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: Calaroga Shark Media, Hello and Welcome to the Artist. This
episode is titled The Protege.
Speaker 3: Margaret Ashton sat in her dimly lit living room, the
flickering blue light of the television casting shadows across her
worn face. A half empty glass of gin rested on
the side table, condensation pooling at its base. Court TV
droned on in the background, a familiar comfort in her
lonely days. The program cut to a breaking news segment.
The anchor's voice suddenly urgent and grave. We interrupt our
regular programming to bring you breaking news from Miami. The
anchor announced police have made an arrest in the case
of the notorious serial killer known as the Artist. Margaret's
attention sharpened, her hand freezing midway to her glass. She'd
been following the case with morbid fascination, drawn to the
gruesome details that reminded her of the darkness she'd tried
so hard to forget. The anchor continued, Thomas Ashton, a
prominent Miami art dealer has been taken into custody. Authorities
believe Ashton may be responsible for a string of brutal
murders spanning over two decades. The gin glass slipped from
Margaret's fingers, shattering on the hardwood floor. Victor Salvatory leaned
back in the worn vinyl seat of the Amtrak train,
his thoughts drifting between memories of his turbulent past and
the stark reality of the task ahead. The rhythmic clatter
of the train on the tracks offered a familiar cadence,
a backdrop to his contemplations. As the cityscape blurred past
the window, New York Penn Station welcomed him, with its
bustling crowds and labyrinthine corridors, a microcosm of urban life
in perpetual motion. Navigating through the throngs of commuters and tourists,
Victor's steps quickened with purpose. He emerged onto the gritty
streets of West Side Manhattan, where the air carried a
mingling scent of exhaust and distant sea salt. He studied
the scene with an artist's eye, imagining the positioning of
the body, the pattern of wounds, each poke a language
of its own, a dialect of violence and intent, and
as the city bustled around him, oblivious to the silent
drama playing out in its hidden corners, Victor Salvatore, the Maestro,
prepared to paint once more with the hues of darkness
that defined his existence. A week later, Detective Sip Malloy
sat at his cluttered desk in the dimly lit bullpen
of the NYPD Homicide Division, sipping lukewarm coffee and flipping
through the New York Post. His eyes scanned the front
page until they settled on the bold headline heartless killer
strikes again. The Artist returns to NYC. Sip's face hardened,
his jaw clenching as he read the details. Across the room,
Detective Ruiz glanced up from his own stack of case files.
What's got you looking like you swallowed a lemon? Sip?
Sip tossed the paper onto his desk. That fucking artist
is back. Thought we'd seen the last of him. Ruiz whistled,
low shit, you sure it's him? Fits the mo o
to a t. Sip growled, heart's removed bodies posed, it's
him all right. The shrill ring of the bullpen phone
interrupted their conversation, Sip reached over and picked it up,
his demeanor shifting instantly to business mode. Molloy, he answered crisply.
On the other end, a dispatcher's voice crackled, we've got
another one, Sip. Forty sixth and eleventh, looks like a
fresh scene. Sip exchanged a knowing glance with Ruiz as
he scribbled down the address on our way, he replied,
hanging up the phone and grabbing his coat. At the
crime scene, yellow police tape cordoned off the entrance to
a nondescript apartment building. Sip ducked under the tape, flashing
his badge to the uniformed officers standing guard. The air
was thick with the stench of blood and decay. As
he stepped inside, he was greeted by Detective Sanchez, who
wore a grim expression. Sip, you better brace yourself. This
one's bad, real bad, as opposed to the nice, clean
homicides we usually have, Sip retorted, let's see it. They
made their way up the narrow staircase, the sounds of
the bustling city fading with each step. At the top,
a door stood ajar, revealing the horrific scene within the
apartment was a macabre gallery of violence. The walls splattered
with blood. The bodies of a young couple lay on
the floor, their chests grotesquely carved. Open hearts missing surgical
precision marked the killer's handiwork every cut, deliberate and exacting.
Christ Sip muttered, running a hand through his hair. This
is definitely his work. Sanchez nodded grimly. What's our next move, Sip.
Sip's eyes narrowed as he surveyed the scene. We need
to get ahead of this bastard. Call in every favor,
shake every tree. I want eyes on every gallery opening,
every high society event in the city. The artist likes
to play in those circles. As they worked the scene,
Sip couldn't shake the feeling that something was different this time.
The artist had evolved his work even more precise, more artistic.
It was as if he was trying to prove something.
