A Canvas of Flesh

By Jeff Oltman

Former detective Alexander Dick receives a grisly and taunting invitation from the serial murderer the media calls Rembrandt. Five years earlier, Alec had investigated a series of Rembrandt murders in Kansas City with devastating results to his career and family. Now, Rembrandt has tracked him down in Dallas and taken up his macabre art in the night-life haunts of the city.

Through the course of the investigation, Alec is provided with unique allies: Jennifer Wilson, a psychic sometimes engaged by the police in missing persons cases, and Michael Bennett, the singer and lyricist for a local heavy metal band, Brothers Grim.

As Rembrandt begins claiming victims--young women stripped nude and painted with their own blood--Alec, Jennifer, and Michael must work together to try to catch Rembrandt before he kills again, a venture that hurtles them towards an inevitable encounter and a stunning conclusion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 14, 2002
• ISBN: 9781469705842

Jeff Oltman

Jeff Oltman grew up in south-central Kansas and majored in English at Wichita State University where he had the good fortune to study under James Lee Burke. A Canvas of Flesh is his first novel. He currently resides in Irving, Texas with his wife, Tammy.

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All Rights Reserved © 2002 by Jeff Oltman

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

Writers Club Press an imprint of iUniverse, Inc.

For information address:

iUniverse, Inc.

5220 S. 16th St., Suite 200

Lincoln, NE 68512

www.iuniverse.com

This is a work of fiction. All events, locations, institutions, themes, persons, characters and plot are completely fictional. Any resemblance to places or person, living or deceased, are of the invention of the author.

ISBN: 0-595-22733-3

ISBN: 978-1-4697-0584-2 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

For Tammy Lue

Contents

PRELUDE

P A R T

C H A P T E R 1

C H A P T E R 2

C H A P T E R 3

C H A P T E R 4

C H A P T E R 5

C H A P T E R 6

C H A P T E R 7

C H A P T E R 8

P A R T II

C H A P T E R 9

C H A P T E R 10

C H A P T E R 11

C H A P T E R 12

C H A P T E R 13

C H A P T E R 14

C H A P T E R 15

P A R T III

C H A P T E R 16

C H A P T E R 17

C H A P T E R 18

C H A P T E R 19

C H A P T E R 20

C H A P T E R 21

C H A P T E R 22

C H A P T E R 23

C H A P T E R 24

C H A P T E R 25

C H A P T E R 26

P A R T IV

C H A P T E R 27

C H A P T E R 28

C H A P T E R 29

C H A P T E R 30

C H A P T E R 31

C H A P T E R 32

C H A P T E R 33

C H A P T E R 34

C H A P T E R 35

C H A P T E R 36

EPILOGUE

About the Author

PRELUDE

Sundancer sat on the river bank and watched the evening storm strangle the late September sky and suck up color: red to pale orange to dead. The river had the sheen of an old knife in need of an edge. It tooled its way through the monochromatic earth and underbrush, churning up the ripe odor of decay, traveling its ancient path to where it would become fuel for someone else’s storm.

But this was Sundancer’s storm. It spoke its blue-white language unevenly, but sharply, tingeing the air with ozone. The wind blew in his face and he breathed deeply, its cool power swelling his lungs. Static electricity skittered across his naked skin.

Hard-core, he said. He turned to the nude girl lying next to him on the flattened grass like a statue molded from fleshtone Lucite. He could see her clearly in the stark lightning flashes.

Flash.

Her eyelids were like porcelain, milky white with a hint of palest blue just below the surface.

Flash flash.

Blond hairs swept across her tight belly and met to form a thin line running down from her navel and losing itself in the thicker tangle between her legs.

Flash.

Four left toes and a splash of wetness where the smallest should be. She could have been sleeping except for the missing toe and the grotesque angle of her legs.

There was no longer any invitation for him in the open display of her genitalia so he moved the marred foot heel-to-heel with its intact sister. But her body held an invitation for another man. It was encased in the small plastic tube Sundancer had pushed deeply into her vagina, still wet from the sex she had given, still warm even though he had already strangled her. The tube contained a newspaper clipping, a Polaroid, and a note written in cramped, capital letters.

