Page 48 of X Marks the Stalker
Because that’s what these are, right? Murder supplies. The realization settles cold and heavy in my stomach.
It’s the mirrors that unsettle me. What kind of killer needs custom-cut reflective surfaces?
Inside, I trail him to the mirror section, where he selects several large pieces of reflective glass, enough to create a funhouse effect in a room. He consults with an employee about having them cut to specific dimensions. I pretend toexamine the bathroom fixtures while straining to hear their conversation.
“...need them to reflect at precise angles,” Xander explains. The employee nods, marking measurements on the glass.
At checkout, he pays cash. Another red flag. No digital trail.
Back in my car, I stuff a handful of chocolate-covered pretzels into my mouth, trying to process what’s happening. My journalistic instincts scream that this is big, but my survival instincts whisper I should run, not walk, in the opposite direction.
Who is Dr. Wendell to him? A target? Something else?
My stomach clenches with dread as I watch Xander load the extra supplies into his trunk. The collection paints a disturbing picture. These aren’t the tools of a random killer but of someone who approaches murder like an art form or science experiment.
I slide down in my seat as Xander walks to the driver’s side of his car.
I grip my steering wheel, unable to follow. My hands shake. My brain spins. I’ve followed Xander all day, and what I’ve found are red flags the size of Massachusetts.
Plastic sheeting. Rope. Custommirrors. Surveillance equipment.
“Maybe he’s renovating his bathroom,” I whisper, the joke falling flat even to my own ears. “Or maybe he lied to me about not being The Gallery Killer.”
I’ve covered enough murders to recognize preparations when I see them. My stomach churns as the implications settle over me like a shroud. The man I’ve been texting, theone who’s seen me naked through hidden cameras, is gathering supplies to kill someone.
Dr. Malcolm Wendell. Chief of Neurosurgery.
Memory fragments from previous cases flash before me. Three wealthy art collectors found dead in the past eight months, each staged in elaborate tableaux mimicking famous paintings.
The Gallery Killer. The case that led me to the Beacon Hill Gentlemen’s Association.
Each victim poisoned, then arranged in death with meticulous attention to artistic detail.
I grab my laptop from the passenger seat and pull up the file on The Gallery Killer. Photos of elaborately staged crime scenes flank detailed notes on each victim’s occupation, connections, and the artistic significance of their murder tableaux. I search for any mention of Dr. Wendell—any connection to the previous victims or the art world.
Nothing.
The Gallery Killer’s victims were all wealthy collectors. Dr. Wendell doesn’t fit the profile. He’s a neurosurgeon, not an art patron. His name never appears in my investigation notes.
I pull up medical board records, searching for any misconduct reports against Wendell. Two complaints filed three years ago, both dismissed. One more a year ago. Something about experimental procedures. Inadequate consent processes. Enough to raise questions.
I stare at the photos from each Gallery Killer crime scene. The careful positioning of bodies. The symbolic props. The artist’s statement each murder seemed to make.Then I compare it with what I just witnessed Xander purchasing.
The truth slams into me like a physical blow.
Xander isn’t The Gallery Killer.
He’s a different predator.
The Gallery Killer transforms death into art. Xander is planning something else—something that requires surveillance, mirrors, and restraints.
My fingers freeze on the keyboard as another realization dawns.
Two different killers, both connected to the Beacon Hill Gentlemen’s Association? Impossible coincidence. There’s something more going on in that club, something beyond wealth and privilege. A pattern I’m only beginning to see.
How many killers could one exclusive club possibly harbor? The question sends ice through my veins as I remember the multiple men I’ve photographed entering those doors.
I thought I was hunting The Gallery Killer. Now I’m caught between two different monsters, with the meeting at The Harrington looming before me like a death sentence.
