringe rolled out of view. People in adjacent seats gasped and screamed. Two men jumped up from their aisle seats and grabbed the tattooed man's arms.

  “Hey, there, buddy,” one said. “Calm down.”

  “Calm down, my ass. He stuck me with a needle. Who knows what the hell's in that. HIV, HepC. I need a doctor, right the fuck now.”

  “Sir…sir, please,” the flight attendant interrupted. “Please we'll get you medical attention, I promise. Can you take your seat and belt in?” She raised her voice. “Do we have a doctor or nurse on board?” She knelt down and helped Alex to his feet. He was bleeding from a cut above his temple.

  “Mommy, look what I found.” The child two rows in front of Alex held the syringe in the air. Her mother screamed, “Emily, drop that. Oh, God, did it stick you? Doctor? Where's the doctor? My child was pricked by that needle.”

  As the plane hit the next air pocket, the pilot announced an emergency return to London. Mavis stared at the angry guy's colorfully inked neck, the panicky mother, and the syringe filled with enough insulin to kill a horse. She wished she were anywhere in the world but in seat number twenty-six on flight 456.

  As soon as the plane landed, airport security boarded, confiscated the syringe, and took Alex out in handcuffs. Alex told Mavis to wait for him while he explained the situation to security.

  Mavis calmly gave herself an injection, put her medical bag in her purse and removed the carry-on from the upper compartment. She followed the other passengers out of the plane. As she rolled the suitcase to the gate to await the airline's instructions for boarding another flight, she grinned and thought she knew the perfect place to hang her Picasso.

  Olive Rush (1873–1966)

  N. W. Campbell

  In Fairmount, Indiana, native Olive Rush discovered her calling at age three while sitting in her parents’ farmhouse kitchen. “I was drawing. For a long time I tried to make a horse. And suddenly I made a horse. It was the most ecstatic moment of my life. I suppose it was sure then that I would be an artist,” she said. She was one of the earliest American women to devote herself to a full-time career in art and became known for her murals and her paintings of native peoples of New Mexico.

  Rush studied at Fairmount Academy, the Quaker school her parents established, and then moved on to Earlham College to study with John Elwood Bundy, founder of the Richmond Artists Group. She entered the Art Students League of New York, vowing never to see any young man more than once, to discourage would-be suitors from diverting her from a successful art career. She was a staff artist at the New York Tribune and an illustrator for Harper and Brothers. In Delaware, she studied under illustrator Howard Pyle.

  Rush accepted a commission to design a mural for St. Andrew's Episcopal Church in Wilmington. She designed murals for the La Fonda Hotel in Santa Fe, libraries, post offices, and other public buildings. Her arts education programs with the Pueblo, Navajo, Kiowa, Hopi, and Zuni began at the Santa Fe Indian School, where she taught the children to create murals featuring native cultural lore. In 1914, she befriended Georgia O'Keefe, with whom she collaborated on several projects.

  In 1963, Rush underwent a serious illness that eventually claimed her life. She turned to the local Quakers for help with her medical bills and gave them her Santa Fe home for a meeting house. She died in 1966.

  Expose Yourself to Art

  Stephen Terrell

  It was planned to be a lazy Labor Day for me. The Indianapolis Indians were playing their last home game of the season, and I had my usual seat in the front row of the upper deck along the first base line. I loved baseball and tried to catch a dozen or so Indians games each season, plus a few major league games in Cincinnati or St. Louis. Even though I was the detective on call, I hoped to get through this in peace. I knew it was unlikely.

  It was the middle of the third inning when my cell phone vibrated. Marda Johnson's name showed on the screen. She was a decent field detective but an even better politician, so she was my boss.

  “Vandever,” I answered.

  “Art, it's Marda,” Her voice was sharp, her words clipped, as always. “Morgan County's got a body. Somebody's dog found it. They want us to take the lead.”

  “And by us, you mean me?”

  “I don't know much,” Marda continued, ignoring my comment. “Body apparently is wrapped up. Could be that missing co-ed. I already sent crime scene forensics. Cheryl Etherton will meet you down at the site.”

  Behind me, I heard the crack of a bat. The distinctive sound meant only one thing. I turned my head to see the ball sailing over the left field lawn seating and onto Washington Street. “Where is it?” I asked, already annoyed at having to miss the rest of the game.

  “Morgan-Monroe State Forest on the Morgan County side. I'll text you the GPS coordinates. How long will it take you to get there?”

  I did some quick calculations. “Forty minutes or so.”

  * * *

  Driving with flashing lights through sparse Labor Day afternoon traffic, I made it to the State Forest in just under forty minutes. I really didn't need the GPS coordinates; the array of flashing lights on the main forest road signaled the scene. I pulled my car to the end of the line and walked to where several county deputies were huddled in their brown uniforms. I showed my badge and signed the crime scene log. The most senior officer directed me down a narrow path through the woods.

  “Down there about a third of a mile,” he said.

