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: Callaroga Shark Media Hello and welcome to the artist. This
episode is titled Heartless.
Speaker 3: Thomas Ashton strolled into Books and Books on Lincoln Road,
a renowned spot for bookworms and news enthusiasts alike. The
scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the aroma of
new books as he perused the shelves, finally selecting a
copy of the Philadelphia Inquirer and the Philadelphia Daily News.
As he flipped through the pages, Ashton's eyes caught sight
of an unexpected entry in the obituary section, his father's name.
It was what he was looking for. It just happened
to appear today. They hadn't spoken in years, a testament
to their strained relationship. Surprisingly, Thomas felt nothing, no remorse,
no relief, just a detached sense of closure. It was
as if a weight he didn't realize he carried had
suddenly been lifted. Strangely, with the news of his father's passing,
Thomas found himself losing the desire to kill, the thrill
of the hunt, the artistry of violence all seemed to
fade into the background as he focused more on his
life within Miami's vibrant art community. His days were now
filled with gallery visits, discussions with fellow artists, and planning
his no exhibition rather than meticulously plotting his next target.
Books and Books became a regular sanctuary for Thomas, not
just for its newspapers, but for the sense of peace
and anonymity it offered amidst Miami's bustling streets. The Museum
of Modern Art in New York City was hosting the
short Century Independence and Liberation Movements in Africa nineteen forty
five to nineteen ninety four, a profound exploration of African
art and its socio political context. It was the showcase
event for two thousand and two and drew a lot
of officionados, including one Thomas Ashton. Amid the vibrant displays
and intellectual discourse, Thomas's eyes were unexpectedly drawn to a
young woman standing near a powerful sculpture depicting the struggles
of African independence movements. Her features, the way she carried herself,
and even the subtle gestures reminded him unmistakably of Sarah,
his first love. The exhibition halls buzzed with scholarly discussions
and cultural significance. Yet for Thomas Ashton, the allure lay
in the unexpected familiarity of this woman. It wasn't just
a physical resemblance, but an eerie echo of memories long
buried beneath layers of time and distance. The ambiance of MoMA,
with its sleek architecture and curated masterpieces, provided a surreal
backdrop to his reawakening thoughts. Her boyfriend, Michael, returned from
the bathroom and put his arm around her. The day
had started like any other for Detective Jack Sip malloy,
a bitter cup of coffee, a stack of paperwork, and
the dull throb of a hangover pounding in his temples.
But when the call came in a panicked voice on
the other end of the line, screaming about a double
homicide in the heart of the city, Sip knew that
this was no ordinary Valentine's Day. The crime scene was
a nightmare made flesh, a twisted tableau of love and
death that made even the most hardened cops turn away
in disgust. The victims, a young couple named Sarah and
Michael lay entwined on their blood soaked bed, their bodies
a tangle of pale limbs and lifeless eyes. But it
was the gaping wounds in their chests the drew Sip's gaze,
The ragged holes where their hearts had once beaten, now
nothing more than empty cavities filled with congealing blood. The
room was a riot of red and pink, the walls
adorned with paper hearts and silk roses, a garish display
of affection, turned and obscene by the horror that had
unfolded within. The sickly sweet scent of the flowers mingled
with the coppery tang of blood, a cloying perfume that
made Sip's stomach churn and his head spin. As he
picked his way through the carnage, his eyes searching for
any clue or shred of evidence that might lead him
to the killer, Sip couldn't shake the feeling that this
was no random act of violence. The precision of the cuts,
the careful arrangement of the bodies, it all spoke to
a level of planning and forethought that chilled him. To
the bone. As Sip stared at the gaping wounds in
Sarah and Michael's chests, he felt a wave of nausea
wash over him. The sight of the ragged, blood soaked
cavities where their hearts had once beaten was enough to
make even the most seasoned cop flinch. What do we got,
Doc Sip asked, his voice thick with a mix of
revulsion and determination. Doctor Emily Chen, the medical examiner, looked
up from the bodies, her face grim. It's unlike anything
I've ever seen, Detective. The precision of the cuts, the
lack of hesitation marks. Whoever did this had extensive medical
knowledge and experience. Sip nodded, his jaw clenched tight. Well,
can you tell me about the wounds themselves? Doctor Chen
took a deep breath, stealing herself for the gruesome details
she was about to divulge. The killer used a scalpel
to make a deep vertical incision along the sternum, then
used a rib spreader to crack open the chest cavity.
