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 Kiara Scuro.
Speaker 3: The Ashton household was a pressure cooker of tension and
unspoken guilt. Margaret sat at the kitchen table with Tommy,
pushing a glass of milk towards him as he listlessly
colored in a book. The bright, cheerful images on the
pages seemed to mock the somber mood that hung over
the room like a shroud. How about we color this
page together, Tommy, Margaret suggested, her voice strained with forced cheerfulness.
Look it's a sailboat. Tommy didn't respond, continuing to scribble mechanically,
his eyes vacant and unseeing. The slam of the front
door announced Frank Ashton's arrival home. His heavy footsteps echoed
through the house, a prelude to the storm that was
about to break. Look at him, Margaret, Frank bellowed, gesturing
angrily at Tommy. The kid's all fucked up now because
of that goddamn puppy, this is your fault. Margaret flinched,
her eyes filling with tears. Frank, please, I was trying
to save that little girl, and now our son is
paying the price. Frank cut her off, his face red
with fury. He barely talks, he doesn't eat, drawing all
fucking day. Christ Margaret, what were you thinking? As Frank's
tirade continued, Margaret's hand reached for the bottle of gin
on the counter. She poured herself a generous glass, the
clear liquid sloshing against the side as her hands shook.
She downed it quickly, her eyes never leaving Tommy's bowed
head in that moment. As the alcohol burned its way
down her throat, Margaret made a silent vow to fix
what she had broken. But some wounds she would learn
run too deep to ever truly heal. Half a century later,
Thomas Ashton stood quietly in the modest interior of Our
Lady of Hope. The place really hadn't changed. The church,
with its unassuming brick facade and weathered wooden doors, exuded
a sense of solemnity that matched the gray skies outside. Inside,
the air was cool and faintly scented with old hymnals
and polished wood. The only sounds were the soft shuffling
of the church staff preparing for the service, and the
gentle hum of the organ being tuned by the elderly organist. Thomas,
standing near the back of the church, walked watched his father, Ramirez,
a kind hearted priest with a thick Spanish accent, quietly
set out the necessary items for the funeral service. Thomas
glanced around the empty pews, the sunlight filtering through the
stained glass windows casting colorful patterns on the tiled floor.
Nobody was going to come for Victor Salvatore. Fuck Victor Salvatore.
What had he done with his life except fuck up
a little kid's mind? Fuck Victor's Salvatore. Thomas felt a
sense of detachment as he observed the quiet rituals of
the church staff, each movement precise and purposeful. Memories of
his own past and his fleeting connection with Salvatore flickered
in his mind like shadows in the dimly lit sanctuary.
Father Ramirez finished his preparations and nodded to Thomas, a
silent acknowledgment of his presence. Thomas returned the nod with
a faint smile, acknowledging the priest's unspoken invitation to stay
for the service, but instead he quietly slipped out of
the church, leaving behind the subdued tranquility of Our Lady
of Hope as he ventured back into the bustling streets
of Philadelphia, where life carried on with its usual rhythm,
indifferent to the somber moments that had passed within the
church walls. Mick Rays sat in his worn recliner, the
leather cracked and faded, much like the man himself. The
small apartment around him was a testament to a life
lived in stasis. Faded posters of eighties Miami Vice era
cop shows adorned the walls, relics of a time when
Mick still believed he could make a difference. The blue
light from his TV flickered across his weathered face. Deep
lines etched around his eyes and mouth, souvenirs from years
of squinting at crime scene photos and frowning at dead ends.
His once sun bleached hair had long since turned a
dull gray, thinning at the crown on the screen, Netflix
auto played its latest true c sensation, The artist Blood
and Beauty in Miami. The sleek opening sequence displayed a
montage of sun soaked beaches juxtaposed with grisly crime scene photos,
all set to a pulsing synth wave soundtrack that tried
too hard to evoke the era it depicted. Mick snorted,
taking a swig from his lukewarm beer. He'd lived it,
for Christ's sake. He didn't need some slick documentary to
tell him about the artist. As the show delved into
the killer's background, Mick found himself involuntarily leaning forward. They
had details he'd never known, interviews with people he'd never
tracked down. How had they managed in a few months
what he couldn't do in years. In nineteen eighty nine,
the narrator intoned Detective Mick rays was assigned to the
artist case. Despite his reputation as a skilled investigator, Rayes
was unable to apprehend the killer. Mick winced there it
was his entire career summed up in two sentences, the
one that got away, the case that defined him and
ultimately destroyed him. He glanced around his small apartment, evidence
of a life put on hold and never resumed. Dishes
piled in the sink, a stack of unopened bills on
the coffee table. On the bookshelf a framed photo of
a younger Mick with his arm around a pretty blonde woman, Karen,
his ex wife. She'd left fifteen years ago, tired of
competing with a ghost for her husband's attention. The TV
asked are you still watching? Mick stared at the screen,
the question seeming to mock him. Was he still watching?
Had he ever stopped watching? Waiting for the artist to
slip up to finally reveal himself. But the artist was
long gone, probably dead by now, and here sat Mick
reyis a relic of another time, still obsessed with a
case that the world had moved on from. Reduced to
a binge worthy Netflix series. The United Center buzzed with
excitement as the Democratic National Convention reached its fever pitch.
