Mystery of the Van Gogh Killer

Mystery of the Van Gogh Killer1

C.C. Buchanan approached the crime scene with trepidation, praying fervently that the woman lying dead amongst the bushes was not Lauren Holloway. News reporters stood just outside the perimeter of yellow police tape, huddled together under umbrellas that were taking a beating from the pounding rain. They looked like a salivating pack of hyenas, skulking around, hoping to satisfy their hunger for what they craved most - a front page story. She hated reporters. It was always about the by-line for them, never about the victim, never about the victim’s family. 2

She walked past the uniforms, nodding at the ones she recognized, and headed toward the spot where the forensics team and a host of police detectives were examining the body. One of the detectives was giving orders to a uniform. She stopped suddenly. Shit--Ryker was on the scene. The last time she saw him he had threatened to arrest her for obstruction of justice. Well that was then, this was now. Besides, she had to find out who the dead woman was. She adjusted her umbrella and walked with purpose toward him, her eyes focused on his back. She noticed that the black raincoat he wore hung nicely on his broad shoulders. 3

“Hey, Ryker."4

Ryker Reynolds turned abruptly at the sound of her voice. His brown hair was plastered to his skull and water ran down his face. He probably thought it was unmanly to carry an umbrella, she thought. Not that she minded the wet-look.5

“Cassidy, what are you doing here?” he scowled.6

“I told you before--only my mother calls me Cassidy.” She chastised him half-heartedly. She was trying to see past him to the body. Damn his height.7

“What are you doing here?” he repeated.8

“Nice to see you too.” She looked up at him, smiling sweetly. “I’m working a missing person’s case. I’ve been hired by a couple to find their daughter - Lauren Holloway. I heard on the scanner that a body’s been found and I just want to rule it out, that’s all.”9

“Well I hope it’s not her, for your sake--and her parents. This was definitely the handiwork of the Van Gogh killer.”10

“You’re certain?” The Van Gogh killer earned his name after he cut off the ear of his third victim.11

“Yup--this time he cut off a breast. I can’t wait to get this asshole.” A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Eight women in three months, and each time he cuts off a different body part.”12

She planted a hand on her hip. “Is there a connection between any of the victims?”13

“Not one that we can find. They’re all different ages, different backgrounds. None of them run in the same social circles.”14

“How long has she been dead?” She nodded her head in the direction of the body.15

“Given the state of decomposition, we’re estimating about two weeks.”16

“Oh shit, two weeks? That’s how long Lauren’s been missing." She tucked a strand of long, red hair behind her ear. “Who found her?” 17

“A woman, walking her dog. She’s pretty messed up about it.”18

“I can imagine.”19

C.C. reached in her coat pocket and pulled out a lollipop. She peeled the wrapper from the candy and popped it in her mouth.20

“Still off the cigarettes, I see.”21

“Yup--three months now.”22

“Yah well if you keep sucking on those you’re going to be in desperate need of a dentist.”23

“I’ll worry about that when the time comes. C’mon, Ryker, quit stalling. You have to let me see the victim. I need to know.”24

He sighed. “Alright, but don’t go trampling over all of the evidence, or I will arrest you this time.”25

“Yah yah--I’ll be careful. Hold this, will ya?” She held out her lollipop. 26

He scowled, and then grabbed it from her hand, grudgingly. “Just hurry. I got a crime scene to investigate.”27

She moved forward, stepping carefully around the forensics people. Then she saw it--it was like hitting a brick wall, the shock was so sudden. The blood looked stark against the grey pallor of the victim’s skin. C.C. had seen dead bodies before; it came with the job, but not like this. The missing breast looked like a bloody crater. She fought down the bile rising in her throat.28

“Is it her?” Ryker had come up beside her.29

She hadn’t even looked at the dead woman’s face; her eyes had automatically focused on the mutilated body. She had seen Lauren Holloway’s face every day for the past two weeks. Lauren’s parents had given her a photo to use in the investigation. She had memorized every feature: the dark mole just near the end of Lauren’s eyebrow, and the small scar above her temple, where Lauren’s brother had accidentally slashed her with a hockey stick. She had been only thirteen when it happened, Mrs. Holloway had tearfully told her. C.C. knew Lauren’s face--and she was looking at it right now.30