  The path wound upward at a gentle slope, twisting around thorny bushes and saplings under a canopy of larger sugar maples, shagbark hickories, and black walnut trees, their leaves showing the first turn of color. I could hear the scene before I reached it, hushed voices and the muffled crunch of feet shuffling among the dried leaves. Just past the top of the ridge, there was a cordon of yellow crime-scene tape. About fifty feet to my left, six people moved carefully around a depression in a small clearing.

  “Art!” I recognized Cheryl Etherton's voice. Cheryl was a familiar sight at crime scenes. I had known her for nearly a dozen years. In her late thirties, she stood only a little over five feet tall, with full breasts that pulled her navy cotton shirt tight against its buttons. A blue ISP baseball cap covered her short, reddish-blonde hair. I often thought that if I had the courage of a few stiff shots of bourbon, I might admit to being attracted to her and ask her to dinner. But I carried an extra fifteen years and thirty pounds that I thought put her out of my reach.

  I made my way over to Cheryl. “What have we got?”

  “Couple out this morning running their black Lab. Dog came down to this clearing and was pawing at something. Wouldn't come when called. They went down to retrieve him, and saw him gnawing on what was left of a hand.”

  “That'll screw with a morning walk,” I said.

  “They called Morgan County, and County called us. I've been here about an hour.”

  “What have you done so far?”

  “We've taken photos of the entire scene. I set up a grid and walked through it for any obvious evidence, bu
t there wasn't any. Wanted to wait until you got here before we started disturbing things.”

  I nodded. We spent the next thirty minutes walking the perimeter of the scene, but it was as fruitless as Cheryl's first effort. I took one last look around to make sure I wasn't missing anything, then said, “Let's start digging and see what we find.”

  I left the scene to Cheryl and her team of crime scene techs and walked back to the road. A deputy directed me to the couple that found the body. They were oddly excited, almost giddy. I interviewed them, going through each of their actions in meticulous detail. It only took twenty minutes. When I folded my notebook closed, they seemed deflated.

  “Is that all?” the young woman asked.

  “If we need anything more, we'll get in touch.”

  “That's it?” she said again. “Aren't the television people going to show up to interview us?”

  I scanned the roadway in both directions. Nothing moved. It was silent except for sounds from unseen birds and insects. I shrugged. “Guess not.” I walked to my car, leaving them standing in the road with their mouths open, visions of stardom vanishing with the suddenness of a crumpled Powerball ticket.

  * * *

  An hour later I was back at the depression in the meadow looking down at an unearthed, deteriorated body partially covered by a discolored white cloth. The exposed clothing, a dark blue sport coat over a gray sweater and gray pants, indicated a male. The face was partially covered by the cloth, but I could see that more than just a skeleton remained.

  “Anything preliminary?” I asked Cheryl.

  “How about a name. Tobias Salyers, age forty-eight. Lives in Carmel. He's President of Salyers Gallery with locations in Carmel and Fountain Square in Indianapolis. ‘Fine Art for Fine People.’”

  My surprise must have shown even though I didn't say a word.

  “His business card,” Cheryl said, a wise-ass grin spreading across her face. “Found his wallet in the inside jacket pocket. He was carrying close to twelve hundred dollars, an AmEx black card, and membership cards for Columbia Club and Meridian Hills Country Club.”

  “Looks like he's been in the ground for a while.”

  Cheryl nodded. “Six months, maybe a year. We had a dry spring, and he's up on a high spot. Decomposition isn't as bad as it could be.”

  “Think you can determine cause of death?”

  “Maybe, but don't count on it.”

  I nodded, speaking more to myself than to Cheryl. “Don't often find someone like that dumped. Wasn't there some publicity about an Indy businessman disappearing a few months ago?”

  “Yeah, I remember that,” Cheryl said. “Think it's him?”

  “Maybe. Laptop's in my car. I'll see what I can find.”

  * * *

  Back in my car, it took me less than ten minutes to find the missing person's report on Tobias Salyers. It was filed December 17th with Carmel police by his wife, Robynn Dresel. They were separated and she hadn't seen or talked to him since late November. When people began calling about her husband missing meetings and parties, she became concerned. A supplemental report noted that Salyers was last seen on November 30th having lunch with Jamison Pippin, the owner of Indy Scene, a local art magazine. They discussed an article Salyers was writing, then he headed back to his Fountain Square gallery. No one had seen him since.

  I made a few notes then called Marda. As we talked, I could hear the sounds of a Labor Day cookout in the background.

  “Got an ID on the body,” I said.

  “You sure?” Her voice carried a wary disbelief.

  “Sure as we can be without DNA or dental. He had his wallet on him.”

  “He?”

  “Yeah. Indy businessman named Tobias Salyers. Been missing since the end of November. Looks like he's probably been in the ground since about then.”

  “We got enough to make notification?”

  “I think so.”

  “You want to do it?”

  “No. I'd like to look into some things before I talk to the missus. If she did it, she's had months to get her ducks lined up. A couple more days won't make a difference. Can you have one of the chaplains make notification?”

  “Your call,” she said. “But if she lawyers up right away, that's going to be on you.”

  I hung up, certain Marda would note her comment in the file, just to make sure she covered her ass if things went south.