The arena was a sea of blue and white delegates
and party members, waving signs and chanting slogans. As speakers
took the stage. Senator Greg Henley stood in the wings,
adjusting his perfectly knotted tie. He cut a striking figure,
salt and pepper hair artfully tousled his tailored suit, emphasizing
his athletic build. Beside him, mary Ella Vasquez Henley radiated
poise and elegance in a sleek royal blue dress. Her
dark hair swept into an elegant Updo you ready for this,
Greg asked, his voice tight with anticipation. Mary Ella squeezed
his hand, her smile dazzling. We've been ready for years, Darling,
It's our time. As their names were announced, the couple
stepped onto the stage, greeted by a thunder ovation. Mary
Ella waved graciously while Greg flashed his trademark grin the
very picture of a power couple on the rise. Greg
took the podium, his charisma palpable as he launched into
his speech, My fellow Americans, he began, his voice, resonating
through the arena. We stand at a crossroads. As he
spoke of unity, progress and the American dream. Camera's panned
to Mary Ella, who gazed at her husband with perfectly
choreographed admiration. The crowd hung on the senator's every word,
irrupting into cheers at each well placed pause. In the
VIP section, party elders nodded approvingly. Henley's got the stuff,
one whispered presidential material mark. My words might get a
look in four years if this doesn't work out. Thomas
Ashton strolled down the familiar streets of his neighborhood in Philly,
the crisp air of autumn swirling around him. A pickup
truck rumbled past, adorned with two fluttering American flags and
a massive bumper sticker that proudly proclaimed Trump twenty twenty four.
As he passed Our Lady of Hope School, he caught
sight of a solitary figure in the corner of the schoolyard.
The boy, clearly a loner, was engrossed in his own world,
sketching intently with colorful chalk on the weathered sidewalk. Thomas
slowed his pace, intrigued by the boy's skillful strokes and
the way he seemed completely absorbed in his artwork. The
drawings were vivid and detailed, depicting scenes that seemed to
come alive under the boy's talented hands. With a nod
of quiet acknowledgment, Thomas continued on his way, leaving the
boy to his drawings. The image of the young artist
and his chalk masterpieces stayed with him. The art gallery
buzzed with a mix of Miami's elite and artificionados. The
air thick with admiration for the vibrant pieces adorning the walls.
Thomas Ashton navigated through the crowd, his eyes gliding over
the abstract paintings and sculptures, his mind silently critiquing each
piece with an artist's discerning eye. He was an odd
ball celebrity of sorts now, the mysterious, handsome, charming man
who maybe was a serial killer, but probably not. Whatever
he was, he was twenty first century famous regardless. There
were always photographers around. Now, Jake Holloway was there now,
a protege of sorts, popular with the art crowd. Amidst
the chatter and clinking glasses, a familiar figure caught his eye,
a woman whose features bore the marks of time but
still held the gentle familiarity of his past. Standing near
a large canvas depicting a chaotic blend of colors that
somehow found harmony in their disarray, she turned as if
sensing his presence, her expression softening as their eyes met.
After years of estrangement, Thomas felt a rush of conflicting emotions, surprise,
guarded curiosity, and a faint echo of the boy who
once clung to her in times of uncertainty. Thomas. She murmured,
her voice carrying a mix of regret and longing. It's
been a long time, he remarked, more in acknowledgment than
an accusation. She nodded, her gaze flickering with unspoken apologies.
I know, I I wanted to see you, to see
how you've been. He took a deep breath, the weight
of years lifting slightly as he found himself standing before
the woman who had once been his anchor. I'm different now, art,
It's what I do. Her eyes softened with understanding, a
flicker of pride mingled with relief. I always knew you
had talent, your father, He cut her off gently, unwilling
to revisit old wounds. He's gone. I saw you on TV.
I didn't do it. She caught a glimpse of the
little boy in him. Mothers know when their children are lying.
Of course you didn't. The Sullivan family home was quiet,
save for the soft clink of coffee cups and the
occasional muffled sob In the living room. Faded photographs of
a smiling young woman adorned the mantle surrounded by flickering candles.
Mary Sullivan, her hair now streaked with gray, sat rigidly
on the sofa, clutching a framed picture of her daughter,
Sarah twenty five years. She whispered, her voice cracking. It
feels like yesterday. Her husband Tom placed a comforting hand
on her shoulder. I know, Honey, I know. The Oakland
Cemetery sprawled across the outskirts of Miami, a silent city
of marble and granite. Beneath towering oaks, in a far corner,
tucked away from the manicured paths and well tended plots,
stood a simple headstone, its edges softened by years of neglect.
Valeria nineteen sixty four nineteen eighty nine, Dancing with the Stars.
The inscription was barely legible, obscured by a patina of
grime and weathering. Weeds encroached upon the grave, their tendrils
creeping over the stone like grasping fingers. A tarnished silver locket,
once gleaming, a new lay half buried in the overgrown grass.