“Yes,” she said quietly.31

Ryker placed a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. “I’m really sorry, Cassidy.”32

“Yah, me too.” She forced the words past the lump in her throat. “I’m not looking forward to telling the Holloway’s.”33

“Informing the victim’s family is the worst part of the job. I have to go over there--I have some questions for them, for the investigation. If you want, I can break the news for you.”34

“No--I have to do it. I’m the one they came to. I’m the one who promised to find their daughter.”35

She started to walk away, her shoulders slumped. 36

“Hey Cassidy,” he called after her.37

She turned around, her expression sad. “Yah?”38

“Don’t go poking around. This guy’s a raging sociopath. You know, you’re a pain in the ass, but I’d sure hate to lose you.”39

“If that’s your idea of flirting, Reynolds, you got some work to do.”40

“Ha ha. I’m warning you, Cassidy--leave this one for us.”41

She turned around and gave him a backward wave. She headed back to her car, ignoring the hyenas, who must have caught the scent of blood. They shouted questions at her as she walked past them to her Prius. 42

She sat in her car, driving on automatic pilot, her mind stuck on the image of Lauren Holloway. As long as she lived she would never forget the sight of that bloody, disfigured body. She tried to wrap her mind around the fact that the girl from the picture, with a smile as big as Kansas, was the same one who lay discarded among the elderberry shrubs and elm trees that dotted Columbus Park. Tears streamed down her face, surprising her. She had never met Lauren, but she wept for the lost potential of a bright young woman. And she wept for her parents, who still had a spark of hope that their daughter would be found alive. 43

Ryker told her there was no connection between the women--but there must be some link, some commonality that drew the killer to them. She needed to see where Lauren lived, maybe she would find some sort of clue that the police had missed. 44

***45

She drove with a heavy heart to the Holloway’s house. They were devastated by the news of Lauren’s death. Noreen broke down, nearly collapsong, so Jim gave her a sedative. C.C.’s heart ached as she watched them struggle with their sorrow. She left them to grieve in private, but not before she obtained their permission to search Lauren’s apartment. Jim gave her the address and the keys to Lauren’s place, and she drove straight to the high-rise apartment building on Chicago’s East Side.46

She opened the heavy double glass doors, smiled at the doorman, and took the elevator up to the tenth floor. As she walked toward apartment 10B she couldn’t help noticing the expensive carpet that ran down the length of the hallway. The light fixtures were obviously high end quality, as well. The Holloway's enjoyed an expensive lifestyle and, it appeared, so did their daughter.47

She opened the door to Lauren’s apartment and walked inside. It looked how she expected - high class. The sofa was made of soft Italian leather, and the coffee table and end tables looked as though they were made from an exotic wood, possibly amboyna burl. Lauren definitely didn’t shop at Ikea.48

Above the fireplace was a large oil painting that caught her eye. The colours were soft and, although she had no idea what the painting represented, there was a delicate, feminine quality to the artwork that she found pleasing. She peered at it closely, to see the artist's name: T. Sorenson. Well, T. Sorenson, I doubt I could afford any of your paintings, she thought.49

She moved on, making her way through all of the rooms, picking through everything as methodically as she could--trying not to disturb anything. Ryker would toss her in jail if he knew she was here. She went through all of Lauren’s books, her mail, photo albums, whatever she could find to learn as much as she could about her. She would have to do the same with the other victims, to find out what they had in common.50

Her cell phone rang and she nearly jumped; the sound was alarming in the quiet apartment.51

She flipped it open. “C.C. Buchanan."52

“Cassidy, it’s Ryker. Where are you?”53

“In my car."54

“Liar--I just left the Holloway’s. Mr Holloway told me he gave you the keys to Lauren’s apartment. I’m warning you, Cassidy, back the hell off. This isn’t a case for Nancy Drew, it’s a real crime that needs to be handled by the police. You’re in over your head--I don’t want to be digging your body out of the bush--“55

“I love you too, Ryker. Bye.” She hung up. God that man was insufferable. Nancy Drew? She was no amateur sleuth. She was a licensed private investigator. How dare he call her Nancy Drew.56