From there, they carefully dissected the pericardium, the sac that
surrounds the heart, and severed the major blood vessels and arteries.
Sip felt his stomach churn at the clinical description of
the brutal act, and the hearts themselves removed with surgical precision.
Doctor Chen replied, her voice trembling slightly. The killer would
have had to work quickly to avoid excessive blood loss,
but there's no sign of any hesitation or miscuts. It's
as if they've done this before. This guy is seriously
messed up. But I got to tell you, he's an artist.
Sip's mind raced with the implications of the doctor's words.
A killer with medical training, a steady hand, and a
twisted desire to steal the hearts of their victims. It
was a profile that chilled him to the bone. As
he studied the gaping wounds in Sarah and Michael's chests,
Sip couldn't help but feel a sense of awe at
the sheer brutality of the act. To cut into the
chest of a living, breathing person, to crack open their
ribcage and tear out their still beating heart. It was
an act of savagery that defied comprehension, and yet as
he looked closer, Sip realized that there was a strange
sort of artistry to the wounds, a macabre beauty in
the precision and skin with which they had been inflicted.
The killer, whoever they were, had elevated murder to an
art form, a twisted masterpiece of blood and bone. He
turned to doctor Chen, his eyes blazing with a fierce intensity.
I want every scrap of evidence bagged and tagged, every
blood splatter analyzed and cross referenced. We're going to catch
this son of a bitch. The first lead came from
the couple's friends and family, a tangled web of jealousies
and resentments that seemed to point to a jilted ex
lover with a history of violence. But as Sip dug deeper,
he found that the man had an airtight alibi, his
whereabouts confirmed by a dozen witnesses and a time stamped
security camera. The next suspect was a coworker of Sarah's,
a quiet, unassus doing man named David, who had always
seemed a little too interested in her personal life. When questioned,
David broke down in tears, confessing to a secret obsession
with Sarah that had consumed his every waking moment. But
as much as Sip wanted to believe he had found
his killer. The evidence just didn't add up. David had
no medical training, no access to the couple's apartment, and
no way to overpower too healthy adults in the prime
of their lives. As the days turned into weeks and
the trail grew colder, Sip found himself haunted by the
memory of Sarah and Michael's lifeless eyes, the gaping wounds
in their chests that seemed to mock him with their emptiness.
He pored over the crime scene photos until his vision blurred,
studied the autopsy reports until the words swam before his eyes.
But still the killer remained elusive, a phantom that danced
just beyond his grasp. Thomas Ashton reclined in his lavish
Miami penthouse, savoring the rich aroma of his morning espresso
as he perused the website of The New York Post.
The front page screamed heartless killer strikes again in lurid
red letters, accompanied by a grainy crime scene photo that
hinted at the carnage without revealing too much. The Post
seemed happy to have something to write about other than
ground zero. The murder resembled those from Miami in the
early to mid nineties. Had the Killer popped up in
New York seven years later, or was it a copycat
like that second Zodiac Killer in New York in the
nineties that had aped the original West Coast version. A
smile played at the corners of Thomas's lips as he
devoured the sensationless prose. The media's fascination with the artist
was intoxicating, each salacious detail sending a thrill through him
that rivaled the act itself. They painted him as a monster,
a boogeyman, stalking the streets of New York, not realizing
he wasn't even in the city other than for that
weekend visit to the Met, and he relished every word.
His eyes lingered on a quote from Detective Jack Sip malloy.
This new player intrigued him. Unlike the washed up Rayes,
Molloy seemed sharp, determined. Thomas folded the paper, his mind
already spinning with possibilities. Reyes had eventually become predictable, boring,
but molloy he could be fun a new canvas on
which to paint his masterpiece of fear and manipulation. The
thought sent a shiver of anticipation down his spine. As
the day wore on, Thomas prepared for the evening ahead,
a charity gala for the Miami Art Museum provided the
perfect opportunity to reassert his presence in the city's elite circles.
