|1-Still Life By Sparhawk It was the eighth murder in as many weeks. This one had been hanged, her head lolled at an unnatural angle and her tongue protruded from her mouth in a way that tongues definitely do not do naturally. She had been washed up on the lakeshore at 2 am. and the coroner put her time of death at 6-8 hours earlier. It was not yet decided whether the murders were connected, but in his own mind Carl decided that they were. It could not be a coincidence. In Harley there had not been a murder in over thirty years. And now there had been eight of them. Definitely not a coincidence. The problem was that there were no similarities between each victim, except they were all young. The first had been Jason Hill, a young banker in the towns only bank. He had been discovered with his throat slit in the ornamental moat surrounding Harvey Shopping Mall. The second was Terence Grant, a construction worker at the new Urban Renewal project on the towns outskirts. He had been discovered with his head in a cement mixer and his body in a wheelbarrow. The third murder had been the most famous. It was Josie 'Florence' Harcourt. She was the daughter of the land tycoon Graham Harcourt, who had built most of the newer parts of Harvey. She had been discovered, suffocated, in a crate left on the main road through the town. The plastic bag was still secured around her face. After her death her father had bullied the mayor into pushing the entire police force to investigate. They had found nothing, but there were no more murders for six weeks. In the last two weeks there had been no less than four murders, five if you included todays. These were Fred Sausy, Sarah Worth, Henry Flowers and Claire Phillips. All were people from everyday walks of life. None had been over 25 years old. Carl could not find any evidence at all on the bodies, except on Fred Sausy, who had been found in the boot of his own car. There was green paint under his fingernails. On analysis this had proved to be the kind of paint that an artist would use. Common watercolour paint. This was the only clue he had. Carl had detailed files on all the artists living in Harvey but none seemed to be the murderer. Fred himself, according to friends and relatives, definitely did not paint. A woman walked over to him. It was Francis Greenberg of the Harvey Herald. Shit, groaned Carl to himself. Anything but her! She was sure to ask unnecessary questions and draw her own conclusions. "Sheriff Meister? Would you like to comment?" she said. She had a slight smile playing across her lips as she stood to attention with her tape recorder and microphone. She thrust the latter towards his mouth. "Could you wait for the statement, Miss Greenberg?" said Carl. "I see this interview is going to be difficult again, Carl. Let me help you. Have you identified the body yet?" "No comment." "Is this murder related to any of the others?" "Like I said, No Comment." "Have you any idea to who the murderer may be? Have you discovered any leads?" "Miss Greenberg, if you don't leave now I will have you removed. An official statement will be issued at the station in the morning. Be there then and all your questions will be answered." Francis Greenberg seemed to be on the verge of asking another question but she realised she was pushing her luck and stopped. She glared at Carl playfully and turned and walked back to her car. She was going to be a handful, again. "At approximately 8 pm. yesterday a young lady by the name of Petra Andropov was murdered. The cause of death seems to be massive coronary caused by poison, as yet unidentified. She was Caucasian and 22 years old. She was a Russian exchange student here at Harvey Medical school. "I have no reason to suspect this murder was connected with any of the others over the past few weeks. That is all." Suddenly there was a clamour of voices as Carl turned back into the police station. Flashes of white light indicated the photographers at work, raised hands waved frantically as reporters hoped for answers to their questions. Carls spokesman, a young deputy by the name of Vic, answered the reporters questions with no firm answers. "Hi, Susan." said Carl to his secretary as he walked into his office. "Any calls?" "Only one from the medical school. They say they've discovered something you'd better look at." "Give them a call and tell them I'm on my way." "I've already done so." Susan was getting to know Carl well. She always seemed to anticipate his actions. Carl left through the fire escape in his office. He climbed down this to back parking lot and jumped into his car. He usually walked to the medical school, after all it was only ten minutes down the road, but he didn't want to get caught by the reporters. He screeched round the corner and down the road, taking great delight in covering notepad-waving reporters in exhaust fumes. The medical school was a tall, grey building. It was built right next to the general hospital. The head tutor there doubled as the towns coroner. He was waiting at the door. Frederick David Peterson, once in the running for nobel prize with his ground-breaking genetics research. Now a small town coroner. Carl had gotten drunk with him many times but still hadn't discovered what had changed his fortunes. "Ah, Carl." began Fred. "I heard you were coming. Follow me." He led Carl through dark twisting corridors and down two flights of stairs. They entered the morgue. "Look Carl, " began Fred, "See this knife wound?" he had pulled out Jason Hill's body, and indicated the throat wound. "This was not caused by another person. He did it himself. Suicide. I suspected it when I first saw it and the other bodies have confirmed the evidence. They all committed suicide, Carl." Carl took a minute to digest this information. "You mean they all killed themselves? Even that godammned man who had his fucking head cut off? How can someone do that to themselves?" "It seems he did himself by falling onto something. The force of the blow came from beneath and in a position that meant he had to place himself carefully to do so." "Even Sarah? Henry? Clare? Fred? Josie? Petra?" "I haven't seen Petra closely yet, but the others, yes." "Why didn't you tell me earlier?" "Because I wanted to be sure. You must admit, Carl. It is very strange." "Yeah, too damned right it is. I guess I can close this case now. Suicide! no wonder I wasn't getting anywhere... Thanks Fred. See you later, How about a drink sometime?" "After what happened the last time? I'm never going to drink with Sheriff Meister again!" Fred chuckled. "Well, I'll think about it. See you Carl." Five minutes later, as Carl was climbing back into his car, he vowed to himself "No way am I going to close this case. I'm going to find the bastard that made them do what they did!". Carl sat with Susan, Vic and some of the other officers at the stations single TV set at their lunch break. There was nothing on TV, just some interview with a famous artist on the local channel. Carl was busy eating, he always felt ravenous after visiting the morgue. Susan and Vic were arguing, as usual, about nothing in particular. It was just that neither wanted to give in. Todays 'discussion' was about the environment. Carl just sat quietly and ate. Suddenly, something caught his eye. It was the presenter on TV, showing a painting. The painting was of an old woman, immensely old, and it seemed somewhat eerie. Carl didn't know what it was about that old diseased woman that disturbed him, but then suddenly it struck him. Carl leapt of his chair, dropping his plate and dinner to the floor. He ran down the corridor to his office, and rummaged through his filing cabinet rapidly. He found the file he was looking for, and threw it onto his desk. He ripped open the file, scattering its contents over his desk. He grabbed at the photograph he wanted, and ran back to the TV room. As he burst in Susan, Vic and the other officers were staring at him. Carl looked at the TV. Shit!, it's finished, he thought. "Did anyone see that TV programme with the Artist in it?" he said. At first it seemed that no-one had, but then a young officer spoke. "I did! It was an interview with Leopold Verescrue, the famous painter. He moved here about eight weeks ago and he's opening a special gallery of his work on the old museum site. The gallery isn't open yet though." "Did you catch when it's opening?" "No sir. But it will be soon." "Carl? What's the matter?" said Susan. "It's nothing. I've just got a sudden interest in art." Continued in part 2...