No fresh flowers adorned this forgotten resting place. Her friends,
if she had any true ones, had long since moved on,
or forgotten. A groundskeeper paused briefly glancing at the neglected
grave for a moment. He considered clearing away some of
the weeds, but then shrugged and moved on. In the
grand scheme of the cemeteries upkeep, one forgotten grave hardly
seemed to matter. Yellow police tape cordoned off a section
of a run down apartment complex and overtown its peeling
paint and rusted railings, a stark contrast to the glittering
high rises visible in the distance. Detective Maria Sanchez ducked
under the tape, her boots crunching on broken glass, as
she approached the small gathering of uniformed officers. The body
of a young man lay sprawled on the cracked concrete,
a pool of blood spreading beneath him. What have we got,
Sanchez asked, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. Officer Rodriguez,
a rookie with a sheen of sweat on his brow,
stepped forward. Victim is Carlos Mendez twenty three, multiple gunshot wounds.
Neighbor called it in after hearing shots around two pm.
A woman in her fifties was arguing with an officer
trying to push past. That's my boy, she wailed, Carlos Mihijo,
another murder at some point, Like anything else, it was
just another day at the office. In New York, Jack
Sip molloy ducked under the police tape cordoning off a
narrow alley on the far west side. The flashing lights
of squad cars illuminated the grim scene. What have we got,
Sip growled. Approaching the body officer, Chen stepped forward. Jane Doe,
mid thirties, blunt forced trauma to the head, no id.
Sip crouched down his knees, protesting. The woman lay face down,
her dark hair matted with blood. A broken bottle lay
nearby witnesses. Chen shook her head. Nothing yet, Sip said,
to no one in particular this fucking city. Chen asked seriously, Sip,
how old are you now? Seventy five? Why do you
still do this shit? Sixty two? Smart ass? And I
do this because I live for this shit. They'd have
to drag me away, kicking and screaming, What am I
gonna do? Play golf? Sip took a beat. Look kid
like it or not? My birthday's coming up, mandatory retirement.
It's time to go home. Thomas Ashton reclined in his
ergonomic office chair, AirPods nestled in his ears as he
downloaded the latest true crime podcast sensation, The Artist Brushstrokes
of Murder. It had been turned into a Netflix series
that was doing well. People like that sort of thing.
The podcast's artwork featured a stylized paintbrush dripping with blood.
As the host's voice filled his ears, Thomas allowed himself
a smirk. In the late eighties and nineties, Miami and
later New York were terrorized by a serial killer known
only as the Artist. His brutal murders were staged like
macab works of art, baffling police and captivating the public's
morbid fascination. Then, in two thousand and two, the killing
suddenly stopped. Today we delve into the mystery of why
this prolific killer vanished without a trace. Thomas scoffed at
the dramatic intro. If only they knew how far off
they were. The podcast continued outlining a timeline of the murders.
Thomas noted with amusement how many details they got wrong.
They placed His first kill in nineteen eighty eight, completely
missing the earlier victims. The host theorized about a traumatic
event in eighty eight triggering the killings, unaware of the
true catalyst years before. Episode three dealt with the Thomas
Ashton case, but Ashton as a suspect was easily debunked
since he was in Miami custody when the artist killed
in New York. A gruff sounding New York cop was interviewed. Yeah,
this guy was a real piece of work. We figured
he must have been some failed artist, you know, taking
out his frustrations on innocent people. Thomas rolled his eyes.
Failed artist. Indeed, the host pressed on, there's been speculation
that the artist stopped killing because he achieved some sort
of artistic recognition. What's your take on that, Detective Malloy,
load of crap, sip growled, killers like this don't just stop.
My money's on him being dead or locked up for
something else. If only you knew, old man, Thomas thought.
As the podcast delved into various theories about the artist's motivation,
childhood abuse, rejection from art school, a cult connection, Thomas
couldn't help but laugh. They were so far off the mark,
grasping its sensationalized straws, while the truth was far more complex.
The host's voice grew serious. Some have suggested that the
artist had political connections, possibly explaining why he was never caught.
Detective molloy, did you ever encounter any interference in your investigation?
Sip's bitter laugh crackled through the AirPods. Nah, just a
slippery bastard who knew how to cover his tracks. Sometimes
the end to these cases ain't as exciting as people
want it to be. Thomas turned off the podcast and
stood up slowly, a wry smile playing on his lips.
He walked over to his desk, opened the top drawer
and pulled out a small ornate box. Inside lay a scalpel,
its blade gleaming in the soft light of his office.
As he lifted it, memories flooded back, the thrill of
the hunt, the artistry of his work, the power he wielded.
His fingers twitched with muscle memory and long suppressed desire.
Suddenly his phone buzzed. A text message from an unknown
number lit up the screen. The game isn't over. Are
you ready to play again? Thomas's smile widened a mix
of excitement and trepidation. Coursing through him. Just then a
loud knock echoed through the apartment. Mister Ashton, A muffled
voice called out, this is the FBI. We have some
questions about an old case. Thomas looked from the scalpel
to his phone, then to the door. The choice before
him was clear, but the consequences were anything but. With
a deep breath, he.
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 MacDermott 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