Page 14 of X Marks the Stalker
I grimace. “That’s a bit sadistic, even for you.”
“The real challenge,” Calloway continues, ignoring me, “was the blood patterning. I needed an authentic arterial spray for the composition, but controlled. I inserted a catheter into his carotid while he was paralyzed and used a modified paint sprayer to create the perfect arcs.” He mimics the spray pattern with hand gestures.
“Jesus,” Lazlo whispers. “That’s why the blood looked almost like brushstrokes on the wall.”
“Exactly!” Calloway beams. “Sometimes the canvas requires different techniques.”
Thorne nods. “Impressive control. Though my latest work took a different approach. Heart attack induced by targeted digitalis overdose, delivered through his favorite scotch.”
“Boring,” Calloway drawls. “No visual flair.”
“Not every elimination needs to be a spectacle,” Thorne replies. “Sometimes elegance is in the simplicity.”
“Speaking of spectacle,” Darius says, his brown eyes sparkling, “my judge last month presented a unique challenge. The man was on blood thinners.”
“Oh God,” Lazlo groans. “Bloodbath?”
“Like a sprinkler,” Darius confirms. “Hit the jugular, and it was like someone turned on a garden hose. Ruined my second-favorite tie.”
“Amateur mistake,” Calloway scoffs. “Always account for medications.”
“I had to improvise,” Darius defends. “Gotta adapt when the block gets hot.”
“What about you, Lazlo?” I ask. “That pediatric abuser from Cambridge?”
Lazlo’s expression darkens. “Let’s just say he got a taste of his own medicine. I extracted bone marrow while he was conscious. Told him I was taking away pieces of him like he took pieces from those children.”
The room falls silent.
“Too dark?” Lazlo asks.
“No,” Thorne says softly. “Appropriate.”
“What about your pharmacist, Xander?” Calloway asks. “The one selling tainted cancer drugs?”
“Clean work,” I respond. “After three weeks of surveillance, I learned he had a peanut allergy. Replaced his EpiPen with a faulty one. When he consumed hidden peanut oil I’d introduced into his lunch, the empty injection was...educational.”
Darius raises an eyebrow. “Watching him die slowly?”
“Watching him realize it was happening because of what he’d done to others.” I shrug. “Poetic, really.”
“You’re all overlooking fundamental aesthetics,” Calloway complains. “Where’s the composition? The meaning?”
“Not all of us need to turn murder into an art exhibit,” I retort.
“Death should be beautiful,” Calloway insists. “Or at least meaningful.”
“It’s beautiful when it’s deserved,” Lazlo counters.
“Might I remind you all,” Thorne says, his voice slicing through the debate, “that we’re not here to compete for most creative dispatch method. We’re here to support each other.”
Calloway scoffs. “My standards are simply more elevated.”
“Your standards require a gallery curator,” I mutter.
“That’s rich coming from the man who watches his targets brush their teeth for weeks before making a move,” Calloway fires back.
I’m about to respond when my phone pings with an alert. I pull out my device, expecting a standard notification from one of the dozen monitoring systems I maintain.
