Public Anatomy Read online

  He screwed the cap on. “Off what?”

  “Work.”

  He shrugged and pulled his foot behind him in a stretch to his mid-back. “I guess.”

  “After what happened, I can only imagine.”

  He was surprised she knew, but he kept stretching.

  “What is it like to lose a patient?”

  Looking directly at her, he said, “It sucks.”

  She had no response to that.

  Greenway walked toward the race path.

  Baylor and her cameraman followed. “The newspapers report that an investigation at the hospital is underway. Are the doctors at fault?”

  “As opposed to whom, Ms. Baylor? The patient?”

  She waited a moment. “Tell me about Liza French.”

  He turned around. “What about her?”

  “The newspapers are not very complimentary to her.”

  “She can take care of herself.”

  Baylor nodded. “Do you take care of her?”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Seems your relationship with her goes beyond the professional.”

  “I thought this was about my training for a triathlon?”

  “This is about you, Thomas. And it appears that ‘you,’” she mimed quotation marks with her fingers, “include Dr. Liza French.”

  Thomas Greenway pressed the tiny buttons on his stopwatch.

  “She is quite attractive,” Baylor continued. “You two would make a spectacular couple.”

  He glared at her. “We’re through for today.” He took off in a dead sprint.

  Baylor and the cameraman were gone when he finished the route. Greenway entered the pavilion to change clothes. The park closed at dusk and with only a faint orange horizon remaining, he was pushing it. The parking lot was empty except for his Jeep Cherokee.

  Just as he entered the changing room, the flash of a camera surprised him. Someone ran past him and out the door. He ran after the photographer, yelling for them to stop. But outside, he saw no one.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  No fingerprints were identified on any of the pieces of canvas found at each crime scene. The Organist obviously wanted the anatomical sketches to be found, but not traced. Basetti had taken them to the forensics lab. He told Lipsky and Eli that he had a series of sophisticated tests to perform. Basetti was able to identify the type of ink and the canvas structure. But neither the ink nor the type of canvas were unique, both commonly used by artists in a variety of settings, from introductory college courses to sophisticated galleries in New York and Paris.

  Eli hoped that Basetti’s work might lead them to a particular artist, or at least narrow the field down from any artist proficient at sketching on canvas. This dead end prompted Eli to delve into highly sophisticated research and investigative work.

  In the phone book, Eli found three art supply businesses. He hoped that one of the stores sold the type of canvas found at the crime scenes. Of the three, Dekko’s Art Emporium on South Main caught his attention. The store was in the heart of the Arts District, where aspiring artists were buying up loft space at semiaffordable prices above art galleries that might eventually display their work.

  The Memphis Arts District is a trendy new development south of Beale Street, with boutique shops, coffee houses, and apartments. A historic district once home to depots and tracks for the city’s train station, the Arts District represents nouveau chic juxtaposed with the leading edge of urban decay.

  Eli passed the Lorraine Hotel on Mulberry Street, now home to the National Civil Rights Museum. He crossed over to South Main and parked in front of Dekko’s. Neon tube lighting adorned the entrance. Two large murals hung on either side of the door, a profile of a young Elvis in a leather jacket on one side, BB King embracing Lucille on the other. Wind chimes sang as Eli entered. A middle-aged woman with gray hair stood behind the counter.

  “I’m looking for canvas cloth,” Eli told her, wondering if that was correct artistic terminology.

  The woman nodded. “What size and weight do you need?”

  Eli showed her the piece of canvas that Lipsky had reluctantly let him keep. He flipped it over so the sketch of the navicular bone faced down. The woman pushed her glasses up onto the bridge of her nose, rubbed the canvas between her fingers.

  “This is high quality canvas. I do believe we carry it.”

  Eli followed her down an aisle lined by shelves filled with easels, canvasses, and large tablets of specialized art paper specifically for charcoal or watercolor. They passed a stack of bristol board. Eli had no idea what that was.