The second part of the invitation was in a matching tube. Sun-dancer shook it, feeling the whispering bump of a small, solid object. The missing piece of Shelly Jo Cummings who was growing cold beside him at the foot of the storm.

He dropped the tube inside one of his ostrich-skin boots. He threw her clothes and purse into the river. Her blouse trapped air and floated for a moment like a powder-blue jellyfish, then collapsed in a cloud of bubbles. Then he waited for the storm.

When it finally came with raindrops bulleting the river, coursing along the lines of his musculature and the medley of raised scars scattered across his chest and arms and plastering his black ponytail between his shoulder blades, he stood and faced it naked, arms extended, erection stiffening in the gusty wind, silhouetted against the failing light like some blasphemous icon of the Crucifixion offering himself and his sacrifice up to an angry god.

The storm swallowed him.

P A R T

C H A P T E R 1

NIGHTMARE AND AFTERGLOW

Whisperings and silence, a storm and coming storms. Thunder and river sounds and the clean smell of rain. Lightning flickered shadows across the still body. The face was familiar but shaded, eyes closed.

Then the eyes flew open to the glow and spray of an electric green waterfall and the face was intimately familiar. It was her own.

Jennifer Wilson woke sweating, but the green glow of the nightmare hung on like tenacious fog. She huddled in the blankets until she realized the light was from the digital display of the alarm clock. Two-ten, Tuesday morning.

Shaken, she slipped on a pair of cotton shorts under her night shirt and went to the kitchen. She took paraphernalia and a vial of cocaine from an old flour tin in the pantry, sat cross-legged at the oak-and-glass coffee table, and loaded the end of a glass tube with the drug, working under the cone of dim light from a green-shaded desk lamp. Holding a flaming, alcohol-soaked cottonball to the end of the pipe with a hemostat, she inhaled deeply, tasting the heat, holding it until she felt herself expand, her consciousness extending into a network of psychic tendrils reaching to retrieve the fading dream energy. The details of the nightmare, while sharp, lacked connectivity, like the tiny shards of a broken mirror reflecting the same scene of violence from a thousand different angles.

Is something wrong? asked Jennifer’s roommate, Andrea, as she came into the room. Her dark hair, still rumpled from sleep, fell down over her shoulders, and her Garfield T-shirt hiked up over her narrow hips as she put her head back and stretched her arms toward the ceiling.

I have to go, Andy, Jennifer said quietly, picking at the chipped polish on her middle fingernail.

What’s the matter, love?

I had a nightmare.

One of your dreams?

Jennifer nodded. Andrea sat next to her and put her arm around her shoulders. She smoothed her sweat-dampened hair and kissed the top of her head. Where? she asked.

Home, Jennifer said, pulling away to look at her. Andrea’s touch felt like feathers as she brushed a tear away from Jennifer’s cheek. This is a bad one. I don’t know when I’ll be back.

We’ve been through these before, Jen.

I was in this one, Andrea. I was dead.

Jennifer’s lips trembled as she tried to keep from crying. Andrea kissed her on the mouth, her breath still sweet with toothpaste. They shared the rest of the coke and, with skin tingling and pleasure zones sensitized, Andrea led her into the bedroom where they shared each other. Tongues and fingers and gentle pressures that grew firmer and more urgent as they wove their sensual tapestry. Soon, slick and exhausted, they held each other and slept.

When the gray light of morning stole into the room, Jennifer gently extracted herself from Andrea’s arms and took a languorous shower. As she sat at the vanity coaxing tangles out of her fine, light brown hair, she tried to relax the tension from her face. Blown-dry hair and subtle make-up took the worry from her face, but not her eyes. Wrapped in a robe, she packed, then changed into loose jeans and a Dallas Cowboys jersey and woke Andrea.

I’m going. I left a check for next month’s rent on my dresser.

Be careful, said Andrea, her voice husky with sleep. She sat up in bed with the sheets pulled up to her waist.

I will, said Jennifer. She kissed her softly.

You could be wrong about this one, Jen. It’s happened before.

Jennifer smiled. I never wanted to be wrong so bad in my life.

Andrea pulled on her nightshirt and stood at the front door of their apartment while Jennifer carried her bags down the stairs and loaded them into her BMW. A few residents were going to classes, wearing backpacks and carrying textbooks. Jennifer didn’t recognize any of them.

