A Vision In Blood (Miss Eleanora and Mr. Quixotic)

In a run down and dilapidated section of the vibrant City of New Orleans, in a neighborhood that had not yet recovered from being ravaged by the Hurricane Katrina twelve years before, an unmarked and unremarkable van was parked on the side of the street. There were few out and about at night in the neighborhood, and even fewer who would give a van a second glance, but there was a sinister cargo within.

There was dignity in death just as there was in life. The quiet stillness that no living being could match, the unblinking unflinching stare, the pallor of bloodless skin, these all contrasted so wonderfully with the vibrancy of the living. The woman who was the van's sole living occupant was very familiar with that. Her long red hair was tied up in a bun keeping it out of the way while she engaged in her less than savory second job. Pale green eyes were slightly veiled by the glasses that she wore, and her delicate features spoke to a refined and graceful beauty.

Elizabeth smiled down at the cadaver so carefully arranged on the floor of the van. In life the man before her had been nothing save a flash in the pan. His youth and vibrancy would have quickly faded, the warm smile and handsome features would have succumbed to the ravages of time, firm muscles would have wasted away.

But, now he was immortalized, his beauty captured eternally by her work. Elizabeth ran a delicate finger down the contours of her victim's face, tracing the flesh that had mere hours ago been warm with life, down to the wound that had stolen away that life. The surprised look upon his face as she had begun to cut, then the horror, and finally the way the light had left his eyes, had all been delightful each image etched firmly within her mind. And of course the rapture of feeling the hot crimson spray of his blood against her pale skin as it gushed forth. She had bled her victims dry many ways, some fast, some slow, and it never failed to excite her, seeing the way they changed in their final moments.

Still, for all that, he was now simply a sack of meat, and one that would soon begin to stink as decay set in. She had taken from him what she needed, and used it to create. It was such a thrill to create her special projects, nothing else could compare, capturing the true essence of life using the very liquid that sustained life as the paint.

Her eyes drifted to the print she had prepared. It was rolled up for ease of transport but had it been unrolled it would have shown a painting of the very man whose cadaver now lay upon the floor of the van. A crimson masterpiece depicting him in a pose straight from classical accounts of heroes. The moment Elizabeth had first seen him, a chance encounter upon the street, she had known that she had to capture him within her work, it had just been a matter of when and how.

That was enough reminiscing, Elizabeth knew she would replay the memories in her mind countless times in the future and that she would gaze upon her work in an effort to relive the sheer joy she could find only in creating, but there was no more time for it now. Her thought was reinforced by the fact that the first unpleasant scents from the body began to reach her nose.

She had driven to this neighborhood on purpose, it was on the edge of the city and well outside of the range where she had dumped her previous victims. It was foolish to be predictable and she knew that even if the assorted cop dramas and FBI television shows were full of shit that there was a basis in fact to looking for patterns in where bodies were dumped, so she would be one step ahead of them.

A casual motion led to one of the doors on the back of the van opening, and she pushed the corpse out firmly, letting the naked body of the man fall to the ground with a thud. With the utmost care she took up the rolled up print of her latest piece and set it down upon the body. Then it was time to go, the entire dumping had taken mere seconds and there had been no one around to see anything. But, she was sure by the next morning it would be discovered and she was quite looking forward to seeing how her latest work was received. A warm smile flickered onto her face as she drove away from the scene.

"Fuck."

The muttered curse escaped FBI Special Agent Lyle Carter's lips, whisking through the cool morning air.

Another.

The fifth.

His first.

He appraised the corpse in the flash of red and blue lights as a hive of activity carried on around him.

A male, as had been all the others, and even through the skin of his face had caved in and flesh sagged loosely away from the bones of his blood-drained body, obviously youthful and handsome when alive.

Lyle ignored the snicker that emanated from the Local Police Chief piece who stood twenty feet behind him. However the subsequent, sarcastic "good luck" did elicit a snap of the neck. Carter's gray eyes bored into the other man and his two Deputies, all with smirks on their faces. Fucking assholes.

It wasn't only the FBI credentials that had incurred their wrath, but as much his New York accent, the men happy to pass the buck and free themselves of the burden of solving the puzzling case and the media attention it garnered. Blazing headlines that continually proclaimed their incompetence, which was now the Bureau's problem, hence Carter's problem. A broken engagement had led the thirty-three year old to transfer from the Big Apple to the New Orleans and granted him his first serial-killer case. Good fortune, or back luck? The latter, he'd thought bitterly, considering the dearth of evidence uncovered so far and the lack of assistance offered by the local authorities, forcing the Agent to virtually start from scratch.

