Speaker 1: Content warning. This story contains descriptions of violence, disturbing themes,
and graphic imagery that some listeners may find unsettling. Discretion
is advised seriously.
Speaker 2: Calarogus Shark Media, Hello and welcome to the artist. This
episode is titled Crimson Palette.
Speaker 3: Detective Mick Rayes leaned across the table, his voice low
and urgent. Look, Valeria, I need you on this. You're
my end too that world. Valeria scoffed, taking a long
drag from her cigarette. Fuck off, Detective, I'm not your
goddamn bait. It's not like that. Mick insisted. You know
these people, how they think, how they move. I'm fumbling
in the dark here, and I should care why. Valeria
exhaled a plume of smoke. Your crusade isn't my problem.
Mick's fist clenched, because this psycho's out there turning women
into fucking art projects and you could be next. Valeria's
eyes flashed. I can take care of myself, can you,
Mick challenged. You've seen what he does, the way he
cuts the precision. This isn't some two bit hood with
a switchblade. Valaria stubbed out her cigarette, her jaw tight,
and what happens when your plan goes to shit? When
he's standing over me with a scalpel. I won't let
that happen, Mick promised, his voice raw, I swear to God, Valeria,
I'll die before I let him touch you. Valaria studied
him for a long moment, then sighed, Christ you really
are crazy, aren't you. She shook her head. Fine, but
if this goes sideways, I'm taking you down with me.
Mick nodded, relief, washing over him. Wouldn't have it any
other way. What's your plan? She was hesitant at first,
doubt and suspicion warring in her eyes as he laid
out his plan. But there was something else there too,
a spark of excitement, of dark anticipation, as if some
part of her thrilled to the danger, to the dance
with death. Valeria held his eyes for a long, charged moment,
Then slowly she smiled, a smile that promised pleasure and
pain and equal measure. I always did like playing with fire.
The night of the masquerade was a fever dream, a
whirlwind of masks and music and swirling intrigue. Reyes moved
through the crush of costumed revelers like a ghost, his
eyes restlessly scanning the crowd for any sign of the artist,
of his next intended victim, and all the while his
mind raced with thoughts of Valeria, of the dangerous game
they played. She was here, somewhere, mingling, watching a spider
in silk and shadows. He could feel her presence like
a physical touch, a whisper of electricity on his skin.
It was nearing midnight when he saw her, a slash
of crimson in a sea of twirling dancers. She was
wrapped around a tall, elegant figure in a bone white mask,
their bodies moving in sinuous synchronicity. Reyes felt a surge
of something hot and jagged in his gut, a primal
rush of possession, of hunger. Valeria was his dammit, his ally,
his accomplice, his The thoughts scattered as he watched her
partner dip her low, their lips meeting in a searing kiss.
Jealousy burned through him like acid, chased by a cold,
creeping dread. Because he knew that mask. He had seen
it before, sketched in Lafe loving detail, on a dozen
blood soaked crime scenes. It was him the artist, and
he had Valeria in his arms, in his thrall, Rayes
surged forward, shouldering through the crowd with single minded purpose.
He had to get to her, to save her before
it was too late. But even as he reached the
edge of the dance floor, the clock struck midnight, and
in the brief, breathless hush between one chime and the next,
the ballroom erupted in gasps, in stifled screams, a rising
tide of panic. Rayes stumbled blindly, hands outstretched, hearts slamming
against his ribs. Valeria was gone. This was his fault.
He had brought Valeria into this, had used her as bait,
as a pawn in his obsessive quest for justice, and
now she had paid the ultimate price. Tom slipped away
from the masquerade, his blood humming with a dark, unsated
hunger to kill. At the party had been too quick,
too clean, a mere appetizer, when what he craved was
a feast of flesh and fear. He prowled the neon
lit streets of Miami, a sleek predator in an Armani suit.
The cold wind whipped at his face, but he barely
felt it. His mind was consumed with visions of violence,
of the exquisite art he would create with blade and blood.
He found her in a seedy nightclub, lost in the
pulsing throb of music and sweat slicked bodies, A pretty thing,
all long legs and glassy eyes, her pupils blown wide
with cheap thrills and cheaper drugs. She was perfect, a
blank canvas begging to be painted in shades of agony
and ecstasy. He lured her out with a smile and
a promise. A snake charmed a mouse. She came willingly, eagerly,
too high to sense the danger, the coiled malice beneath
his charm. She was a vision of intoxicated vulnerability, all
smeared makeup and unsteady feet. He watched her stumble into
the alley, fumbling for a cigarette with shaking hands. He
emerged from the shadows like a wraith, startling a gasp
from her glossy lips, but fear quickly melted into a
hazy smile as she took in his sharp suit and
sharper cheekbones, hey handsome, she slurred, leaning back against the
brick wall in an unwitting imitation of a pin up pose.
Got a light. He stepped closer, his body caging her in.
I've got more than that, he purred, his voice a
silken growl. She shivered, her eyes glazing with a different
kind of hunger. He could smell the sour tang of
vodka on her breath, the cloying sweetness of her perfume.
It made his head swim, his control fray. He kissed
her hard and brutal. She responded with slop enthusiasm, her
tongue darting out to tangle with his. He bit down
on her lower lip, tasting blood and relishing her whimper
of pained pleasure. His hands roamed her body, squeezing, groping.
She arched into his touch. Shameless and wanton, He spun
her around, slamming her front against the rough brick. She
gasped as he ground against her from behind, his arousal
and insistent press against her rear. He nuzzled into the
crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of her fear
and lust. Then with a sharp nip, he bit down hard,
breaking the skin. She yelped, then moaned as he laid
the wound with his tongue. Please, she whined, writhing against him.