I’ll call you when I get there, Jennifer said. Andrea waved as she left and she watched her in the mirror until she turned the corner.

After withdrawing from all her classes at the University of Texas, she filled up with gas at a 7-ll and picked up a Sprite. Don’t forget your change, ma’am, the clerk said as she started to leave. Jennifer mumbled her thanks, scooped the change into her purse and left. At a little past ten o’clock, she headed north out of Austin toward Dallas on I-35. She had seen the electric green waterfall before, close to home.

She drove two and a half hours on automatic pilot, making only casual note of landmarks she normally used to calculate the remainder of the trip. She left the radio off and the window down. The sun warmed her left arm and the wind floated her hair around her face.

Even as she checked into the hotel, she was in the strange afterglow of the dream. The lobby seemed remote and her exchange with the desk clerk was mechanical, in spite of his cheerful welcome.

Home, she thought as she looked out her hotel window at the Dallas skyline: monoliths of glass and steel set off in sharp relief against the hammered brightness of the afternoon sky. But instead of the warmth of a homecoming, she felt cold, an icicle of fear dripping a pool into the pit of her stomach.

Later, as she sat on the bed and watched the outline of the tallest skyscraper glow neon green under the skin of night, she wished for Andrea’s warmth and sleep without dreams.

C H A P T E R 2

#4 REMBRANDT’S LAIN

Alexander T. Dick was just about to take a bite out of a chicken salad sandwich when Ted Winston walked in the small office they shared and tossed a small brown package on his desk.

The inflatable doll you ordered, said Ted as he negotiated his thick body into his seat. They faced each other across their desks, the backs of which created a line of demarcation between their respective areas. Alec’s side was organized, papers stacked neatly in trays marked In and Out, a marble-and-brass pen holder aligned with the back edge of the desk. Ted’s side looked like downtown Beirut. He pushed a mound of paperwork aside and began laying out a gargantuan lunch.

Kind of small, don’t you think? said Alec, pushing an errant piece of paper back onto Ted’s desk.

It’s the new infant model, said Ted as he unwrapped the first of three tuna sandwiches. Especially designed for perverts such as yourself. He bit off one quarter of the sandwich at the corner.

Boy or girl? asked Alec, smiling. A weak volley of crumbs sprayed Ted’s desk as he tried to stifle a chuckle.

Alec turned the package over and read the address label. His smile vanished and he stared at the package, coffee steaming beside him, sandwich and chips sitting on his desk untouched. The return address contained a name he had tried to forget for five years.

#4 Rembrandt’s Lain

Red River, Texas 75561

Aren’t you gonna open it? Ted asked through a mouthful of tuna.

Alec shook his head and put the package on the bookshelf behind him next to his criminology textbooks.

Look, if it’s the wrong sex, I’m sure they’ll exchange it.

Alec smiled weakly and looked out the window behind Ted onto the campus, debating over how much he should tell him. The phone rang, postponing a decision. It was Peggy Barnes, the department secretary.

Alec, there’re a couple of police officers here to see you.

Did they say what it’s about? he asked, turning to look at the package.

No. What’s going on?

I’m not sure. Tell them I’ll be right there.

He hung up and put on his brown sport coat. Ted asked, What’s up?

Don’t know. I’ll talk to you later. As he left, he added, You can have my lunch if you want it.

Two plainclothes officers were waiting at Peggy’s desk. The younger of the two, blond and muscular, stepped forward and extended his hand. A matchstick was wedged in the corner of his mouth.

Good afternoon, Mr. Dick, he said as he shook Alec’s hand. I’m Detective Kevin Strong with the Dallas Police Department. He showed his badge.

Afternoon, detective, Alec said. Strong looked like he would be much more at home playing beach volleyball with girls named Muffy or Tiff than handling police matters.

This is Bowie County Deputy Sheriff, Jim Evans, said Strong, gesturing to the older officer. Evans was broad-shouldered and pot-bellied with dark hair and a handlebar mustache that shadowed his mouth. A striking scar started above his right eye and sliced down across his forehead and over his flat, squarish nose, flaring out and ending high on his left cheek. His face looked like two interlocking pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

Deputy, said Alec, offering his hand.