  “Let me see the paper again.”

  Eli gave it to her. But this time while examining it, the woman flipped the paper over. She stared at the illustration. Kept staring.

  “What’s wrong?” Eli asked.

  “Oh, nothing. It’s just—Did you draw this?”

  “No,” Eli told her. “I found it.”

  She admired the sketch again. “There was an artist who came into the store a couple of times. She did sketches like this.”

  “What do you mean, like this?”

  “Detailed anatomical drawings. Skeletons, bones. Her work was beautiful, but sort of odd.” She handed the canvas back to Eli and asked, “Do you know the artist?”

  The question surprised Eli. “No, I was going to ask you the same question.”

  “Where did you find the sketch?”

  “I bought it, actually. At an estate sale. Sold for five dollars. Can you imagine that?” Eli couldn’t believe how easily he had taken up lying.

  The woman began to search through her stack of canvas again.

  “But I’m trying to find the artist. I want to buy more of her work.”

  That statement seemed to grab the woman’s starving-artist sensibility.

  “She orders a lot of canvas from us. Has it delivered directly to her place.” The saleswoman hesitated, as if trying to decide whether to divulge any more information.

  “I’m a collector of sorts,” Eli added, hoping to up the ante. “I’d be willing to pay her good money if only I could contact her.”

  This was enough.

  “Let me see what I can find.”

  Back at the counter, the woman began thumbing through a thick register. “Here it is. She has a loft studio just down the street.”

  Eli leaned over to see the address.

  The woman turned the register toward him.

  This allowed Eli to read the artist’s name.

  Helen Claire.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Eli climbed a dimly lit stairwell to the third floor loft while he thought about the name.

  Helen Claire.

  H.C.

  The initials on each crime scene sketch.

  That was all.

  Eli thought about calling Lipsky before climbing this stairwell. He knew that he should. But it was just an art studio. And he was right in front of it already. He would simply take a quick look. If he found anything, or anybody, Lipsky would be the first person he called.

  Pastel green paint peeled off in curls from the stairwell’s ceiling and from its walls along the baseboard. Ironic, paint peeling in a painter’s studio. He found the door that matched the sales log of the art store. The door was closed but not flush with the frame, as though it had swelled and would not latch. Eli knocked, softly at first, then when no one answered, harder. He pushed against the door. It was wedged tight. He pushed with his shoulder and bumped it a couple of times until the door gave way. He looked behind him. Seeing no one, Eli entered the studio.

  A musty draft pushed against him. A single window on the far side of the room had been left open. Through a skylight, slants of sun captured a floating cloud of paint flecks and dust. White sheets hung from loops of wire and swirled rhythmically in the breeze, dividing the loft into shifting rooms.

  Within each room sat an easel. Paint brushes had dried against palettes and sketching tools lay scattered about as
though the artist had left at an inopportune moment.

  Eli passed by the undulating sheets to find more and more easels occupying the space. Each canvas was filled with sketches and paintings of the human form in fine anatomical detail. The easel closest to him displayed a brilliant reproduction of the skeletal man. On the easel adjacent to it, a skull, the zigzagging fissures drawn to perfection. Eli raised an easel that had fallen over and set it upright. An exquisite rendering of the muscle man greeted him with an outstretched hand, suspended effortlessly. Eli felt an intimate familiarity with each of these sketches.

  Vesalius.

  Brilliant reproductions of the Renaissance anatomist filled the entire loft. He recognized a plate from the Fabrica, the long bone of the leg and the foot. At the bottom, a square block was cut out of the canvas. From his pocket, he extracted an envelope containing the card left at the first crime scene. He removed the sketch of the navicular bone. The fabric of the canvas was an exact match and its shape was an exact fit for the missing corner of the original canvas. Eli’s heart raced.