The Miami Courthouse buzzed with activity, the marble halls echoing
with the footsteps of lawyers, reporters, and curious onlookers. In
a high profile hearing room, Thomas Ashton sat at the
defense table, his expression calm but alert. Judge Rafael Morales,
a seasoned and respected figure in the legal community, presided
over the hearing. He tapped his gavel, calling the room
to order. We will now hear the defense's motion to
dismiss the charges against mister Ashton. Ashton's attorney, Michael Levin,
stood and adjusted his tie before addressing the court, your honor,
the defense moves to dismiss all charges against my client,
Thomas Ashton. We have compelling evidence that mister Ashton could
not possibly be the artist, as he has been in
lockdown here in Miami during the time of the recent
murders in New York. Judge Morales leaned forward, his eyes
narrowing proceed mister Levin. Levin nodded. The DA would have
you believe that mister Ashton is a monster, a murderer
who has terrorized our cities for years, but the facts
do not support this accusation. My client has been in
a maximum security facility here in Miami, under constant surveillance,
with no opportunity to leave. Levin then held up a
series of affidavits. Furthermore, we have sworn statements from correctional
officers confirming that mister Ashton was present in his cell
without interruption. During the periods in question, he was most
assuredly not in New York and is not this so
called artist. The judge studied the documents, his expression thoughtful.
What about the evidence linking him to the murders in Miami?
Levin cleared his throat, Your honor. While there is circumstantial evidence,
there is no direct proof that my client committed those crimes.
The prosecution's case relies heavily on conjecture and the notoriety
of the artist, but being accused does not equate to guilt.
The prosecution, a sharp eyed woman named Emily Rourke, stood,
your honor. The evidence against mister Ashton is substantial. His methods,
the notes, the signatures, everything points to him. Levin interrupted,
all circumstantial, Your honor, and easily imitated by someone with
a vendetta against my client. Judge Morales tapped his gavel
again enough, I've heard enough. He looked directly at Ashton.
Mister Ashton, while the evidence presented is compelling, the defense
has shown that you were indeed in lockdown during the
recent New York murders. Given your status in the community,
lack of direct evidence, and the principle of reasonable doubt.
I am inclined to re lease you on bail. The
courtroom erupted in murmurs, reporters scribbling furiously. As Thomas Ashton
walked out of the courtroom, flanked by his legal team,
the flash of cameras and the shouted questions of reporters
followed him. Mister Ashton, are you really the artist? How
do you respond to the allegations? Attorney Levin immediately stepped
in front of his client, raising his hand to silence
the crowd. Mister Ashton will not be answering any questions
at this time. But Ashton, exuding an air of confidence
and almost relishing the attention, stepped forward. No, it's fine, Michael.
They deserve an answer. Levin shot him a warning look,
but Ashton ignored it. He turned to the reporters, a
sly smile playing on his lips. AM I the artist,
absolutely not. These accusations are nothing more more than a
smear campaign. Then what about the evidence, mister Ashton? A
reporter pressed. Ashton's smile widened. The so called evidence is
circumstantial at best. Let me put it this way. I'm
sleeping with a congressman's wife. That's all this is about.
Someone's trying to take me down for personal reasons. Levin's
face paled as he grabbed Ashton's arm, trying to pull
him away. Thomas, that's enough, let's go. As they pushed
through the crowd towards their waiting car, Levin hissed, What
the hell was that? Are you trying to get yourself killed?
Ashton chuckled, relaxed, Michael, it's all part of the game.
Now they'll be chasing their tails, trying to figure out
which congressman's wife I'm supposedly sleeping with. Levin shook his head, exasperated.
You're playing with fire, Thomas. This isn't a game, Ashton shrugged,
looking out the window as the Miami streets blurred past.
For me, it always is. As night fell over Miami,
Thomas found himself walking along the beach, the sound of
waves crashing against the shore a soothing backdrop to his
tumultuous thoughts. The encounter with Jake had stirred something in him,
a longing for a life he never had a path,
he never took. His phone buzzed. It was a news
alert about another murder in New York, one bearing all
the hallmarks of the artist. Elena Martinez was exhausted as
she drove home after her twelve to eight Miami was quiet,
the occasional car passing by in the pre dawn light.
Her eyes were heavy, and her thoughts drifted back to
the party, to Thomas Ashton and the intricate dance of
deception they had begun. She pulled into her driveway, her
modest house standing in sharp contrast to the opulent ballroom
she had been in hours earlier. Elena parked her car
and stepped out, feeling the weight of her tired muscles
with each movement. She unlocked the front door and entered
the familiar scent of her home, providing a small comfort.