He adjusted his bow tie in the mirror, admiring the
impeccable cut of his tuxedo. The forty three year old
face that looked back at him was handsome, refined, the
very picture of sophistication. No one would ever suspect the
darkness that lurked behind his charming smile. The galla was
held in the Museum's Grand Atrium, a space transformed into
a glittering wonderland of champagne fountains and ice sculptures. Thomas
entered with the confidence of a man who knew he belonged.
Immediately enveloped by the perfumed air of wealth and power,
Thomas Darling cooed Mary Elavasquez Henley, a congressman's wife, also
forty three. The congressman's wife was a vision of mature
beauty and calculated sensuality. Her olives skin glowed under the
chandelier light. Dark hair swept into an elegant updo that
emphasized her long neck. The red designer gown hugged every curve,
hinting at a body kept fit through rigorous pilates and tennis.
But it was her eyes that captured Thomas's attention, deep
brown pools that sparkled with intelligence and barely concealed desire.
He noted how she touched the arms of powerful men
as she laughed, the flirtatious gesture. Just shy of impropriety,
Mariella was clearly a woman who enjoyed skating along the
edge of scandal, a quality that both intrigued and excited Thomas.
He imagined peeling back the layers of her carefully cultivated image,
wondering what darkness might lurk beneath her polished exterior. She
air kissed his cheeks, her jewelry, clinking softly. We've missed
you at these events. Where have you been hiding? Thomas smiled, charmingly,
taking her hand and brushing his lips across her knuckles.
New York, But I could never stay away from Miami
for too long. The city always calls me back. As
he mingled, Thomas found himself the center of attention. Wealthy
patrons hung on his every word about upcoming exhibitions and
emerging artists. He played his role to perfection, the cultured,
slightly mysterious art dealer with connections in all the right places.
All the while his mind raced with dark fantasies, imagining
the shocked expressions on their faces if they knew the
truth about the man they so eagerly embraced. It was
during a lull in the conversation that Greg Henley approached him.
Henley was a man with presidential aspirations, his ambition practically
radiating off him in waves. Mister Ashton, Henley said, shaking
Thomas's hand firmly, I'm glad I caught you. I've been
hoping we might have a chance to chat. Thomas raised
an eyebrow, intrigued, of course, Senator, what can I do
for you? Henley glanced around, then lowered his voice. Your
support would mean a great deal to my campaign. A
man of your influence could open many doors. Thomas pretended
to consider this, though inwardly he was amused by the irony.
Here he was the artist being courted by a man
who would see him hanged if he knew the truth.
The thrill was almost as intoxicating as the kill itself.
Almost perhaps we should discuss this further in private, Thomas suggested,
his mind already plotting how he could use this connection
to his advantage. As the night progressed, Thomas found himself
drawn into a cat and mouse game with Mariella. Their
flirtation escalated, fueled by champagne and the thrill of the forbidden.
In a moment of reckless abandon they slipped away from
the crowd, finding a secluded corner for a quick makeout session.
The power play and the thrill of it all led
them to a cramped closet where the heat between them
reached its peak. It wasn't about attraction, It was about
the dominance, the adrenaline rush of taking risks, and the
sheer exhilaration of the forbidden act. The confined space amplified
every sensation, making the encounter a raw and primal exchange
of power and pleasure. Afterward, as they straightened their clothes
and rejoined the party separately, Thomas felt a familiar rush
of power. He had crossed a line that would horrify
the other guests if they knew, and the secret knowledge
was intoxicating. For a brief moment, he contemplated what it
would be like to take things further with Mariella, to
make her his next masterpiece, but he quickly dismissed the idea.