The perpetrator was obviously intelligent, leaving no DNA and very little other physical evidence behind after dumping each of the bodies in different parts of the city, and the location of the dumping grounds offered no help either. To deliberately spread the location of their victim's corpses out was an effort most killers either didn't go to or think of, instinctively preferring the comfort factor of sticking close to home or areas they knew well, thus allowing investigators to triangulate geographical areas to focus their hunt for a suspect on. But not this one, the crimes could have been committed anywhere in the city or within a hundred mile radius, potentially further away.

That it was a him, Sheriff Henderson had professed no doubt, nor that it was, in his politically correct language, 'a faggot.' That struck a discordant note with Agent Carter. Each man had disappeared from varying locations, but none of them in the gay district and according to all who knew them were straight as a dye. In addition, there'd been no sign of sexual abuse, although the coroner had ascertained at least two of the men ejaculated within hours of their time of death. Nothing to link them together; work, profession, place of residence, common haunts or hobbies; except having encountered the same brutal fate. And that they'd been exceptionally photogenic leading to the public, thanks to the media, referring to him as 'Casanova'.

Except for the Creole Community, who'd resorted to holding ceremonies and voodoo rituals to rid the City of 'The Vampire of New Orleans.'

And then Carter had a third.

Picasso.

On every corpse, he'd left artwork.

Turning his attention back to the body and kneeling next to it, Lyle silently took in the way it'd been displayed, the position it had been left in, the white pallor of the bloodless skin and all else he could, attempting to imprint the scene in his mind and capture the little details the crime-scene photo's wouldn't. The canvas stuck out like a sore thumb, a source of pride to the perpetrator or simply to mock those searching for him?

With a gloved finger, he carefully unraveled it. Differing in subject and pose, it was also the same as the others - a crimson replica of what he presumed was the original painting kept by the killer as a trophy, painted in the victim's blood. This one depicted a classical hero.

"Tag it and bag it." He allowed the canvas to roll back in on itself, his knees creaking as he rose to his full six foot one height, snarling at the Crime Scene Tech's, "And get that to the lab." Lyle indicated the artwork, hoping without hope that this time the perpetrator had made a mistake. "Then send me a reproduction and I mean a reproduction, not a damn photocopy. Pronto."

As he turned to walk off, his gaze once again came to rest on Henderson. Useless, arrogant prick. Of course the Sheriff's department had attempted to trace the paper, the tyre tracks left at the scene, dusted everything for prints, analysed for DNA and searched for crimes with a similar MO, all resulting in a big fat zero number of leads, but hadn't looked beyond that.

Carter's initial move on been assigned the case, only three days ago, had been to forward copies of the paintings to Quantico profilers, along with a request for a full psychological evaluation. However, with the backlog of cases, that'd take weeks and he didn't have the time to wait. Not with five men dead already in six months.

"What's our next move?" Russell Edgar, the rookie who'd been partnered with Carter, and scurried off into the bushes to wretch on witnessing the blood-let corpse, deigned to speak as he caught up when Carter reached their Bureau car, eliciting a glare from Lyle.

"You are going to run down the physical evidence."

A case like this wouldn't be broken by concentrating on the who or what, but the why.

"I'm going to find myself an art aficionado."

Lyle preferred working alone anyway.

Ah, it was truly divine. There were few sensations that compared to the feeling of a hot shower, even if it paled itself in comparison to the feeling of hot blood spurting out onto her. The almost scalding liquid cascading down to patter against her flesh was exquisite, especially after a day and a night that had been full of frenzied activity. From the killing itself, to the frenzied ecstasy of creating her newest special piece, to the lugging a dead body around, corpses were frustratingly heavy, to the drive to the very outskirts of the city to dump the body, it had been quite the busy twenty four hours for Elizabeth.

Steam billowed up, filling the glass booth in which she showered with a haze and the red haired woman broke from her reminiscing to realize that she had been in the shower for far longer than she had intended originally. Even with the faint hum of the fan trying to clear away the humidity the room beyond the glass walls was full of steam as well.

Savoring one last moment of the warm pitter-patter of water against her flesh, she reached up and ran a delicate hand through her long red hair, before stretching out fully. Then with clear regret she turned the handle that would end the flow of water and opened the glass doorway. Before leaving she took the time to wring out the water from her hair and then she stepped forth into the foggy bathroom. Elizabeth reached for one of the fluffy white towels that she kept in the bathroom and began the process of drying herself.

