Evil Never Dies

Seeing her niece gave her a burst of energy.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Brittany said. “I feel as if I haven’t seen you in years.”

Lizzy took Brittany into her arms, and for the first time in the longest while, she felt a bit of life creep into her. “I’ve missed you so much,” Lizzy said close to her ear.

“I’ve missed you more.”

Taking a step back, Lizzy took a good look at her. She reached for her hair, let the silky strands brush through her fingers. “Your hair is getting so long. You look so grown-up.”

“I’ve been so worried about you, Lizzy.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I should have come sooner or at least called. Is everything OK?”

“Everything is good. Dad and Mom are getting divorced. They don’t belong together, but you already know that.”

Lizzy said nothing.

“And don’t worry about not coming around lately. I know you’re sad. I just don’t want you to ever feel like you’re all alone.”

Lizzy swallowed a lump in her throat.

Brittany glanced around. “Mom had to go to work today, but if you want to come in for a bit first—”

“No, I’m good. Are you ready to go?”

Brittany grabbed her things, and it wasn’t long before they were on the freeway, heading for Midtown.

“So,” Lizzy said, “I heard that you started art classes. How’s that going?”

“I love it. We have more than one instructor teaching the class. The teachers are inspiring, and the students are talented. I can’t believe I was accepted.”

For the next twenty minutes, they chatted, catching up on Brittany’s life. Lizzy enjoyed listening to the sound of her voice. It was like hearing a song she’d forgotten she loved.

It wasn’t easy finding a parking spot since many streets had been closed off from traffic, but they managed. The crowds were thick and the music was loud, a different musician on every other street corner. The first gallery they visited was the Phoenix Art Gallery. The art was interesting, and they had fun exploring. Lizzy noticed one particular painting where a magistrate in ancient Rome was carrying a bundle of rods with a projecting axe blade. “Look at that,” Lizzy said. “A fasces.”

“Good job,” Brittany said. “I just took a test on symbols in art. A fasces is commonly used as a symbol of power.”

“I knew it represented power, but I had no idea it was used in art.”

“Yep,” Brittany said.

This tidbit of information got Lizzy’s mind working overtime. “What are some other symbols?”

“Oh, gosh, there are lots of them. For instance, a book could symbolize learning or transmitting knowledge. A clock might symbolize the passing of time.”

Lizzy couldn’t help but wonder if the objects being left on the Sacramento Strangler’s victims could have anything to do with art. “What about a piece of coral?”

“Definitely. The red of coral often represents the blood of Christ. Since when are you so interested in art and symbolism?”

“It has to do with a case I’m working on.”

As they moved through the gallery, Brittany examined the artwork and paintings at close range while Lizzy examined each painting for something more. The idea that a piece of red coral could represent the blood of anyone hit an investigative nerve. They were on to something here. Her niece stopped and pointed at one particular painting and said, “See the distaff, the wooden tool right here?”

“What does it mean?” Lizzy asked.

“The distaff could represent the domestic role of women,” Brittany explained. “And this picture over here has a mirror lying on the bedside table. The mirror often signifies truth or vanity.”

It felt as if every molecule in her body were tingling as Lizzy followed her niece along, listening intently as she talked.

“The cool thing about symbols is they can evoke powerful emotions without the beholder even realizing it.”

“Really? That’s amazing,” Lizzy said. “So, what about a wreath of red roses around a young man’s head?”

Brittany took a moment to ponder before she said, “I don’t know if that’s a common symbol in art, but are you talking about Picasso’s Boy with a Pipe?”

“I don’t know. What does it look like?”

Brittany pulled out her phone, clicked away, and then showed her an image of a boy with a garland of roses around his head. “It’s oil on canvas,” Brittany explained. “It’s actually a painting of a local boy who used to visit Picasso’s studio. The painting went for one hundred million dollars at auction in 2004.”

Lizzy could hardly contain her excitement. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Maybe it was a long shot, but right now it seemed more than possible that the Sacramento Strangler could be involved in the art world.

After visiting the Phoenix Art Gallery, and then checking out some handmade jewelry being sold by local vendors on the sidewalk, they stopped in Ginger Elizabeth’s for some gourmet chocolates. Some of the other galleries they visited were devoted to photography. Although, after learning so much about symbolism in art, it was hard to concentrate on anything but the killer ru

Their last stop before they headed off for di

“That’s intense,” Brittany said as she stepped close to her side.

“I would say so.”

“Brittany,” a male voice called out, “so happy to see you here. And exploring one of my paintings, no less.”

The voice was familiar. Lizzy turned to see who was talking.

“And you,” he said, wagging a finger at Lizzy. “Don’t we know each other?”

“This is my aunt, Lizzy Gardner.”

He snapped his fingers. “Of course.”

“Lizzy, this is Jake Polly. He taught one of the classes I was telling you about.”

Lizzy looked at him sideways. “You put up the poster in our window. This is your painting?”

“It certainly is. What do you think?”

Lizzy’s gaze fell on his hands, where she saw deep scratches that disappeared beneath the sleeves of his shirt.

“I don’t know anything about art,” Lizzy told him, “but your painting is definitely interesting. There’s so much going on, and yet it’s the woman’s eyes that draw me in.”

“I agree,” Brittany said.

“Is this lady on the raft supposed to be relaxing, or is she scared?”

“She’s having the time of her life,” he said. “She’s in heaven.”

“I’m not seeing that.”

Brittany touched Lizzy’s shoulder, trying to stop Lizzy from embarrassing her, no doubt. “I don’t think he wants us to critique his work, Aunt Lizzy.”

Lizzy didn’t pay her any mind. “Do you have models you work with, Jake, or did you use a photograph?”

“It’s OK,” he told Brittany. “I believe everyone should make up their own mind about art. The Lady on the Raft could be telling a story or making a statement. But none of that matters. It’s all about how it makes you feel, Lizzy.”

They spoke for some time about how he’d gone about painting the picture before them. No, he’d used neither a model nor a photograph, conjuring the woman out of whole cloth—“Except for the eyes,” he said, his own eyes gleaming. Lizzy never lost her feeling that there was something very odd about the man, and yet he was kind enough to answer her questions, and he seemed genuinely interested in explaining things to her.

“Well,” Lizzy said at last, “it’s certainly a powerful piece.”

“Well, art is powerful. Isn’t that right, Brittany?”