She left Lauren’s apartment, disappointed she hadn’t found an important clue, not that she had expected to. She needed to search the other women’s homes. She needed to find something that linked them together and, more importantly, something that linked them to the Van Gogh killer.57

***58

C.C. left the Chicago PD with the names and addresses of the Van Gogh killer’s other victims. In exchange for the information she had to agree to a date with a rotund police sergeant named Mike O’Reilly. 59

Her first stop was Jeanine Larson’s apartment building. She wasn’t above using her looks to her advantage, so she batted her eyelashes at the building security guard, who let her inside Jeanine’s apartment. She promised to be quick and he looked the other way as she slipped under the police tape that still barred the door. Once inside she made a quick inspection of the place, noticing that Jeanine’s tastes also ran toward expensive furniture and designer clothing. She searched the rooms, finding nothing to connect Jeanine to Lauren. Then she entered the large en-suite bathroom, just off the master bedroom. It was a bathroom C.C. would kill for: travertine tiles, a huge jet tub, and a separate shower big enough to host a small party. A large oil painting hung on the wall. There was something familiar about it; it had the same soft colours and the same ethereal quality as the painting in Lauren’s apartment. She peered closer. The artist's name was T. Sorenson. It could simply be a coincidence, but she had to find out.60

She left Jeanine Larson’s apartment and drove over to Samantha Barnes’ place. Samantha was the Van Gogh killer’s first victim. Unlike the other two victims, the apartment building Samantha lived in was somewhat run down. She stopped at the office of the landlady and knocked on the door.61

An old lady answered the door. She was barely five feet tall, and skinny as a pencil; she looked like she would snap like one, too. But when she spoke she had a clear, strident voice.62

“Yes?” She looked C.C. up and down, suspiciously.63

“Are you the landlord of this building?” 64

“Who wants to know?”65

“My name is C.C. Buchanan--I’m a private investigator. I’m looking into the death of Samantha Barnes. I believe she was a tenant of yours.”66

“Oh yes, Samantha! Such a horrible tragedy.”67

“Yes, really horrible. I’m wondering, can you tell me what happened to all of her belongings? I assume you have rented out her apartment by now.”68

“Heavens no. I’ve been waiting for her relatives to come and pack up her things. They can’t expect me to do it.”69

“No, of course not. So, all of her belongings are still in the apartment?” 70

“Yes, yes,” she said with an irritated wave of her hand. “No one’s showed up yet--it’s been three months,” the landlady grumbled.71

“Mrs - I’m sorry I didn’t get your name.”72

“I’m Mrs Elliot.”73

“Mrs Elliot, would you mind letting me in her apartment? I want to look around, to see if I can find anything that might lead me to her killer.”74

Mrs Elliot looked her up and down one more time. “Yah, I suppose. But I better come along and make sure you don’t steal nothin’.” 75

There was no elevator, so they walked up the five flights of stairs. For an old lady, Mrs Elliot was pretty fit. She talked the entire way up the stairs.76

“It’s a shame about Samantha. She was such a nice girl, an artist you know,” the old lady said.77

“Really? I didn’t know that,” C.C. huffed a little. Thank God, they reached the fifth floor. How did Mrs Elliot do it? 78

“Yah, she was pretty good too,” Mrs Elliot continued as they walked down the hall to Samantha’s apartment. “She never did quite manage to make a living out of it, the poor dear. Well, here we are.”79

She unlocked the door to the apartment. C.C. flipped the light switch, but they didn’t work.80

“No one’s paid the bill for three months.” Mrs Elliot walked over to the windows and pulled the curtains open. “There, that’s better,” she said as light streamed into the room. “This apartment always had good lighting, that’s why Samantha liked it. Well, go ahead and snoop around, but be quick about it.”81

C.C. looked around the small apartment. Samantha’s place was nothing like the other two victim's. The furniture was worn, and everything was mismatched. Samantha was clearly an artist; paints and paintbrushes were scattered in various places around the apartment. An easel stood in the middle of the living room, holding a painting that appeared to be half finished. It seemed to be sitting, waiting patiently for Samantha to return.82

C.C. sensed the landlady’s impatience, so she made a rudimentary search through the living room and kitchen hoping, but not finding, a painting made by someone other than Samantha. As she looked around, she doubted she would find anything. Sorenson’s paintings looked expensive and, by the looks of things, Samantha couldn't afford one.83