As she did so a glance at the mirror, even through the fog coaxed her into smiling. The euphoria of her last kill and creation hadn't yet faded, leaving her in a state that made everything seem so much sweeter. She took pride in her appearance, the way her slender body and gentle curves drew the gazes of men, the way she could charm them into her grasp. It was almost too easy sometimes to lure her victims to their doom. But, even without the benefit of being able to lure in those she needed to use for her creations she took pride in her ability to maintain herself.

A little while later the red haired woman lounged upon her favorite chair, an old leather armchair that was nearly as old as she was, wearing a white bathrobe and with a cup of tea perched upon a saucer on the coffee table beside her. A delicate hand reached out to pick up the cup, bringing it to her lips so that she could sip at the warm liquid as she watched the coverage of the news play out, looking to see how her latest work was being taken.

'Casanova strikes again!' That was the most common tagline she saw, with the 'Vampire of New Orleans' also appearing a respectable number of times. As she watched newscasters speculate on the killer's motives and unfailingly refer to her as male, Elizabeth laughed. They were all so closed minded, thinking that this had to be the work of a gay man, that there was no other explanation. She found it amusing, but was also grateful for it, as long as the authorities were looking for a man, it was very unlikely they would ever find her.

Even as she drew amusement from the inept way the authorities believed her to be a man, she found it frustrating that no one appeared to appreciate the artistic quality and symbolic nature of her works. She had seen the true essence of these men and then captured it eternally through their blood. Yet, the public couldn't seem to understand, reacting only in horror or revulsion. With a frustrated sigh Elizabeth picked up the remote and pressed the button to silence the television set as she got up from her seat.

Crystalline Memories would be opening for the day soon and she had to get herself properly presentable, and she would have to give no indication that she had been awake all night. As incredibly unlikely as it was that anyone who visited her gallery would have any reason to draw any connection between her and the murder, it behooved her to appear well rested.

"One triple-shot latte."

At the field office, ensconced in his leather seat with feet up on the desk and staring at the computer monitor, Lyle barely acknowledged Jerry's attempt to weasel back into his good graces. Fetching coffee was about all Jerry was good for.

"What are you doing?"

Still, the other man hadn't picked up the hint, so after taking a sip of the beverage, Carter sighed and turned to meet his keen expression. "Running the MO through VICAP."

The Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, or ViCAP, was a database designed to help catch the nation’s most violent offenders by linking together unsolved crimes. A serial rapist wielding a favorite knife in one attack might be identified when he used the same knife elsewhere. The system was rooted in the belief that some criminals’ methods were unique enough to serve as a kind of behavioral DNA, allowing identification based on how a person acted, rather than their genetic make-up.

"So far, no hits. I'll tell you what Jerry, if you want to be useful, you can take over."

Carter picked up a notepad containing a list of words scribbled in barely legible handwriting from the desk with a flourish, stood and thrust it into his rookie parter's hand. "Try every keyword on that list, then every combination of every keyword and then every combination of every combination of every keyword. I don't give a rats ass how insignificant it might appear, print off every result the database throws up. I'm off to the Lab."

New Orleans might be in the grip of a serial-killer, but nothing changed the glacial momentum of bureaucracy and Lyle knew the physical evidence from that morning's scene would take up to a week to process, the DNA even longer, and there was no point in rushing them. However, whilst he'd been waiting for Jerry to return from Starbucks, the lab had called to advise a copy of the print found on the corpse was available. Good news and bad news. It was fast, but almost meant it likely wasn't a reproduction as requested.

"But..."

The man's mouth fell open as Lyle tapped him on the shoulder and continued onto the door, not deigning to respond. That should keep Jerry buried in paperwork for the rest of the day, and out of his hair.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Hey Al." After passing through security, Lyle waltzed straight into the crime-lab, speaking to Alice Ryan, an assistant lab tech. "You got that reproduction for me."

The blonde turned and returned Lyle's friendly smile. Unlike with Jerry, since he'd arrived in New Orleans, Carter had attempted to get on good terms on those who could do him favours. "Sorry, no can do, they have it under the lights now, but if it's like the others, they won't find anything. Best I could do was this."

She moved aside and indicated a poster sized photographic enlargement of the print left on the corpse. The image once again raised goosebumps on Lyle's flesh and a shiver ran down his spine. Even in a photograph, the medium of the original was patently obvious.

"Thanks, Alice, I owe you dinner." Lyle watched as she rolled up the print and dropped it into a cardboard cylinder, his brows raising when, after she was done, she collected four more cylinders and proffered all five.

"You sure do. I thought you might want the previous four as well. Your perp is one fucked-up human being."

"Aren't we all, Alice, aren't we all. I'll call about that date." Not that he would, considering both were well aware she was happily married, but the flirting game was fun. "If there's any developments, contact me direct."