She was more valuable to him as a connection than
a victim, for now, at least later. As Thomas engaged
in conversation with Congressman Henley, he derived a perverse thrill
from their interaction. Every handshake, every shared joke felt like
a victory. He was the wolf in sheep's clothing, hiding
in plain sight among the very people who should fear
him most. As the gallow wound down, Thomas made his
excuses and slipped away. The night air was warm and
heavy with the scent of tropical flowers. As he walked
to his car, his mind raced with the possibilities that
had opened up to him this evening. A senator in
his pocket could provide invaluable protection, a shield against suspicion,
but it would also be a risk. The higher the profile,
the greater the fall home. Thomas allowed himself a small,
satisfied smile. The evening had been a resounding success. He
had re established his place in Miami's elite circles, laid
the groundwork for future political connections, and indulged in the
dark thrill of secret transgressions. But as exhilarating as the
social maneuvering had been, it hadn't fully satisfied the hunger
that always simmered beneath the surface. Thomas knew it was
only a matter of time before he would need to
create again, to feel the rush that only his particular
brand of artistry could provide. As he entered his penthouse,
his eyes fell on the discarded New York Post. Detective
Malloy's determined face stared back at him from the page.
Thomas felt a spark of excitement ignite within him. Yes,
his next piece would be something special, a masterpiece worthy
of this new adversary. With renewed purpose, Thomas booked another
weekend in New York. The met was opening three major exhibitions,
including Gogan in New York Collections The Lure of the Exotic.
A month later, a couple was found murdered in the
same grisly fashion in Miami, their hearts cut from their
chests with surgical precision. A witness had seen a man
leaving the scene. A tall figure in a dark coat,
Sip called down to Miami. The voice on the other
end was gruff, tinged with the weariness of a man
who had seen too much. Detective Mick ray is Miami PD, Sip, molloy, NYPD.
I need your help on a case. There was a pause,
followed by a heavy sigh. What have you got? Sip
leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. Double homicide
couple found on Valentine's Day. Killer removed their hearts with
surgical Pursisit left a note the heart wants what it wants.
Sound familiar. Mix's voice dropped a hint of resignation creeping in.
Yeah it does. Sounds like the work of a sick
bastard we call the artist. Been chasing this jack hole
for nearly twenty years now. Sip sat up straighter, his
interest pequked twenty years. What can you tell me about him?
Not much, Mick admitted, the frustration evident in his tone.
Guy's a ghost moves in high society circles, has a
thing for the art world, leaves a trail of bodies
in his wake, always with the same mo precise cuts,
organs removed and some twisted artsy message left behind, Sip
jotted down notes, his mind racing, and he leads patterns.
Mick laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. Leads. Yeah, we've had leads.
Problem is they all go nowhere. This guy, he's smart, meticulous,
knows how to cover his tracks. It's like chasing a
damn shadow. What about the art connection, any specific galleries events?
He's been linked to a few underground shows, black market deals,
but every time we get close, he vanishes. It's like
he knows we're coming. Look, I'll send you what I can,
but I got to warn you. This guy, he gets
under your skin. He'll make it personal. And when he does,
that's when he's got you. And if you catch the bastard,
give him a few extra hits from me. The line
went dead, leaving Sip alone with his thoughts. He stared
at the crime scene photos spread across his desk, the
blood soaked hearts, and the mocking note. Somewhere out there,
the artist was waiting, plotting his next move, and Sip
knew that he would stop at nothing to bring him down,
to make him pay for every life he had stolen,
every heart he had broken. But as he looked at
the photos at the savagery and the precision. Sip couldn't
shake the feeling that he was in over his head,
that this case, this killer, would test him in ways
he had never been tested before, and that in the end,
the price of justice might be higher than he was
willing to pay.
Speaker 2: Next time. On the Artist A Killer's.
Speaker 1: Canvas, Miami, two thousand and eight, Detective Elena Martinez thought
she'd seen it all until a brutal murder in a
congressman's apartment unravels a web of lies, power, and deadly secrets.
As Elena delves deeper into the case, she finds herself
caught in a dangerous game of cat and mouse with
the charismatic and enigmatic Thomas Ashton. But is he a
killer or just another pawn in a much larger conspiracy.
From the glittering ballrooms of Miami's elite to the shadowy
corners of political corruption, Elena must navigate a treacherous landscape
where art, murder, and power intersect. But be warned, in
this world of smoke and mirrors, every step could be
her last, and as the body count rises, Eleanor will
learn that some secrets are worth killing for. Don't Miss
Episode seven, The Congressman's Secret, where the line between hunter
and hunted blurs and the true face of evil may
be hiding in plain sight.
Speaker 2: The Artist is a Calaogus 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