Chapter 4: The Prosecutor's Game

Harrison Kane's office overlooked downtown Manhattan from the thirty-second floor, all glass and steel and ambition. I sat across from his mahogany desk while he arranged photographs like playing cards, each one a crime scene that supposedly connected to my gallery.

"Ms. Vasquez, let's start with something simple," Kane said, his voice smooth as silk. He was younger than I'd expected, probably early forties, with the kind of polished confidence that screamed political aspirations. "How long have you known Dr. Julian Rothschild?"

"Fifteen years. Since graduate school."

"And he's been instrumental in building your gallery's reputation?"

"He's been a mentor and friend. He's helped me understand classical art better."

Kane nodded, making notes. "Dr. Rothschild has written extensively about death imagery in Renaissance painting, hasn't he? Particularly focusing on beautiful women meeting tragic ends?"

I shifted uncomfortably. "That's one of his areas of expertise, yes. But it's a legitimate field of art historical study."

"Of course." Kane's smile was predatory. "Tell me about Natasha Volkov. She's purchased several pieces from your gallery, all depicting violent deaths of mythological females."

"She's a private collector with specific interests. Lots of collectors focus on particular themes."

"Specific interests in watching beautiful women die violently?"

"That's not how I would characterize classical mythology."

Kane pulled out a file thick with papers. "Ms. Volkov has purchased from you: Judith Beheading Holofernes, The Death of Lucretia, Medea Killing Her Children, The Suicide of Cleopatra, and Iphigenia's Sacrifice. All in the past eighteen months. Don't you find that pattern disturbing?"

My mouth felt dry. When he listed them like that, it did sound obsessive. "Collectors often buy pieces in series. It's common to build thematic collections."

"And you never questioned why someone would want to surround themselves with images of murdered women?"

"Art isn't just about the literal subject matter. These pieces represent complex emotions, historical narratives, human psychology—"

"Or they represent a buyer's violent fantasies." Kane leaned forward. "Ms. Vasquez, I believe you've been providing artistic consultation to the Canvas Killer for at least two years. Your expertise has helped him create increasingly sophisticated crime scenes."

"That's ridiculous. I would never—"

"You've written detailed analyses of exactly how these tragic scenes should be composed. Your exhibition notes read like instruction manuals." He pulled out one of my catalog essays and began reading. "'The key to Ophelia's tragedy lies in the peaceful expression amid violent death. The flowers in her hair must appear fresh, almost bridal, contrasting with the dark water claiming her life.'"

Hearing my own words read back in this context made me feel sick. "That's art criticism, not murder instruction."

"The Canvas Killer's fifth victim was posed exactly as you described. Fresh flowers in her hair, peaceful expression, dark water. Either he's following your published guidelines, or you told him directly how to arrange that scene."

My lawyer Patricia cleared her throat. "Mr. Kane, you have no evidence that my client ever communicated with this killer."

"Not yet," Kane admitted. "But we're investigating all of her communications, all of her clients, everyone who's had access to her expertise. The pattern is clear—as Ms. Vasquez's knowledge grew, so did the killer's sophistication."

"Correlation isn't causation," Patricia said.

"Tell that to the families of twenty-three victims." Kane's voice hardened. "Tell that to the mother who confronted your client yesterday, asking if she helped pick her daughter for murder."

The interview continued for two hours. Kane built his case methodically, showing how each crime scene matched not just famous paintings, but my specific interpretations and analyses of those paintings. He had copies of everything I'd ever written, every lecture I'd given, every catalog essay I'd published.

"One last question, Ms. Vasquez. Your ex-husband David tells us you used to have nightmares about classical paintings. That you'd wake up describing violent scenes involving beautiful women. Can you explain that?"

I stared at him. "I never had nightmares like that. David is lying."

"Why would your ex-husband lie to federal investigators?"

"Because he's angry about our divorce. Because he wants to hurt me."

Kane made more notes. "Or because he witnessed behavior that disturbed him. Behavior that suggested an unhealthy obsession with violent imagery."

After we left Kane's office, Patricia and I sat in a coffee shop while she explained the reality of my situation.

"He's going to charge you," she said bluntly. "Maybe not with murder, but as an accessory. He'll claim you provided artistic guidance that enabled the killer to perfect his crimes."

"But I never communicated with anyone about murder. I never helped anyone plan crimes."

"You published detailed analyses that could be interpreted as instructions. Your exhibition notes, your catalog essays, your lectures—they're all public record. Anyone could use them."

"Then anyone could be blamed for these connections."

"But you're the common denominator. Your specific interpretations match the crime scenes. Kane has a theory that explains the killer's increasing sophistication, and you're at the center of that theory."

I thought about the timeline Kane had presented. The Canvas Killer's early work had been crude, obvious. Over the years, the murders had become more artistic, more psychologically complex. The turning points seemed to correspond with major exhibitions at my gallery, with significant pieces I'd written about classical death imagery.

"Patricia, what if someone really has been using my work to plan these murders? What if I'm being framed?"

"Then we need to figure out who and why. But Elena, proving someone else is guilty is much harder than creating reasonable doubt about your own guilt."

That evening, I sat in my apartment going through years of client records, exhibition visitor logs, anyone who might have had sustained access to my work and expertise. The list was overwhelming—hundreds of people who'd attended my lectures, bought my catalogs, visited my exhibitions.

But certain names appeared repeatedly across multiple events and publications. Dr. Rothschild, of course—he'd been involved in almost everything I'd done professionally. Natasha Volkov, with her specific interest in violent classical themes. Several other collectors who'd purchased similar pieces.

My phone rang. Julian's number appeared on the screen.

"Elena, I heard about your meeting with the prosecutor. How did it go?"

"Terribly. He thinks I've been helping the killer plan murders."

"That's preposterous. Harrison Kane is a glory-seeking prosecutor who needs someone to blame for his failure to catch this madman."

"Julian, the connections he showed me... they're disturbing. Someone has been using my work as a blueprint for murder."

There was a long pause. "Perhaps we should meet tomorrow. I've been thinking about this case, and I may have some insights that could help your defense."

"What kind of insights?"

"I'd rather discuss it in person. Can you come to my studio around noon?"

After hanging up, I felt the first glimmer of hope I'd experienced in days. Julian had been studying art crime for decades. If anyone could help me understand how someone was using my expertise to frame me, it would be him.

I had no idea that I'd just agreed to meet with the Canvas Killer himself.