The Art of Death

There was a dead body in the middle of the room. Her face was hidden. Her black hair spread out across the floor like a Rorschach test, as it mingled with the puddles of blood.

Though her arms and legs were at odd angles, there was a sort of delicacy and elegance to her. She looked like a piece of art. Twisted, yes, but art nonetheless.

CSI technicians snapped pictures all around me, ignoring everything except the evidence markers that were scattered haphazardly around the room.

But I was not concerned with the blood splatter or fingerprints. I couldn't take my eyes off her. I felt pulled to her, like she was my center of gravity. The only thing that existed was the body and finding her killer.

Carefully, I stepped closer and leaned over her, noting the bruising around the wrists. Someone put a lot of effort into staging this. They were leaving a message. But what?

Her hand seemed pointed towards something... The wall of paintings? I walked over, desperate for any clue.

Each image told a story. One painting, a child ballerina--innocence and beauty personified. The next, a teenager holding hands with her first love. The images didn't look like the woman did, but they seemed to tell her story anyway.

The final image was the most disturbing, A hooded figure emerged from the darkness, its aura overwhelmed the painting, and made me clutch my coat tighter around me.

But who was the killer? The painting was tantalizing. It showed a strong jaw and eyes that seemed to gleam... but it was not identification. I could only hope he left some evidence behind.

I turned back to the woman. I was missing something… though I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. It was a wisp of memory that nagged at the back of my brain, but in the end, faded before I could grasp it.

“Did you find ID yet?” The captain boomed from the doorway. He took up the entire entrance, looming larger than any man I’d ever met. He advanced into the room like a general, ready to command his unwieldily troops.

I was both intimidated and calmed by his presence. I knew he was a man I did not want to cross, but also somehow felt he would make damned sure this case had resources.

One of the CSI techs piped up, “It’s Abigail Bailey. We found a purse in the hallway.”

I laughed at that, and turned to the tech nearest me. “What are the odds that the vic has the same name as me?”

No answer.

The man surveyed the scene, his camera clenched in one hand, ready to take the next shot.

Something was wrong. I was inches away, and yet, he ignored me. Tightness ballooned inside my chest.

I said it again, louder this time--standing directly in front of him.

He shivered, a full-body tremble, that caused goosebumps to spread up his arm.

Then, he looked right through me.