After securing the door behind her, she walked to her bedroom,
her gun. Feeling heavy on her hip, she opened the
small safe hidden in her closet, placing the firearm inside.
With a sense of relief. With that task done, she
headed to the kitchen. Eager for a cold drink to
help unwind, She opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle
of juice, pouring it into a glass. The mundane act
of preparing a drink was a ritual she found oddly soothing.
As she took a sip, her mind began to relax,
the tension of the day slowly melting away. Suddenly, she
was startled by a voice behind her warehouse trap. Who
do you think you're fucking with? Elena spun around, her
heart pounding in her chest. There standing in the dim
light of her kitchen was Thomas Ashton. He leaned casually
against the doorframe, a cocky grin on his face. How
the hell did you get in here, Elena demanded, her
voice shaking with a mix of fear and anger. Thomas
sauntered forward, his confidence unshakable. Oh, come on, Elena, you're
smarter than that. Did you really think you could set
me up with some cheap warehouse trap? Elena's mind raced,
trying to figure out how he had found her. Get
out of my house. He moved closer, his expression darkening.
Let me show you something, Elena. You think you can
play games with me and win? Elena lay in the bathtub,
a hair dryer floating beside her, its cord plugged into
an outlet. The room was silent except for the faint
hum of appliances. Damn Rico muttered under his breath, his
expression grave. He knew this looked like a straightforward accident,
a hair dryer slipping into the water, but his gut
told him otherwise. Detective Sarah Jenkins joined him, her face
weary with sorrow. Looks like an electrocution, she said quietly,
her tone resigned. Rico nodded, his gaze fixed on Elena's
serene expression. If she weren't a cop, I'd be home already,
he replied, his voice tinged with frustration. They called in
the medical examiner and began documenting the scene. Rico couldn't
shake the feeling that something didn't add up. Elena was meticulous.
She wouldn't have been careless with a hair dryer. Find
anything unusual, Rico asked, Not yet, looks like she was
drying her hair and the dryer slipped. Thomas Ashton stood
amidst the glittering crowd at the annual Miami Art Basil
VIP Gala. Congressman Henley, host of the event, stood near
the grand staircase. His expression tight and guarded. He glanced
at Ashton with thinly veiled disdain before turning to greet
another guest. Ashton's presence was an uncomfortable reminder of recent scandals,
casting a shadow over the otherwise glamorous affair. Spotting Missus
Henley across the room, Ashton's gaze sharpened. Missus Henley, Ashton
greeted smoothly, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. She
looked up surprise, flickering briefly before she composed herself with
practiced grace. Mister Ashton, she replied coolly, though her eyes screamed,
get the fuck away from me. Ashton leaned closer, his
tone low and intimate. You look radiant tonight, he murmured,
his eyes lingering on her with unabashed interest. Missus Henley's
smile tightened slightly, but she maintained her composure. Thank you,
she replied, her voice steady. Despite the tension in the air.
Ashton was aware of the photographers. The Congressman, distant but vigilant,
watched from across the room, his jaw clenched with suppressed anger.
Yet amidst the polished facade of wealth and privilege, Ashton's
presence lingered like a dark stain, a reminder that not
all power was derived from politics or wealth alone. The
dimly lit interior of Max Club deuce on Fourteenth Street
in South Beach was a stark contrast to the neon
soaked glamour just a few blocks away. The Dive Bar,
a holdout from a grittier era, was where Old Miami
came to hide from the relentless march of progress and tourism.
Congressman Greg Henley and Police Commissioner Frank Rossy sat in
a worn leather booth in the back, their faces half
hidden in shadow. The air was thick with cigarette smoke
and the lingering ghosts of a thousand broken dreams. Henley
leaned in, his voice barely audible, over the scratchy jukebox
playing some forgotten eighties hit. Frank, I need this artist
bullshit to go away now. Rossy nursed his whiskey, the
ice clinking softly as he set the glass down. Greg,
you know I can't just make an investigation disappear. There
are protocols, procedures. Fuck the procedures, Henley snapped, his carefully
cultivated public persona, slipping. You think I don't know? It's
probably Ashton, That smug bastard was fucking my wife. For
Christ's sake. A barmaid approached, but Henley waved her off
with a scowl. Rossy's eyebrows shot up, but Henley continued, Oh,
don't act so shocked, and yes, I was screwing my assistant.
