“He was last seen leaving a gallery reception on the evening of August fourteenth.His truck was found the next morning in a public parking lot two blocks from the gallery.No signs of struggle.His phone, wallet, and car keys were inside the vehicle.”Marshall paused.“His body was found six weeks later by a group of hikers in Bandelier National Monument.”
She moved to the crime scene photographs and Kari leaned forward in her chair.
The first image showed a clearing in a wooded area—ponderosa pines, dappled light, a spot where hikers might stop to eat lunch.In the center of the clearing, a body had been arranged on the ground.Kari’s eye went immediately to the positioning: arms extended, one leg bent, the torso twisted at an angle that looked deliberate rather than natural.He was dressed in clothing Kari didn't recognize—not his own, she guessed.A tunic of some kind, decorated with what appeared to be feathers and beadwork.
“This is his most famous painting,” Marshall said, pinning a reproduction beside the crime scene photo.“Ceremonial Dancer.Completed in 1998.It’s in the permanent collection of the Heard Museum.”
Kari looked between the painting and the photograph.The match was exact.The angle of the arms, the bend of the knee, and the twist of the torso—whoever had done this had studied the painting with obsessive care.Even the clothing was a recreation of the dancer’s regalia in the painting, hand-assembled to match colors and details that most viewers would never notice.
“Cause of death?”Kari asked.
“Strangulation.Manual.The ME estimated he’d been dead for approximately three weeks before he was placed at the site.The body was preserved—refrigerated or kept in a cool environment.There was very little decomposition for the timeline.”
“So the killer held him for three weeks after death before staging the scene.Probably somewhere remote."
“Three weeks at a minimum.Possibly longer.”Marshall moved to the second headshot.A woman, younger than Redhouse, early fifties, with strong features and dark eyes.“Linda Tafoya.Pueblo sculptor from San Ildefonso.Her work focused on contemporary interpretations of traditional clay forms—transformation figures, mostly.Human bodies becoming animals, animals becoming landscape.She disappeared from her studio in Santa Fe on September twentieth.Her body was found two weeks ago in the Valles Caldera.”
The crime scene photos for Tafoya were harder to look at.The sculptor had been posed on a rocky outcrop, her body contorted into a shape that mirrored one of her sculptures—a woman in the process of becoming a bird, arms swept back like wings, spine arched, head tilted skyward.The positioning required that her limbs be manipulated well beyond their natural range of motion.Kari could see where joints had been dislocated to achieve the pose.
“Same cause of death?”
“Strangulation, same method.Same pattern of preservation—body held for a period before staging.The ME found traces of a chemical preservative in the tissue.We’re still waiting on the full toxicology.”
Kari studied the photos.The staging was meticulous.Not just the body’s position but the setting—both victims had been placed in locations that complemented their work.Redhouse in a sun-dappled clearing that evoked the warm palette of his paintings.Tafoya on a volcanic rock formation that echoed the raw, elemental quality of her sculpture.Whoever was doing this wasn’t just recreating the art.They were curating the presentation.
“Third victim,” Marshall said, moving to the final headshot.A man, mid-forties, angular face, turquoise studs in both ears.“Raymond Honanie.Hopi.Jewelry maker—one of the best overlay artists working today.His pieces are in the Smithsonian, the Denver Art Museum, private collections globally.He disappeared from his workshop in Santa Fe on October eighth.”Marshall tapped the photo.“Twelve days ago.He hasn’t been found.”
“So he might still be alive.”
“It’s possible.Both previous victims were held for weeks before staging.If the pattern holds, we might have a window.That’s why I need help now, not next month.”Marshall turned from the corkboard and faced Kari.“I have excellent agents.Attcity speaks Navajo and has contacts in the art community.Soto is one of the best forensic analysts in the division.But we’re three months into this investigation and we don’t have a viable suspect.I need someone who can look at this case from an angle my team can’t.”
Kari looked at the three headshots pinned to the board.Redhouse, Tafoya, Honanie.Three nations—Navajo, Pueblo, Hopi.Three art forms: painting, sculpture, and jewelry.One killer who understood their work well enough to recreate it using their bodies.
“What do you have on suspects?”
Marshall glanced at Soto, who pulled up a file on his laptop.“Limited.No DNA at either scene—the killer wore gloves and was meticulous about trace evidence.No witnesses to any of the abductions.The only commonality we’ve been able to establish is that all three victims were prominent, all three showed at Indian Market, and all three had work in major collections.”
“That’s a lot of people then.”
“About two hundred artists show at Indian Market in any given year,” Attcity said.It was the first time he’d spoken.His voice was quiet, precise.“But artists at this level?National reputation, six-figure sales, museum collections?That narrows it to maybe thirty or forty.”
“Have you warned them?”
“We’ve reached out to several.Discreetly.But without a suspect profile, all we can say is be careful.Which isn’t much.”
Kari looked at the crime scene photographs one more time.The care in the staging.The patience—holding a body for weeks, assembling regalia, selecting a location.This wasn’t rage or impulse.This was devotion.
“Whoever’s doing this loves the art,” she said.
Marshall tilted her head.“We’ve discussed that theory.You think they’re collectors?”
“Not of art.The staging isn’t about dominance or control—or if it is, it’s secondary.Look at the detail.The Redhouse scene isn’t just positioned to match the painting.The clothing is hand-assembled.The location was chosen for the light.This person isn’t destroying art.They think they’re creating it.”
The room was quiet.Attcity had stopped eating his burrito.Soto’s fingers were still on his keyboard.
“That’s exactly why I need you on this,” Marshall said.“Can I count on you?”
Kari thought about the motel room.The drawn curtains, the browser refreshing to nothing, the days counted by trips to the grocery store and walks around the parking lot.She thought about what Daniels had said—that working inside a federal operation was safer than sitting alone.She thought about Raymond Honanie, who might still be alive if the pattern held, and who would certainly be dead soon if it didn’t.