  * * *

  I spent Tuesday and Wednesday sitting on an uncomfortable, wooden, straight-back chair in a small, southern Indiana courtroom. I was assisting a sharp, young county prosecutor in the trial of two meth dealers. I arrested the pair after a multi-county investigation into a meth epidemic sweeping through rural parts of the state. On the first day of the trial, I watched the jury of hard-working, Old Testament-believing churchgoers as they stared at the sunken-cheeked, tattooed defendants. Before the first witness was sworn, there was no doubt about the verdict. They would end up doing fourteen years—four years for meth and a decade for refusing to take the deal offered by the prosecution. Can I have an amen?

  Wednesday night shortly after the jury came back with its verdict, Cheryl called and informed me that dental records were a positive match. The body was Tobias Salyers.

  The next morning I finished some paperwork, then turned to the Salyers matter. I read the initial missing persons interviews and related news stories several times. They were cursory at best. They always were. A couple of million people go missing each year. Most just walk away from a situation they can no longer tolerate, but from which they cannot extricate themselves. Sometimes it's unpaid bills. Other times it's a relationship that's no longer tolerable. Sometimes it's just a life someone no longer can stand. But once a body was found, the dynamic changed. So I headed off to interview the last person known to see Tobias Salyers alive.

  * * *

  Indy Scene was located on the fourth floor of a renovated nineteenth-century building on Massachusetts Avenue in Indianapolis. Living on Lemon Lake between Bloomington and Nashville, I knew little about Indianapolis and nothing about art. Some evening internet research revealed that Mass Ave, as it was called, was home to several art galleries and an eclectic assortment of shops, bars and restaurants. There was a neon-light sculpture of a woman waggling her hips—Annie, they called her—and a building with a six-story painting of author Kurt Vonnegut on its side.

  The Indy Scene office was spartan, with exposed, polished wood beams, a minimalist glass-top desk, and two simple chrome and black leather chairs. The woman behind the desk was in her early twenties, with buzz cut black hair, her neck and arms adorned with heavy jewelry and bright, ornate tattoos of flowers in shades of blue, orange, purple and green. She provided me with a cup of extremely strong coffee and then disappeared through a frosted glass door.

  A few minutes later, the young woman returned, followed by a bald man in his mid-forties. He was about five-nine, fit but not muscular, dressed in a stylish, cream-colored, summer-weight suit and pale lemon silk shirt open at the collar. His grip as we shook hands was firm and his smile perfect. He introduced himself as Jamison Pippin and led me back to his spacious office with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on Mass Ave.

  I didn't bother with perfunctory chit-chat. “When did you last see Tobias Salyers?”

  “I don't know,” Pippin said. “I had lunch with him back, oh, sometime after Thanksgiving, I think.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “A critique he was doing. A week later, he missed the deadline. I was pretty upset. I couldn't reach him. I even called his wife, but she didn't know where he was. A couple of weeks after that, some policeman came around and told me he was missing. I haven't seen him since.”

  “I wouldn't count on any more critiques from him. We found his body Monday.”

  Pippin's mouth curled into a grimace. He turned and stared out the windows. Without turning back, he said, “I was afraid of that. Tobias just loved to make all the holiday parti
es. When he didn't make them last year, I was afraid something happened. Was it a heart attack?”

  “We don't think so,” I said, still studying his reaction. “Did he have health problems?”

  “Nothing I knew about. It's just, well, he was high strung and getting to that age where a lot of people have problems. But I wasn't aware of anything specific.”

  “He was murdered,” I said.

  “Oh, good Lord. Really?” Pippin turned back toward me. “Was it a robbery? He always carried way too much cash, and wore that diamond Rolex. I warned him about that.”

  “We don't know,” I said. If Pippin was acting, he was good at it. “What else can you tell me about him?”

  “Tobias? Well, he was probably the city's most influential art dealer and critic. He was nationally recognized. He had a top-drawer gallery in Carmel and also a little place down in Fountain Square.”

  I made a couple of notes. “Pretty well off?”

  “Quite,” Pippin said. “Lot of old family money. He owned a substantial interest in some of the most expensive office buildings and commercial real estate in the city. A few years ago he bought up a lot of Fountain Square real estate. That was before it took off. That's why he had his second gallery down there.”

  “Were you good friends?”

  “Professional friends,” Pippin said. “I don't know if he had any real friends. You have to understand, Tobias was a prick. I don't mean to speak ill of the dead, but he used his money and arrogance to run over people. People hated him. But they feared him more. He had so much money, so many connections. He didn't hesitate to use both if you got on his bad side.”

  “And who was on his bad side?”

  “Well, if you mean who might want to see him dead, I'd start with his wife, Robynn Dresel.”

  “What can you tell me about her?”

  “She's his second wife,” Pippin said. “They were both married when they had this torrid affair. Quite the social scandal for a while. Tobias divorced his first wife and traded up for a newer model. Robynn traded up for money. She runs Robynn's Nest Bistro & Catering, which I think Tobias financed. She's done well with it. Caters most of the city's top social events.”