"Will do, last I heard they still hadn't identified the victim."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Half an hour later, Carter surveyed the exterior of Crystaline Memories art gallery from the driver's seat of his dark-blue Chevy Impala.

He could have gone to an FBI's forgery expert, or one of the artistic consultants on a b bureau retainer, but he'd resisted that concept. The graphic prints had been left with the bodies for a reason and whilst the work, as far as his untrained eye could see was of a high quality, he wasn't looking for a brush-stroke analysis or a criminologists perspective. Others were already working on that and running the images through a series of visual recognition databases. Comparing them against millions of others down to the tiniest matching detail to see if that produced any names.

Carter was more concerned with what the art meant. Not to the viewing audience, but the artist. Were there hidden meanings or symbolism in the poses and/or in the medium itself? What could a trained eye of one who herself painted for a living, rather than simply appraised others work for pay and often gave only answers they believed they were expected to give, discern that they couldn't.

A she.

That's one of the reasons he'd chosen this particular gallery from the plethora that had his internet search had thrown up. There'd hadn't seemed a whole lot of difference between them otherwise and, after spending his days hunting down and communicating with the dregs of society, if given the choice between an hour or two spent in the company of a sixty-year old flamboyantly gay - and likely pretentious - artiste and an attractive woman, he'd choose the latter every time. Attractive, Elizabeth Rescorae certainly was in the images provided by Google.

Her name rolled quietly off his tongue as he pushed open the doors of Cyrstaline Memories, feeling slightly incongruous in the double-breasted black suit perfectly tailored to his athletic frame, polished black wing-tips, crisp white shirt and neutral tie. To anyone who'd ever watched a movie, the outfit, replete with sunglasses, concealed Glock 22 holstered on his right hip and neatly cut short brown hair, just screamed FBI agent. Despite that, Lyle displayed no hesitation in waltzing right on in, intent on asking a complete stranger to view the Vampire of New Orleans bloody handiwork.

If the woman was a true artist, she was sure to have seen worse; even if only fictional representations of the tortured and maimed.

Elizabeth's Face Claim
Elizabeth's Dress



It was true, Elizabeth would have liked to have gotten the chance to curl up in her bed, surrounded by soft pillows and enmeshed in silken sheets following her shower and the ever so eventful night she had just been through. But, in the face of the pure peace of mind and delicious sense of satisfaction that creation brought her, satisfaction that would in her experience last for a while before fading, little things like missing out on a proper night's sleep seemed truly minor.

Perhaps had she known how slow of a day it would be, that no one would come in at all for the first three hours that she was available she would have taken a nap. However, there was no way for her to know that, and it was essential that everything at Crystalline Memories seem one hundred percent normal. Maybe it was slightly paranoid but Elizabeth had always believed that there was no reason to make unforced mistakes, if she left even the most unlikely to be noticed clues she could be found out. It would be a true tragedy if she was discovered, her identity uncovered and her art ended before she finished. She was certain there were many more men out there who needed to be eternalized. Without her they would eventually wither and die, their essence lost forever and their beauty unrecorded.

And so despite how slow the morning had been, Elizabeth had spent it on the bottom floor, in the gallery proper. In one respect it was a positive, she got to spend the morning reading and periodically casting an idle eye towards the door to make sure no one had slipped in unnoticed. When the gallery was empty it was as if the place was her private collection, savoring the beauty that surrounded her. At least some of it was beautiful. Many of the works were garish and superficial things, undeserving of display in her humble opinion. But, the artists who created them had paid her good money to display them and sell them to those who might be interested, and while Elizabeth had standards, quite high ones in fact, she didn't mind catering to the business side of things on that particular front.

She also quite loved what she had done with the place, turning the lower floor of what had once been her family home into a splendid gallery. It had taken only a few touches to make the olden style house perfect for the part. The exterior had already been perfect, and of course she played a role herself by dressing the part with her elegant dresses and graceful mannerisms. This was a place for those with cultured and elegant tastes, those who could truly appreciate the old as well as the new.

Her attention was drawn away from her book by the sound of the door opening, a sound that at times she might have missed, but with no one present it was easy to notice. She took a bookmark and slid it into her book, marking the page before she set the leather bound volume down upon one of the endtables near the various chairs in what had once been a living room and now was one of the main display rooms. Then she rose from her seat in a graceful motion and began to make her way to the foyer.

