Page 54 of Unhinged Cain

Was he serious?

Cain left the image with me as he crossed the room and moved a large easel into the center of the floor. He smiled at me as he grabbed a massive canvas.

“I’m going to paint you, Sunshine.”

Smiling, he walked over to a tin of brushes. A tingling of excitement erupted in my belly. I never hated myself more than at that moment.

MARGARET

I really hated the smell of the autopsy room. As many times as I’d had to come into this room and stare at dead bodies, there was nothing that made the experience better. At least this time, I’d remembered the vapor rub for my nose to cut down the smell.

Pushing through the second set of doors that led to the body, I prepared to face the strange white-haired doctor who seemed way too happy to be staring into the wide-open cavity of the latest corpse. The thick glasses and flip-up optical magnifier clipped to the front made him look like something from a Sci-Fi show.

“I was just about to give you a call,” the doctor said, not lifting his eyes from his work.The tweezers he was using pulled a small piece of something shiny from inside the victim’s chest before he dropped it into a metal dish.

“Anything I can use,” I asked, stepping up beside the table and staring down at the mangled body.

The face had been beaten beyond recognition. The arms and legs had deep lacerations, and fingers and toes were missing, but the arms still had cuts that created strange pictures in the skin. This was the most unusual calling card I’d ever seen, and considering I’d seen my fair share, that was saying something.

“Yes, and no.” The doctor lifted his head and stripped his bloodied gloves off before removing the strange glasses. “This kill is the work of a killer and one that knows how to kill, but not your killer.”

I looked at the skin again and then back up at the doctor. “I don’t understand. This body has the same carvings.”

“Carvings, yes. Same kind of carvings, no.”

My lips pressed together in a tight line as I tried to decipher what the strange old man that I was positive sniffed one too many jars of formaldehyde over his career was trying to say. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Look at the carvings closely. What do you see?”

Bending over, I got close to the deep lines that distorted the look of the victim’s shoulder. “They don’t look quite as smooth.”

“Hah. That is an understatement.”

I glanced back up at the doctor as he wandered away and pressed the button on the large television screen. Holding up the remote, he flicked through a number of photos and then stopped at one of the bodies I’d collected a few weeks back. The image was zoomed in on the skin and the design that had been created on the woman’s chest and stomach.

“Now look at the pictures on the screen and then relook at our current victim.”

I wasn’t a huge fan of these guessing games, but I’d learned over the years that he loved to do it, and there didn’t seem to be any way of breaking his habits now. So nothing to do but go along for the ride.

The lines on the victim on the screen were very thin, almost paper-cut light, and weren’t very deep, maybe an eighth of an inch deep. The design wasn’t what killed her. It was the blade that had pierced her chest cavity and heart. It was done with a single strike.

Pausing, I thought about what Kirby had mentioned in class: whoever had done this was a true artist.

“Is the Chameleon devolving? Becoming more unstable,” I asked and turned around to look at the body and the doctor once more.

“One might think that if they didn’t understand art, but no. What you have on your hands is a copycat.”

I stared between the two screens. “Give me your reasoning because I have to tell you, the last thing I need is another killer on my hands.”

“Unfortunately, that’s exactly what you have. Let’s start with the face. As gruesome as some of the bodies have come in, the faces were never touched like this. If anything, they were washed and left in pristine condition. Eyes may be missing, etcetera… but the Chameleon Killer doesn’t beat them. Whoever killed the woman on the table is angry and most likely hates women.”

The doctor walked around the table and pointed at the marks on the shoulder that I could see.

“The lines on this body are rough and jagged, like the killer is inexperienced with a knife or doesn’t have the same tool, but that’s not what sealed it for me. It’s the artwork itself. Do you see how these lines on your victim’s shoulder are simplistic in nature? Circles and some sort of a pathetic attempt at tribal art? This artist is not an artist. This killer is mimicking being one to throw you off their trail.”

The doctor grabbed the remote once more, and with a couple of clicks, one of the full-body images they’d taken of a previous victim was on display.

“This scene of a mother cradling a child is artwork.” I cocked a brow at the way the doctor said the words as if he were envious of whoever had done this. “Every detail, from the strands of hair to the clothing and the facial expressions, is perfection. They show pain and a mother’s remorse. Not only is the image of someone who has been trained or is a serious natural talent, but the lines are the same width and depth no matter where the Chameleon Killer cut.”