She entered the bedroom. Mrs Elliot followed close behind C.C. stopped short when she saw the painting directly above the bed. It looked eerily similar to the other ones, so she moved closer to see. It was signed T. Sorenson.84

“That’s not one of Samantha’s,” Mrs Elliot said. 85

“I see that. Where did she get this painting, Mrs Elliot?”86

“I believe the artist sold it to her for a song. Samantha talked non-stop about it. She had attended a showing of this guy’s work at some fancy pants art gallery. She said they talked for quite some time, and he offered to sell it to her for fifty-bucks. Apparently his stuff was worth ten times that. Anyhow, she was over the moon about it. She said he was a genius and called his work ‘inspirational’.”87

“Was that the only time she ever saw him - the night she met him?”88

“I think she saw him a couple times after that. If I recall she said that he was going to give her a couple painting lessons. He has a studio in his home.”89

“Thank you, Mrs Elliot, you have been a big help.” She would have hugged the old lady, but she was afraid she’d hurt her. “You can close up if you want, I’m finished here,” C.C. said as she hurried out the door. 90

She was halfway down the hall when Mrs Elliot called out: “If you talk to Samantha’s folks, you tell them I can’t hold her stuff no longer. I got people interested in her place.”91

“Will do, Mrs Elliot,” she gave an airy wave and ran down the stairs and out the building toward her car.92

She was vibrating with excitement when she got behind the wheel of her car. T. Sorenson was the connection between all of the women. And there was evidence he had spent at least a little time with the first victim. 93

She had to call Ryker and tell him. She dug her cell phone out of her pocket, dialling his number as she drove. 94

It rang four times. “Ryker Reynolds, here.”95

“Ryker--it’s C.C.. I know what the connection is between all the victims.”96

***97

C.C. sat behind a desk in her office, going over some paperwork and mulling over the events of the past two days. Ryker had called her as soon as they arrested the artist. Theodore Sorenson was a non-descript man with wire frame glasses, and a medium build. He showed little emotion when the police stormed his studio, where they found a macabre mosaic of women’s body parts, painted on eight canvases - one for each victim. If that wasn’t evidence enough, they found the actual body parts stashed in Sorenson’s freezer. He chose his victims from women who bought paintings from him. He stalked them, waited for the right moment, and then he pounced. Ryker said Sorenson confessed to an unnatural obsession with the female body. He would cut off the parts of his victim as a way to possess their femininity. 98

As soon as she learned of Sorenson’s arrest, she went to see Noreen and Jim Holloway to tell them the news. Noreen hugged her and cried, relieved to have some closure, but when C.C. looked at Jim Holloway, the expression on his face said that he would never find closure. She left their home feeling bereft, wondering if there was ever such a thing as true justice in this world.99

“Hey Cassidy,”100

C.C. looked up, startled. Ryker stood in the doorway. “Ryker. Hi, come in,” she invited.101

She directed him to sit on the sofa she kept for clients. She preferred it over formal guest chairs, believing that it made her clients feel more comfortable, and therefore more conversational. The more information she could obtain from them, the more successful she was in her investigation.102

Ryker sat down and C.C. walked over and sat in the overstuffed chair opposite him.103

“What’s up?” she asked, curious as to why he was here. Ryker rarely stopped by her office, unless he was there to give her trouble.104

"Well... I gotta say that was a fine piece of detective work, Cassidy. We had worked the case for three months, and you figured it out in one day. I’m really humbled.”105

“Don’t be so hard on yourself--you just needed a woman’s eye for detail. I noticed all the paintings had similar colours and contouring. Once I realized that, it was easy to connect the dots.” 106

“Yah-- well nevertheless you did a good job. I’m sorry I was so hard on you.” He held up a gift bag. “I brought you a little something, as a peace offering.” 107

She took the bag from him, a little flustered that he bought her a gift. She opened the bag and saw that it was full of lollipops. She smiled. “Why, Officer Reynolds, are you flirting with me again?” she said in a southern accent.108

He stood up. “No, I’ll leave that up to Sergeant O’Reilly. I hear you two have a hot date.” He winked at her and walked out the door.