There Elizabeth was greeted by a sight that surprised her, almost making her practiced welcoming smile, the winning expression of charm and light that normally captured at least the desires of men who saw her, slip off her face. It actually faltered for the briefest instant but she was quick to restore it, at most it would appear she was suprised but had gotten past it. In fact there had been a moment of almost existential dread, the presence of a man who was either from one of the alphabet soup agencies, or a bodyguard, neither her normal clientele. That had almost spooked her, could she have made a mistake and left some sign that led to her? But then she reminded herself how incredibly unlikely that was, doubtless it was simply the one day someone like this would walk in her door to look around.

Aside from her momentary surprise her face maintained the warm welcoming expression that she normally put on for newcomers, and perhaps a little bit warmer than normal as she quickly assessed, liking what she saw and catching a slight glimmmer of sorts. A sign of potential? No matter, her urges had just been satiated the night before and so a glimmer was all it was. "Hello! It's my pleasure to welcome you to Crystalline Memories. I'm Elizabeth Rescorae and this is my gallery. We have many fine pieces on display if you would like to look around."

A brief hesitation before she spoke once more, her tone slightly playful. "So which alphabet soup agency do you represent?" In truth the playful seeming question was anything but, a number of answers would allay her concerns, and a number would deepen them. "And how may I help you today?"

Flashes of colour caught Lyle's eye as he entered Crystalline Memories, and he surveyed the pieces adorning the walls and taking up space in the gallery. His gazed move to one item to the next, not stopping for any more for more than a second as he swept across each in turn. He felt nothing, no lift in his spirits, sense of spirituality or kinship, no instinctive draw to any of the works or desire to pause and inspect one further. However, that wasn't unusual. At school Math's English, Science and Athletics had been his forte with creative pursuits the bane of Lyle's otherwise near perfect grades.

He'd never possessed an iota of attraction to them and not once in his life had a piece of art 'spoken' to him, as he'd heard others claim. Too lacking in distinct purpose, Carter's mind was a logical one, grounded in reality and facts. After he'd graduated College with a Degree in Criminology, he'd followed his Sheriff's Deputy Father, into Law Enforcement and although Picasso's works had affected him, it wasn't because of the grisly scenes depicted or the paintings themselves, but the idea of the person behind them.

Using human blood as the medium and the lack of evidence left at the crime-scenes told Lyle the city of New Orleans had a depraved and highly intelligent maniac on its hands; a killer who wouldn't stop until captured. The intellectual challenge of being pitted against such a foe, not art or other similarly nebulous concepts, was what had engaged Carter's senses and why he'd chosen the Bureau over other agencies. They dealt with the worst of the worst.

As he moved deeper into the gallery, it became clear that he wasn't alone in his disinterest. Crystalline memories was empty, and he swiftly returned his focus to the women behind the counter, who Carter had noted on entry. He'd immediately recognised her as Elizabeth Roscarae by the mane of red hair, but only when he got closer did he notice the vintage dress. Unlike his exquisitely tailored and latest fashion suit, her attire perfectly suited the ambiance he assumed the old house cum art gallery meant to achieve. The mirage that on stepping through the doors, you'd been transported back to a more genteel and elegant time.

When he reached the counter, he removed his sun-glasses, revealing a pair of intelligent blue eyes. "What gave it away?" A smile lit up his face, and he appraised her up close. Prettier even than in the photo's. "I'm afraid I'm not here to peruse or purchase." Lyle withdrew his FBI credentials from his shirt pocket, flipped the card over and held it up so that she could read it. "FBI Special Agent Carter, Ms Rescorae. I'm hoping you'll be able to assist in my investigation."

Why her, particularly?

Lyle would fabricate some bullshit if she asked, but for the moment, he spoke as if she'd been specially selected, rather than picked out from amongst a myriad of others thrown up by a Google search, the final decision coming down to her being young and attractive. "I presume you're aware of Casanova and his artistic endeavours?" The question was rhetorical, as you'd have to be living under a rock not to have heard about them, and Lyle continued on, nodding down at the cylinders he carried in his arms. "It's my case, and I was wondering if you wouldn't mind taking a look at these and providing an unbiased critique of his work."

He arched a brow, then made a show of appraising the deserted gallery, before he returned focus to Elizabeth. "That's if I won't be dragging you away from anything important?" Lyle's tone contained a deliberate hint of sarcasm, intended to subtly goad her into an inability to refuse. Simultaneously, his open expression radiated friendliness and good humour. "Don't worry, there's no blood."

Alphabet soup agency confirmed. Elizabeth wasn't surprised, though in reality neither of her suspicions being confirmed would have surprised her, the very upper crust did occasionally frequent art galleries like hers. Alphabet soup could mean the FBI, which could bode quite poorly for her. Though, had this man been here to arrest her because of a critical mistake she had made, or here because they were suspicious about her, he would have to be quite the actor because she saw no tells to indicate he was suppressing anything.