  He called Lipsky on his cell phone and told him where he was, what he had found. Eli wanted to search the loft alone, to continue examining these fantastic sketches, but at least it would be several minutes before Lipsky arrived when he’d have to explain the anatomical art to the detective.

  He crossed the wooden floor of the loft to close the window. As he reached for the high, open sash, a pigeon rousted from its perch at the loft’s apex, swooped down, and took off through the opening. Eli watched the bird fly across the alley before he pulled the window shut and latched it.

  With the draft calmed, the flowing sheets collapsed like sails withdrawn at harbor. Visible now in the center of the loft, he saw sheets of black plastic spread out like a tent from a single point near the ceiling. Eli circled the wide base of the plastic tent and searched for an opening. Whatever was contained inside must have been more valuable to the painter than the smaller easel works. He circled the structure again and found a slit in the plastic that he had missed on the first pass.

  Protected by the tent, a large mural-like painting rested on the floor, supported by thick wooden beams behind it and to the sides. The painting was at least ten feet high and equally as wide. A fold-out ladder was parked at the center of the painting.

  The painting showed exquisite detail. Eli stepped closer to the marvelous reproduction of the Fabrica’s title page. Numerous times, he had seen a page-sized reproduction of the marvelous illustration. But he had never seen one as a life-sized rendering.

  Centered at the top of the composition, a crest featured three small animals stacked vertically above an ornate nameplate that announced, in Latin, the leading man—Andreae Vesalii. Stately Corinthian columns provided backdrop for the ragged audience who gathered for the public anatomy. The ladder obscured his appreciation of the central figures in the painting, so he pushed it aside to view the female subject of dissection, her abdomen open for Vesalius to inspect her uterus.

  In contrast to the black-and-white original of the Fabrica’s actual title page, this oversized reproduction of the scene of public dissection came to life on canvas with the vivid colors used by the artist.

  Although the painting at first appeared complete, Eli realized that its central figure was missing. Vesalius had yet to be painted, the entire piece suspended in time with a captive audience awaiting the anatomist’s arrival.

  Eli stared at the vacant spot on the canvas and imagined Vesalius there imprinted on the background, his face turned toward the viewer, hands displaying the intimate details of his subject. Moments later, the vision disappeared and he was left wondering why the painting had been abandoned. Why had the artist not started with Vesalius and worked outward toward the periphery? But these questions were merely a prelude to the larger puzzle.

  Who was Vesalius’s modern day successor?

  And why must he kill?

  Eli heard the door to the loft open, a subtle creak of hinges. He felt the draft, less now because the window was closed, but enough movement of air to lift the edge of the sheet beside him. Perhaps he had left the door cracked—a breeze through the lofty old warehouse had simply pushed the door open. Or maybe Lipsky had arrived and was casing the place before making himself known? No. Not enough time had passed for him to travel from the police station. Then the door closed. Hems of the sheets deflated once again. He knew he was no longer alone.

  Eli listened to slow footsteps along the edge of the loft. Most likely this was the artist returning to her work. He was about to meet Helen Claire. He started to call out.

  The footsteps stopped.

  Then the footsteps were heavier, faster, someone was running behind him. He heard the crash of easels and turned to see the large mural falling toward him. The bulky wooden frame struck his shoulder and knocked him to the floor where he landed on his injured arm. Eli scrambled from under the frame and saw the sharp corner of an easel inches from his face. The blow from it knocked him on his back. Eli pressed the gash on his forehead, blood oozing between his fingers into his eyes.

  A blurry figure stood over him, winding up for another blow. Before it could be delivered, Eli straight kicked his assailant in the knee causing him to stumble backward. On his feet again, Eli took two steps before a blow to the back of his head took him down again.

  This time, he did not get up.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  “How many fingers?”

  Eli blinked. Drying blood had glued one lid closed. He could see light and an object in front of his face.

  “How many fingers, doc?”

  Eli tried to raise his head. The room was spinning. He felt like throwing up.

  “Just count them for me.”

