caught, but he’s compelled to share these experiences with you people. His use of the first person is significant—he chose it for a reason, the reason being that they’re personal accounts of actual events in this offender’s life.”
“How can we rule out the possibility he’s merely writing fiction?”
“With his flare for creativity, that’s certainly an option. But I believe there’s more going on here than just a frustrated writer at work. I think this stuff is deeply personal to him. That’s why he’s showing it to you. It’s his outlet for whatever happened to him as a youth. And I believe these writings are very closely related to what we’re seeing play out when he’s with the bodies. He abuses them, much like he was abused as a child. He’s telling you what his childhood was like, the events that made him who he is today. Maybe it’s his way of explaining his actions so you won’t think badly of him.”
Robby squinted. “You think the killer cares what we think of him?”
“I think he definitely cares how he’s perceived. Not in the same way we care about the way other people see us, you understand.” Rudnick shook his head, started to say something, then stopped.
“What is it?” Vail asked.
“There’s something more going on here.” He switched to reading glasses and looked down at the file. “I just haven’t been able to put my finger on it.”
After a long moment of watching Rudnick stare at the page and shake his head in frustration, Vail asked, “What about the blood murals?”
Rudnick’s face brightened. “Ah, okay, that’s a bit easier to explain. Let’s talk for a moment in generalities. There was a question about Impressionism.” He got a nod from Vail and continued. “Well, Impressionism is an artistic movement that was born in France and lasted from the 1860s to about 1886. It consisted of a group of artists who shared a set of related approaches and techniques—”
“I was an art history major, Wayne. I know all about its origins.”
“For your very intimidating colleague, then, since odds are good that both of you weren’t art history majors.”
“That’s correct,” Robby said.
Rudnick winked at Vail, glanced down at his notes, then continued. “Impressionism was considered an extreme departure from the previous major art movement of the Renaissance. These painters rejected the concept of perspective, idealized figures, and chiaroscuro—the use of dark and light in a stylistic manner—”
Vail held up a hand. “I wonder if Dead Eyes is using Impressionism as a symbol, consciously or unconsciously. His rejection of something in society, his way of making a statement.”
Rudnick nodded. “That’s certainly a possibility. I’d thought of that, but haven’t had time to run it through the old gears,” he said, pointing to his brain. He turned back to Robby. “The Impressionist painter’s focus was on capturing the effect of light on the colors of a landscape. Up close, their paintings look like splashes of color. They don’t look like much of a picture until you view them from a bit of a distance.” He looked at Vail. “I’m only getting this stuff secondhand, so if you have anything to offer, cut in.”
“Nothing to offer. But I think you—and your expert—are missing the point. I said the offender’s blood murals reminded me of an Impressionism era painting. Mostly because of the strokes, the way the blood was laid out. It wasn’t merely blood spattered on a wall, like a disorganized offender would leave it. It was . . . applied in a very specific pattern. Like a painting, as if the offender looked at these murals as an art form in and of itself.”
Rudnick was nodding animatedly. “Yes, yes, that’s my point. But again, you’re jumping the gun. You on speed today, Karen, or what? Too much coffee?”
“You take forever to get to the point sometimes, Wayne.”
“Fine. Here’s the point: I checked with an expert on offender and inmate artwork. She analyzes their doodlings as well as the more elaborate sketches, including pictures drawn pre-arrest and during incarceration. It took her a while to come up with something. She took it to an art historian, who saw what you were talking about, the possible influence of Impressionist painters, but since it was ‘painted’ with fingertips and not a brush, she couldn’t analyze brush strokes, which seems to be a key indicator when trying to evaluate artistic trends. There was a suggestion of Impressionist influence, but she wasn’t willing to commit to anything more than that. It didn’t really follow the conventions of Impressionism, particularly the technique of light and color. There’s no light source and no color because there are no pigments. It’s just blood. She said it’s like trying to paint an entire rainbow with only blue or red on your palette.
“So it fell back on the desk of the offender artwork expert, whose best guess was that there was a method to the brush strokes. Very organized and planned, with an inherent order. There was a repetition in the strokes, but she was unsure it meant anything other than to make it distinguishable and unique. She couldn’t discern any hidden meaning to the murals but was sure it was the work of the same ‘artist.’” He flipped a page of the report and concluded: “She did say the suggestion of Impressionistic influence was likely not coincidental or accidental.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that it’s likely our offender does have a background in art history, or is an artist of some sort.”
Robby looked at Vail. “You’d already figured that out.”
“Oh, don’t tell her that,” Rudnick said. “It’ll just go to her head.”
Vail rose from her seat. “Confirmation is always nice to have,” she said. “The way things have been going, it’s good to have someone like Wayne at my back.”
“I’d much rather be at your front.” He winked. “Oh, excuse me. I’m not supposed to make those kinds of remarks. Workplace etiquette. Sexual harassment laws and such.”
“Did your expert say anything about what the murals said about the offender?”
“The fact that he paints in blood is sick.”
“Yes, Wayne. Something useful.”
Rudnick’s face hardened, as if he suddenly realized the gravity of her question. “We both feel the blood is deeply arousing to him. It follows closely with the intense relationship he has with the body. He spends an incredibly long time with the victim. First he eviscerates them, then he grooms them to match some skewed image he has of women, making them ugly, almost repulsive. Then he takes their blood and paints on the wall. In a very deliberate fashion. There is definitely artistic talent there, but it’s abstract. No one I showed the photos to could ascertain anything useful from the patterns and shapes. And despite this repetitive ‘internal order,’ overall they’re different from crime scene to crime scene. So whatever he’s painting isn’t a consistent image, which makes me think it’s not borne of a fantasy. The act of painting on the wall may be, but what he’s painting . . . no one seems to know.” Rudnick grabbed his gel ball and began squeezing it. “In sum, your guy is consistent with what we’d expect to see in this type of offender: the themes of dominance, revenge, violence, power, control, mutilation . . . they’re all there.”
Vail took a second to absorb this, then nodded. “Thanks for the help, Wayne. Stay sane.”
His face brightened again into a mischievous smirk. “Hard to do around here. I sometimes think they’ve buried us down here for a reason, like it’s some secret insane asylum. Like we’re the inmates, but in telling us we work for the FBI, they’ve calmed our murderous instincts.”
“Uh huh. Take care, Wayne. And thanks again.” Vail led the way out, Robby fast on her heels. As soon as the door clicked shut, he asked, “Stay sane? That implies he’s sane to begin with.”
Vail tilted her head and nodded. “Guess you’re right. Down here, such assumptions might be a bit of a stretch.”
WHEN THE ELEVATOR DOORS spread open on the main floor, Vail handed Robby her keys and told him to wait for her in the car; she forgot to ask Rudnick something on a prior case of hers and had to run back down. She appeared in the doorway to Rudnick’s office a couple minutes later, and there was the bushy haired analyst, reclining in his chair tossing the ball at the ceiling.
Vail cleared her throat and the ball skittered off his fingertips onto the floor.
He looked over. “Am I having one of those deja vu events or are you back for something?”
“I’m back,” Vail said.
“You like it when I speak French? The people are a bit uppity, but the language does kind of roll off the tongue.”
Vail stepped into the room and shut the door behind her.
Rudnick sat up in his chair. “Uh oh. This is serious. Either you’re going to work me over or you want some privacy.”