Even with some internal turmoil and concern running rampant within her mind Elizabeth was ever the consummate professional, and ever the actress herself. "The suit was a hint, so were the sunglasses, oh and the concealed gun you are wearing on your hip there." She answered his question about what had given him away, acting for all the world as if this was simply friendly banter, and that she wasn't considering the odds of managing to incapacitate him if he was here to arrest her. "I actually was torn between private security and an alphabet soup agency and just guessed." She winked, best to appear fallible.

Then Agent Lyle Carter introduced himself, displaying his credentials and revealing that he was in fact an FBI agent. He hadn't said his first name but she'd quickly read it off the credentials he'd flashed. Her smile faltered slightly in that moment, fortunately if he noticed it was likely that her faltering smile would be attributed to his statement that he wasn't there to browse. As loathe as the red haired woman was to admit she had made a blunder the presence of an FBI agent in her gallery on this day, stating that he wasn't here to look around was making her consider that she might have in fact done so...

Then her thoughts did an abrupt double take, what had he just said? It was a rare moment, Elizabeth didn't quite know how to respond. An FBI agent was in her gallery, not because she had erred, but because he wanted her help with something? Fortunately her stunned silence did not seem to have been noticed by the man as he continued to speak and explain what he meant. That was when the smile began to return, a grin creeping its way onto her fair features.

It was all she could do in that moment not to burst out laughing with sheer mirth. This Agent Carter wasn't here to arrest her or because he suspected her. He was here because art was her job and he wanted her to examine her own handiwork. It was delightfully ironic and wonderfully amusing. The sense of dread she had felt since first spying the man now fully receded and her expression truly took on the full luster and warmth that she reserved for those who had that special glimmer about them.

As Lyle cracked his joke, sarcastically glancing around the empty expanse of Crystalline Memories, Elizabeth laughed. She was grateful for something that could be construed as a joke, it let her release her mirth at the situation without appearing odd. Then she spoke again, glancing downwards at the counter and an appointment book, that was utterly empty for the day. "Well, first I need to check my availability." She hesitated, furrowing her brow as if she was really examining the blank page there before she raised her gaze again.

"I suppose that having no paying customers scheduled to come in today I can take a look at your killer's work for you. And don't worry, I've never been squeamish." Quite the opposite in fact, blood had always fascinated her. Her eyes flickered over Lyle's features again, that glimmer of sorts still present. He had features that would look so wonderful upon a canvas... No, she would not let herself think that way, she was too smart for that. It would be utter lunacy to even consider that. Besides his using her as a contact made it even more unlikely anyone would ever suspect her. To think she had begun this interaction with fear.

"But since I do have walk ins, I will close for the day, that way we won't be disturbed." Elizabeth continued to talk as she walked around the counter and strolled past him, passing rather close by, though not quite too close to be proper. She flipped the sign on the window from open to closed and then returned. "Shall we take a look?"

Grinning at Elizabeth, Lyle leaned further across the counter. Her teasing banter had captured his attention as much as her attractive features, and the outfit she vintage outfit. The latter, possibly because it was something he wasn't accustomed to encountering, and he had to stop himself from too obviously attempting to appraise what lay beneath. These days, he'd become so used to teens and even older woman, who really shouldn't, being barely dressed in micro-skirts and midriff tops that left nothing to the imagination, whether one wanted to imagine it or not. Elizabeth Rescorae's dress did just the opposite, it piqued a man's curiosity to discover for himself.

Hopefully he betrayed no evidence of those non-professional thoughts, which flowed through his brain in an instant, before he responded, "Very observant, but I guess that's part of your profession," and his hand slid down to rest on the gun-butt under his jacket, surprised she'd noticed. "Though, Private Security?" He shook his head, "I'm almost insulted."

A little flirtation never hurt to calm the waters, especially as the majority of citizens froze when confronted by the FBI or a member of a Federal Agency, instinctively attempting to recall what crimes they'd committed, and if they faced arrest for the time they jaywalked back in 1973. It was human nature, and Lyle believed he caught a momentary flash of that concern in the woman's expression. If so, she quickly recovered and subsequently appeared to have no fear of Law Enforcement or set against them, the latter which he also often encountered in his profession.

Whilst she glanced down at her appointment calendar, he watched with an amused expression, uncertain if she was genuinely checking to see if was expecting clients or simply returning his sarcasm in kind. He raised a brow when she said she was free, "I'm glad I'm not disturbing you then, and I'd be surprised if you were squeamish. Some of the so-called 'artwork' I've seen would put any crime-scene to shame."