I need it, I need you, he chuckled darkly, his
hands drifting to the hem of her two short skirt.
Oh you'll have me, he promised, his voice a menacing hiss.
Every last inch. In one brutal motion, he shoved her
skirt up and sheathed himself inside her. She cried out,
a sound caught between pleasure and pain. He set a
punishing pace, one hand tangled in her hair, wrenching her
head back, the other squeezing her hip hard enough to bruise.
She was babbling now, a filthy litany of yes and
harder and so fucking good. He snarled, his thrust turning vicious,
the slap of flesh on flesh echoing obscenely in the
narrow alley. Just as he felt her start to flutter
around him, the tell tale sign of an impending climax,
he pulled out abruptly, before she could voice her protest.
He flipped her back around and dropped to his knees,
shoving her skirt higher, and then, with a savage grin,
he buried his face between her thighs. She nearly screamed
as his mouth sealed over her most sensitive flesh. He
worked her mercilessly, his tongue delving and swirling, his teeth grazing.
She thrashed against the brick, her fingers scrabbling for perch.
His hair. He could tell she was close, teetering on
the knife's edge of ecstasy, and that's when he reached
into his pocket and withdrew his blade. She didn't even
register the first cut, so lost was she in the
throes of pleasure. But as he began to carve into
the tender meat of her inner thigh, etching a signature
into her flesh, the pain began to filter through the
haze of impending orgasm. She looked down, her mouth falling
open in shock and dawning horror as she saw the
blood welling from the cruel lines of his artwork. She
opened her mouth to scream, but he surged up, clamping
his hand over her mouth as he rammed the knife
into her gut. Her shriek was muffled against his palm
as he plunged the blade in again and again, painting
her abdomen a glistening crimson. He held her gaze, reveling
in the light of life fading from her eyes. The
betrayal and incomprehension. As the last spasms of her death
throes faded, he let her body slump to the filthy ground.
He stood over her, breathing hard, his arousal straining against
his zipper. With a groan, he took himself in hand,
pumping once twice, and then spilling over her still warm corpse.
He tucked himself away, straightening his suit with fastidious care.
He cast one last appreciative glance at his handiwork before
melting back into the shadows, the taste of her still
metallic on his tongue. Detective Reyes slouched at his desk,
his head pounding with hangover and exhaustion. The masquerade had
been a bust, a dead end. He was no closer
to catching the artist than he had been five years ago.
He was just reaching for the aspirin when his phone rang.
He snatched it up with a growl, barking a terse
rayes Hey partner, came the grim voice of Detective Montoya.
We've got another one in an alley off eighth and
it's christ Mick. It's bad, real bad. Rayes closed his eyes,
nauseus swelling in his gut. He knew with sinking certainty
that his night was about to get a whole lot worse.
I'm on my way. The alley was awash, and the
strobing red and blue of police lights, the air thick
with the copper tang of blood. Uniformed officers milled about,
their faces pale and grim. The crime scene text moved
with a sort of shell shocked deficiency, documenting the horror
with clinical detachment. And at the center of it all,
the epicenter of the nightmare, lay the body. Detective Rayes
shouldered his way through the crowd, stealing himself for the sight,
but nothing could have prepared him for the sheer brutality,
the savage intimacy of what awaited him. She was splayed
obscenely on the blood slicked pavement, her clothes torn in askew,
Her throat was a gaping second smile, her abdomen a
shredded ruin. The reek of sex and death hung heavy
in the air, a cloying miasma. Jesus Christ breathed Detective
Montoya at his side, her voice thick with shock and revulsion.
What kind of monster could do something like this? Rayes
didn't answer. He couldn't. His eyes were riveted to the corpse,
to the cruel gash of cuts that marred the pale
flesh of her inner thigh. Hey Mick called one of
the texts. His latex gloves glistening wetly in the harsh light.
You're gonna want to see this. Rayes moved closer, his heart,
a leaden weight in his chest, and there, etched into
the cooling skin, was a jagged set of initials m R.
The rest of that hellish night passed in a numb,
sickening blur. The wail of sirens, the flash of cameras,
the crush of uniforms and curious gawkers, Ramirez's grim accusing silence,
the pity and reproach in the eyes of his fellow cops.
He couldn't bring himself to look at her body, at
the ruin of her beauty, the grotesque message carved into
her flesh. It was too much, too cruel, a mockery
of all he had fought, for, all he had sacrificed,
his perfect failure, laid bare for all.
Speaker 2: To see next time on the artist a killer's canvas.
Speaker 1: Valentine's Day in New York City two thousand and two,
Detective Jack Sip Malloy thought he'd seen it all until
a gruesome double homicide shakes him to his two victims,
their hearts surgically removed, and a killer's calling card that
echoes a nightmare from Miami's past. As Sip delves deeper
into the case, he uncovers a chilling connection to Detective
Mick Rayes and his decades long pursuit of the elusive artist.
With time running out and the body count rising, can
these two detectives from different cities unite to stop a
killer who treats murder as high art. But be warned.
The Artist has set his sights on a new canvas,
and this time he's painting with the blood of those
sworn to protect and serve. Don't miss episode six, Heartless,
where love turns deadly and every beat of the clock
could mean another stolen heart.
Speaker 2: The Artist is a Calorrogus Shark Media production hosted by
Aidan I Flanagan, written by Aidanie Flanagan and John McDermott,
produced by Mark Francis. Executive producers John McDermott and Mark Francis.
Portions of the podcast may have been produced with the
assistance of ai IF you enjoyed this series, check out
the inspiration podcast Murder Weekly, available wherever you get your podcasts.
This show is also available commercial free. Check the show
notes for more info and how you can buy merch
for the artist. Calaroga Shark Media