Evans shook Alec’s hand stiffly and said, Pleasure, professor. His mouth barely moved when he spoke.

What can I do for you gentlemen? Alec asked. I have a class in less than thirty minutes, so—

Cancel it, Evans said bluntly.

You haven’t given me a good reason to even talk to you, let alone cancel a class.

Murder a good enough reason, Mr. Dick? asked Evans.

I’m not in that line of work anymore.

So we hear, said Evans.

Strong gave Evans a hard look and said, This is rather important, Mr. Dick, and it will take some time. Could arrangements be made for someone to teach your classes this afternoon?

Alec studied Strong for a few seconds, then said, Lucky you came on a Wednesday. Peggy, please call Ted and see if he can cover my criminology class this afternoon. It’s a test, so all he’ll have to do is baby-sit.

While Peggy was on the phone, Alec asked, Can you tell me what this is about?

Why don’t we wait until we can speak privately, said Strong.

Ted can do it, said Peggy.

Good, said Alec. Is there a classroom open where we won’t be interrupted?

Four-fourteen is free all afternoon, she said.

Please show the officers the way. I’ll meet them after I give Ted some instructions for the class.

Peggy led the officers down the narrow hall and Alec went the opposite direction to his office. Ted had finished his lunch and started on Alec’s. Apparently sensing the seriousness of the situation, he didn’t ask many questions while Alec gave him the test copies and quick instructions.

When he joined the officers, they were seated on one side of a table scattered with note pads, pencils, and a large manila envelope. A rolling chalkboard with a breakdown of blood types still written on it had been positioned next to Strong. Peggy had provided fresh coffee, Styrofoam cups, and napkins. Alec took a cup and sat down opposite the policemen.

This had better be damn good, he said as he poured a cup of coffee.

Have you ever been to Bowie County? asked Evans.

I don’t know, where is it?

Texarkana?

Look, I don’t have time for a geography lesson. Can we please get on with this?

Evans sat quietly and waited. Alec looked to Strong, but he just shrugged. This was obviously Evans’ show.

No, Alec said finally. I’ve never been to Texarkana. It was going to be a long afternoon.

Well, someone that knows you has, said Evans. Left a rather unusual package next to the Red River a few miles northeast of Hooks.

Alec remembered the package sitting unopened on his bookshelf. He swallowed hard and asked, What kind of package?

Twenty-one-year-old college student named Shelly Jo Cummings. From Dallas. Evans removed a photograph from the manila envelope and slid it across the table. Ever seen her before?

Alec looked at what appeared to be her senior picture. Shelly Jo was an attractive blonde with blue eyes and a bright smile that would have made a toothpaste ad man drool.

No, said Alec. He handed the photo back to Evans.

She was raped and strangled, said Evans. Probably late Monday evening. Her body was found completely nude on the river bank. No personal belongings at the scene. We found one shoe and her purse in the river.

So what does this have to do with me? asked Alec as he leaned back in the hard-backed chair which creaked with the motion.

Thing is, said Evans, the medical examiner found a film case inside the girl. And inside the film case were some items you might find interesting.

Evans pushed three items, one by one, across the table. The first was a newspaper clipping, an article detailing a serial killing in Kansas City, Missouri, in late 1983. Alexander T. Dick was named as the detective in charge of the investigation and was quoted once. His name was circled in red ink both times it appeared.

The second item was a Polaroid of the nude body of a woman. Five dark, evenly-spaced lines swept from just below her left breast down across her stomach, trailing off along her right hip. The photo was old and flaking badly along the sharp fold lines, but he could plainly see it was the last victim in the Kansas City slayings. He had studied all the police photographs of the body until they invaded his dreams. This was not one of those photos.

The last item was a note written on unlined paper in the cramped handwriting Alec had already seen once that day. It read like a child’s lesson:

See Beth.

See Beth dance.

See Beth dance in bloodpaint.

See Dick.

See Dick run.

Run, Dick, run.

Care to dance, Dick?

When did you get these? Alec asked.

Last night, said Evans. We contacted Kansas City and they told us where we could reach you. We tried, but never got an answer.