After she'd stepped past, close enough for him to inhale her scent, Lyle followed her with his gaze. "Never understood that, the desire to depict the bloody and brutal, don't we have enough in reality? They'd change their minds if they were unlucky enough to discover what dealing with a dead body is really like." The woman's ass looked quite delectable as far as Carter could gauge, however, he only gained a brief glance.

By the time she'd placed the closed sign on the door and made her way back to him, he'd turned to face the counter, uncorking the cardboard canisters and speaking over his shoulder. "These are only prints." Carter placed the first one on the far left. "I'm not certain what I'm after. Just your unbiased professional impression. Not on the artist's talent itself or a brush-stroke analysis, although anything you could provide in that regard could be useful, but more so on what do they depict, what do they mean. Is there a theme, an underlying motivation or inspiration; a driver. Have you ever encountered anything like them?"

Looking up to catch her eye, he motioned to the five images spread out on the counter, placed in chronological order, left to right, of each crime,

- Twenty-two year old College student, Richard Lomax; simple stylized portrait.
- Thirty-six year old lawyer, Donovan Grieves; Demonic elements
- Twenty-three year old street performer, Eryk Peters; Wizard
- Eighteen Year old Danish Tourist, Malthe Jensen; Bloody King
- Yet to be identified; Classical Hero,

and stepped away to allow her to view the series, all painted in a vibrant but slightly different shade of bright crimson. The specific hue of the subject's own blood.

"The originals are still in the Lab, but if it helps, I can get you access." Lyle smiled. "Well, originals of the originals. If I knew where the actual originals were, I wouldn't require your assistance."

The thing was, that since Lyle had to stop himself from being too obvious about staring, he had already been staring enough for Elizabeth to notice it. It wasn't surprising to her, very few men who she encountered didn't seem to take that brief moment to look her over, some more obviously undressing her with their eyes than others. He had to his credit been much less overt and obnoxious about his assessment than many were, which earned him at least something of a point in her book. And he was amusing, which earned him another point. "What, you can't picture yourself defending the rich and famous as they browsed high class art galleries like mine?" The red haired woman teased.

At his comment that that he would have been surprised if she was squeamish, and then continued to describe his distaste for the depictions of bloody and brutal scenes Elizabeth was fortunately turned away from him, as for a brief instant her expression was far less pleasant. Her opinion of him in that particular moment fell somewhat, but this was a subject that she was particularly comfortable with discussing. After all it was her passion, in more way than one. "The things you see in the here and now are fleeting and ephemeral. Everything fades and everything changes. Art can be a way to immortalize a moment or a scene." She continued to speak. "Just as it can immortalize the good, so too can it immortalize the bad. Everything deserves to be preserved in some capacity." Just like the men she captured in her works, had she not created the masterpieces that unbeknownst to Lyle were mere stories above his head, they would have eventually faded and been lost to time.

As her own voice trailed off and she had returned she was able to see her own work spread out upon the table. At least, pale reflections of the wonder that was her work. These were quickly produced print outs, nothing compared to the pure vibrant wonders that she had crafted. This was a moment where Elizabeth did not have to feign shock and disgust at the sight in front of her. Lyle would almost certainly take it to be disgust at the subject matter and revulsion at the horrific sight. But, in truth it was more rooted in her sadness at how her masterpieces were so lacking in the medium he had presented them in.

"My word..." She raised a hand to cover her mouth in a somewhat antiquated gesture. "The news truly did not do them justice." This was the tricky part. She needed to be insightful, but not too much, to give this agent enough to keep him interested in what she had to say, but not appear as if she had knowledge she shouldn't. To be honest, it was a bit of a thrill, knowing that she had to tread so carefully here in this moment.

Elizabeth let him meet her gaze, raising her eyes up from the spread of print outs upon the table. "Well the first thing I can tell you is that whoever this 'artist' is, he has varied tastes, and there looks to be some symbolism to the works." She leaned over a bit and with a hand pointed to the first portrait, the most normal of them. "This one is the outlier, the others are all fantastical in some way, demons here, a wizard, a blood-soaked ruler, and a classic hero." She paused then taking a long moment to consider, or at least appearing to consider. She already was pretty sure what she would say next.

"It's possible that the killer was working at random and these concepts were simply things in his mind. But it is also possible that there is some connection, something about each victim that would lead to them being depicted this way. And if there is something about the victim that gave rise to the portrayal, then he must have known his victims." Elizabeth trailed off then, her gaze intensely running over the images before her.

Eventually she raised her gaze up once more, meeting Lyle's once more and returning his smile. She was most curious how he would take the breadcrumbs she was leaving, where he would go with them, and what might come of it. "I think that the closer to the original, the better I will be able to pick things out that could be helpful." She gestured back to the copies on the counter. "These are far less detailed, courtesy of being copies of copies I expect which isn't uncommon.