Welcome to politics, Frank, grow the fuck up. Henley ran
a hand through his hair, frustration evident in every line
of his body. What I don't need is TMZ camped
on my fucking lawn. You guys dredging up this artist
crap doesn't exactly help my road to the Senate seat
that's opening up. The jukebox switched to a melancholic Cuban ballad,
the singer's mournful voice of fitting backdrop to the corrupt
deal making. I don't know how Ashton pulled off that
carnival trick in New York, and Frankly, I don't care,
Henley continued. What I care about is my future and
by extension, yours. The implied threat hung in the air
between them. Rossy's face was a mask of conflicting emotions,
duty warring with self interest. Henley's voice softened, taking on
the persuasive tone that had won him so many votes. Look, Frank,
you leave this alone and I'll take care of you
down the line. You know I'm good for it. For
a long moment, the only sounds were the clink of
glasses at the bar and the soft murmur of other patrons,
lost in their own secrets and regrets. Then slowly Rossi nodded,
I'll see what I can do. Victor Salvatore sat in
his dimly lit apartment, the soft glow of the television
casting flickering shadows on the walls. The sound of the
Phillies game filled the room a familiar comfort. He was
slouched on a worn out leather couch, a half empty
beer bottle on the coffee table in front of him.
The announcer's voice droned on, providing a steady background to
the mondane evening. Roland steps up to the plate Phillies
looking to break this tie. In the bottom of the
seventh Victor absent mindedly scratched his chin, his eyes fixed
on the screen. He watched as Scott Rolls swung and missed,
the bats slicing through the air with a resounding crack.
Roland goes down swinging, and that ends the inning. We'll
be right back after these messages, Victor sighed and leaned back,
taking a sip of his beer. The commercial break featured
a local car dealership ad, the volume slightly too loud.
He muted the TV with a press of the remote,
basking in the sudden silence. The room was cluttered but orderly,
reflecting Victor's meticulous nature. Stacks of books on art and
history lined the shelves, interspersed with a few framed photographs
from his younger days. A painting he had done years
ago hung above the fireplace, its dark abstract lines a
stark contrast to the otherwise unremarkable surroundings. He glanced at
the clock on the wall, nine forty five pm. He
picked up a pack of cigarettes from the table, tapping
one out and lighting it with a flick of his lighter.
The first drag was deep and satisfying, the smoke curling
lazily towards the ceiling. As he exhaled, his thoughts drifted
back to the phone call from Thomas Ashton. He hadn't
painted like that in years, hadn't needed to. The TV
flickered back to life, the announcer's voice breaking his reverie,
and we're back at Veteran Stadium. The score remains tied
at two apiece as we head into the eighth inning.
The Phillies are looking to take the lead. Here, Victor
took another drag from his cigarette, his eyes returning to
the game. It was a normal evening, a slice of
life that contrasted sharply with the darkness that often accompanied
his nights. For now, he allowed himself to get lost
in the simplicity of America's pastime, the familiarity of the
sport a brief respite from the complexities of his existence.
The crack of the bat brought him back to the present.
He watched as the ball sailed into the eye outfield,
a Phillies player rounding the bases. The crowds roar echoed
through the television speakers, a moment of excitement in an
otherwise uneventful night. Victor took a final drag from his
cigarette and stubbed it out in the ash tray. He
leaned back once more, the mundane comfort of the game
washing over him, as the Phillies continued their battle on
the field.
Speaker 2: Next time, on the artist A Killer's Canvas.
Speaker 1: Thomas Ashton finds himself unexpectedly shaken by a seemingly innocent
piece of art, stirring long buried memories and dangerous impulses
as he grapples with his past and his insatiable urges.
A chance encounter on the streets of Miami threatens to
unravel his carefully constructed facilt. Meanwhile, Detective Rico faces mounting
pressure to let sleeping dogs lie, but his relentless pursuit
of justice may come at a steep price. And in Philadelphia,
echoes from the past resurface, revealing the origins of a
monster and the pivotal moment that set Thomas on his
dark path. Don't miss episode nine, Buddy, where childhood memories
and present day temptations collide, forcing the artists to confront
the very essence of his twisted nature. In the delicate
balance between control and chaos. Will Thomas finally slip?
Speaker 2: The Artist is a Calarrogus Shark Media production hosted by
Aidan I Flanagan, written by Aidan I 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