  Eli recognized Lipsky’s voice, more irritating than ever.

  “Isn’t this how you test for brain damage? With a finger count?”

  Gradually, Eli remembered where he was. The loft. The paintings. Someone beating his head in with a folded easel. He felt the cut on his forehead, rubbed the blood from his eyes. He knew he should be grateful to be alive, but right now he just wanted Lipsky to shut the hell up.

  “I learned this from one of those medical documentaries on TV. Here,” Lipsky offered, “what if I hold them closer?”

  Eli cleared his throat. “I see your chubby paw. Okay? Help me up.”

  Lipsky pulled Eli’s shoulders until he was in a sitting position. Eli kept his eyes closed.

  “I’d stick to hospital work if I were you, doc. You suck at self-defense.”

  “What happened?”

  “You called me, remember. So I came. When I was climbing the steps, heard a big crash. Come in here and yelled ‘Police’ and saw a man running toward the window. Saw you lying on the floor. Whoever it was, he jumped out like Batman and was gone. I called for backup, but they won’t find him.”

  Eli rubbed the back of his head.

  “Someone was trying to beat your brains out.” Lipsky pointed to the bloody easel on the floor. “Never seen one of those used as a weapon. What did you do, tell the artist his paintings were crap?”

  Eli told Lipsky how the assailant had entered after he was already inside the loft.

  “What did he look like?”

  Eli didn’t feel like answering any questions. “I don’t know—big, tall, strong.”

  “Handsome too, I bet.”

  Typical, compassionate Lipsky.

  “Hard to see details,” Eli said, “with a block of wood in your eye.”

  Lipsky leaned over for a better look at Eli’s head. “I see what you mean. Looks like that needs a needle and some thread.”

  “I’ll live.”

  Lipsky walked through the loft, admired a few sketches, found the card from the first crime scene and brought it back to Eli. “So this is where these cards came from?”

  Eli nodded. Big mistake. His head throbbed. He closed his eyes and pointed. “That piece matches the canvas used here. I found the sketch
where it had been cut from.”

  Eli listened to Lipsky’s footsteps as he weaved through the easels.

  “So, this guy sketches away during the day, kills at night, and leaves his work behind as a memento. How nice.”

  “The artist’s name is Helen Claire. But she is not the killer.”

  “How do you know?” Lipsky asked.

  “Whoever beat the shit out of me is not a woman. I’m sure of that.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  When Eli returned to his apartment in South Memphis, a phone message was waiting for him. A nurse had called from Green Hills State Home where his brother lived. Henry’s nightmares and panic attacks were becoming more frequent. His caretakers had injected him with sedatives to keep him from hurting himself or the other residents. This time, the nurse warned, they had to physically restrain his brother.

  As Eli listened to the message, he pictured the decrepit conditions at “The Home,” as it was called. When he visited, it was not unusual for him to find dead bugs matted in Henry’s sheets and pools of urine on the floor in the bathroom. Eli wondered what their version of restraints might be. He envisioned Henry fighting against a straitjacket.

  Eli was not surprised by the call. A pattern had become predictable. Each year, a few days before the anniversary of their mother’s death, Henry changed from calm and cooperative to agitated and downright belligerent. The day their mother died in August was the only day Henry circled on the bedside calendar Eli gave him every Christmas. The nursing staff could inject Henry with sedatives, but Eli knew that only one thing would satisfy his brother—a visit to their mother’s grave.

  Historic Elmwood Cemetery dates back to the pre-Civil War era. Resting place of Civil War generals and politicians and prostitutes, Elmwood is a visual sanctuary. Civil War historian Shelby Foote is buried there, as is E. H. “Boss” Crump, the Memphis politician so important in the city’s history, as is the wife of an obscure anatomist, who was buried there at the base of a hill on a sweltering afternoon ten years earlier. And every year, on the same day in August, her two sons visit the site of her modest headstone.