I’m a big boy, I don’t go home every night. Alec noticed Strong trying to hide a smile.

Maybe you didn’t go home Monday night, either, said Evans.

Right, I was up in your neck of the woods shoving my name up Shelly Jo’s twat.

Best be careful what you say, hot shot, said Evans.

You had best be careful what you imply, old man. Judging by that belly, I’d say it’s a little late in your career to be blowing your retirement. Your daddy must be sheriff for you to be this stupid and still get to wear that badge.

Evans leaned across the table, but Strong caught his arm and he sat back down. He took out a cigar and patted his pockets while he glowered at Alec.

Deputy Evans, Alec said evenly, there is no smoking allowed in this building. If you want to smoke, you’ll have to go outside. Otherwise, I’ll have to ask Detective Strong to arrest you.

Where’s the head? Evans asked.

You can’t smoke in there, either.

Evans leaned toward Alec again and said, I can piss in there, can’t I?

Left down the hall, first door on the right past the elevators.

Evans stood up abruptly and left the room. When the door clicked shut, Alec said, I missed lunch for this bullshit.

I’m sorry, said Strong.

Me, too. He’s an asshole.

I think you got him with that crack about his daddy.

Over the top?

Yeah, said Strong. It’s his uncle, by the way.

No shit? said Alec. Strong nodded and a big grin broke across his face. Alec smiled with him.

You want to tell me what this is really about, detective?

We need your help, actually. My boss sent me here to find out anything I can that will help us nail the guy that did this to her, said Strong, tapping Shelly Jo’s picture with his blunt index finger.

Not exactly your jurisdiction.

Not yet. But we both know he’s coming here. He sent you an invitation. I don’t think Evans has figured that out, yet. He thinks a serial killer has decided to set up shop in his backyard and he’s scared shitless.

You’ll be in charge when it starts here?

I’ll report to my captain, but I’ll be in charge of the investigation and manpower assignments.

Tell your captain I’ll be happy to help, said Alec, standing up. He took off his jacket and draped it over the back of the chair. But I’ll need his agreement on certain things.

Name them.

Alec began to pace. I’ll need immediate access to all crime scenes that could possibly be the work of our man before anything gets marked or moved. Wake me if you have to. Interrupt my classes. Whatever it takes. The chalkboard squeaked as he wheeled it back a little to get past. He took a piece of chalk from the tray and began tossing it from hand to hand. I’ll also need copies of all official reports and suspect interrogations. I want to be consulted on all releases to the press, but I don’t want my name in the papers. And I only answer to you and your superiors.

Sounds like you want to be more involved that just a consultant, said Strong. Any particular reason?

You bring me a picture of one dead woman fresh from the quim of another, along with a personal invitation to dance, and you have to ask me that?

I got the impression it might be something on a more personal level.

Seen the K. C. files, yet? asked Alec.

No. Hopefully, the courier will get them downtown by the time we get back.

Alec sat down and pointed to the Polaroid with a chalky finger. The girl in that picture, finger-painted with her own blood, is Elizabeth Tobias. Beth in the poem. She was my sister.

Strong exhaled slowly and put his hand over his heart. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.

You would have found out soon enough.

The two men sat quietly, looking at the picture, each lost in his own thoughts. A fluorescent light began to flicker overhead. Soon, they heard the heavy footsteps announcing Evans’ return.

One more thing, Alec said quickly. Once it starts here, Evans is out. I’ll help him with his own case as long as he’s not involved beyond that.

Evans came in and sat down. He glanced at Strong, then Alec, cleared his throat and said, I was out of line.

It was a leaden apology, but Alec accepted it with a nod. Let’s look at the case, he said. Who found the body?

We don’t know, said Evans as he poured a fresh cup of coffee, obviously anxious to put the previous tensions behind them. We got an anonymous phone call early Tuesday morning pinpointing its location.

Can I see the reports? Alec asked, wiping his hands on a napkin.

Such as they are, said Evans, handing them to Alec. We’re still waiting for the medical examiner’s final report.

Alec scanned the reports. When he got to the photographs, he said, Her hair looks wet. Was she in the river?

We don’t think so, said Evans. "There was one hell of a rainstorm that night. Cause of death was definitely strangulation. Bruises on the