Chapter 2: The Investigation

The knock on my apartment door came at six in the morning, sharp and insistent. I stumbled from bed, pulling on a robe, expecting maybe a neighbor with an emergency or a delivery gone wrong. Through the peephole, I saw two people in dark suits—a woman with pulled-back hair and a man with a stern expression.

"Elena Vasquez?" The woman held up a badge. "I'm Agent Miranda Torres, FBI. This is Agent Richardson. We'd like to ask you some questions about your gallery."

My stomach dropped to somewhere around my feet. "Questions about what?"

"May we come in? It's regarding the Canvas Killer investigation."

I unlocked the door with trembling fingers. The agents entered my small apartment, their eyes scanning everything—the art books stacked on every surface, the reproductions covering the walls, the classical mythology prints I'd collected over the years.

"Ms. Vasquez, how long have you owned Meridian Gallery?" Agent Torres asked, settling into my living room chair like she planned to stay awhile.

"Fifteen years." My voice came out scratchy. "Look, if this is about that Ophelia painting, I saw the news yesterday. It's a horrible coincidence, but—"

"Actually, it's not just about Ophelia." Agent Richardson opened a thick file folder. "We've identified connections between your gallery and five separate Canvas Killer crime scenes over the past two years."

The room started spinning. "That's impossible."

Agent Torres pulled out a series of photographs that made me feel sick. Crime scene photos showing bodies posed exactly like famous paintings. A woman arranged as Caravaggio's Judith Beheading Holofernes. Another victim positioned like John Everett Millais' Lady of Shalott. Each image was a perfect recreation of artworks I knew intimately.

"These are all pieces that have been featured in your exhibitions or sales catalogs within the last twenty-four months," Agent Torres said. "That's not a coincidence."

"Thousands of people know these paintings," I protested. "They're famous works. Anyone could have—"

"Could have what? Studied the specific details you highlighted in your exhibition notes? Known the exact positioning you described in your catalog essays?" Agent Richardson leaned forward. "Ms. Vasquez, you wrote detailed analyses of each of these pieces, describing the emotional impact of the death scenes, the artistic techniques used to portray tragedy and suffering."

I stared at the photos, my mind reeling. "You think I'm helping him? That I'm somehow involved in these murders?"

"We think you're providing artistic consultation to the Canvas Killer," Agent Torres said. "Your expertise is being used to perfect these crime scenes. The question is whether you're doing it willingly or if he's using your published work without your knowledge."

"This is insane. I would never—I could never hurt anyone!"

Agent Richardson made notes in a small book. "Tell us about your client base. Who purchases these types of paintings? Who shows unusual interest in death scenes or tragic classical themes?"

My mind went blank. "I... lots of collectors appreciate classical mythology. It's a popular subject."

"We need names, Ms. Vasquez. Everyone who's purchased or shown interest in these specific pieces over the past two years."

I thought about Natasha Volkov, the mysterious Russian collector who'd bought several dark classical pieces. About the various clients who preferred tragic themes. About Dr. Rothschild, who'd introduced me to half of them.

"I'll need to check my records. This is a lot to process."

Agent Torres stood up. "We'll need those records today. We're also going to need you to come to our offices for a more detailed interview. And Ms. Vasquez? Don't leave town."

After they left, I sat on my couch staring at nothing. My phone was buzzing with calls—Thomas, Dr. Rothschild, reporters who'd somehow already gotten wind of the FBI visit. I ignored them all.

Instead, I went to my computer and started researching the Canvas Killer case properly for the first time. What I found made my blood run cold.

The killer had been active for fifteen years, starting right around the time I'd graduated from art school. His methods had grown more sophisticated over time, showing increasing knowledge of classical art history and painting techniques. Early victims had been posed in crude approximations of famous scenes. Recent murders showed the hand of someone with deep artistic expertise.

The timeline was damning. The killer's knowledge had grown as my career had developed. His understanding of classical themes had expanded as I'd written more catalog essays and exhibition notes. It was as if someone had been studying my work, learning from my analysis, using my passion for art as a guide for murder.

My phone rang. Dr. Rothschild's name appeared on the screen.

"Elena, are you all right? I heard about the FBI visit. This is outrageous—how dare they suggest you're involved with this madman."

"Julian, I don't know what to think. The connections they showed me... it's disturbing."

"Coincidence, nothing more. Classical art has been depicting death and tragedy for centuries. Of course a disturbed individual might use famous paintings as inspiration. That doesn't implicate every art dealer in the city."

"But why my gallery specifically? Why those exact pieces?"

There was a pause on the line. "Perhaps someone has been studying your work. Using your exhibitions as a hunting ground for ideas. Have you noticed anyone showing unusual interest? Taking photos of your pieces? Asking too many detailed questions?"

I thought back over the past months. There had been several clients who seemed particularly fascinated by the darker classical themes. But wasn't that normal for collectors with specific interests?

"I can't think of anyone in particular. Most of my clients are serious collectors or academics."

"The FBI is fishing, my dear. They're under enormous pressure to solve these murders, so they're grasping at straws. Don't let them intimidate you. I'll recommend a good lawyer—someone who specializes in federal investigations."

After hanging up, I tried to work, but concentration was impossible. Every time the gallery door chimed, I expected to see FBI agents returning with handcuffs. The Ophelia painting that had looked so beautiful yesterday now seemed sinister, a blueprint for murder hanging on my wall.

Thomas found me sitting in my office, staring at nothing.

"Elena, there are reporters outside. They're asking about the FBI investigation. What should I tell them?"

"Nothing. Don't tell them anything."

"Also, that prosecutor Harrison Kane's office called. They want to schedule an interview."

My heart stopped. If the prosecutor's office was involved, this had moved beyond a simple FBI inquiry. They were building a case.

"Cancel everything for the rest of the week," I said. "Close the gallery if you have to. I need to figure out what's happening."

That night, I lay in bed unable to sleep, staring at the ceiling and trying to understand how my life had become connected to a serial killer's twisted art project. Somewhere in the city, Agent Torres was probably building a file with my name on it. Somewhere else, the real Canvas Killer was planning his next masterpiece.

And I had no idea that both of them were closer to me than I could possibly imagine.