Cognisant that he'd most likely been caught checking Elizabeth out, Kyle wasn't fazed. The Agent's gaze had been brief and respectful, an appraisal of the visage before him, not lascivious or lewd. As an art connoisseur, shouldn't she appreciate his attraction to visual aesthetics? "Have you not seen The Bodyguard? If I was left to protect a Diva like Whitney Houston, I'd likely end up shooting my client instead of the bad guys. Though, I have been told I bear a striking resemblance to Kevin Costner."

After the conversation shifted, on noting the Elizabeth's demeanor and hearing the passion in her reply, Lyle swiftly attempted to make amends for his comment. "Sorry, I didn't mean it like that. Of course, you're right. It's just that I see a little too much of it and the grief that results. The dead all have families, husbands, wives, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters and friends, people who cared for them and would rather still have them alive than immortalised. I do live in the here and now."

"Which is why I've come to you, a person who can understand the work and what it means in a way that possibly I never will." He held out his hands, both as a peace offering and in acknowledgement of her superior expertise. "My loss, considering art dates back to the dawn of cilivilsation. The cave paintings of the Australian aborigines and American Natives, the hieroglyphics of the ancient Egyptians, every other culture, they all can't be wrong, can they? My ex-fiance used to call me one of the smartest, but yet culturally bereft, men she'd ever encountered." A smile played across his lips, "That's why she's my ex. It's also untrue. Whilst I avoided the ballet like the plague, there's nothing more magical than listening to talented saxophonist. One of the reasons I chose to come to New Orleans."

Uncertain as to why he'd explained himself so thoroughly to the woman, Lyle changed tack and gestured to the prints. "Anyway, take a look." He stepped aside to allow her unfettered access. Despite being surprised, considering their conversation, to see an expression of disgust cross her features he remained silent, so that she could concentrate on the task at hand.

"We presume the outlier was the first time he'd killed." Carter spoke when she was done and turned to meet his eyes. "A trial-run and after gaining confidence that he could get away with murder, he evolved with the next four. That isn't unusual with serial-killers, but what is, is the speed. Five victims in such a short space of time? This guy has escalated quickly and he's not going to stop. It makes sense he knew the victims, however, the issue is that we've uncovered no links between any of them, so where did he know them from?"

Lyle didn't notice his hip touch Elizabeth's as he swiveled to the counter, and splayed his palms on the wood. "What have I missed?" From left to right, he scanned the prints. "The only thing they have in common is that they are unusually handsome and photogenic, and no-one saw or heard a damn thing. It's as if they all simply vanished out of thin air. That gels with them going willingly with someone they knew and trusted, but what is the damn link?"

The sound of his fist striking the counter top faded as he turned back to Elizabeth, but the frustration remained evident in his tone. "Without that, if the killer was working at random and each piece is a one-off inspired by the individual victim - their looks, profession or whatever - after he takes them, there's little hope of finding him unless he makes a mistake. But, what if?"

"What if?" He glanced back at the images and tapped each with his index finger. "There's a greater purpose behind it. An attempt to immortalise them in order to recapture something he'd lost. Childhood trauma, a memory or tale that made him feel safe, and the demon, wizard, blood-soaked ruler and classical hero are characters who all exist in the same story. A story, visual or written, that he only he knows the plot-line for, but that we need to figure out. Can they all be interrelated?" When he returned focus to Elizabeth, Carter's piercing blue eyes bored into hers as if he expected the woman to provide a concrete answer.

Slowly, the new-found excitement dissipated and the look Lyle shot Elizabeth was almost bashful. "Thanks, I've a lot to mull over. As long as you swear to secrecy, I'll leave the prints here whilst I put my thoughts together, draw up a list of questions and organise availability of the originals. I'd like you to examine those for connections, seemingly incongruous details that the artist has incorporated into more than one of the images, and anything that reminds you of something you've seen before. No matter in what context or how long ago. In the meantime, I'll re-look at the original investigation of the potential links between the men, so we have both bases covered. Just let me know when you're free."

Not if, but when. As far as Special Agent Carter was concerned, Elizabeth Rescorae was now an integral part of the investigation. Albeit an unauthorised one whose existence he'd need to keep off the books and hidden from his superiors.

"Then it is true, you would most likely make a quite poor bodyguard. After all the task is protect your client, not slay them." Elizabeth retorted, "Though in a way your job is much like that of the bodyguard, save that instead of protecting an individual you protect many people."

It was fortunate that Lyle upon hearing the way in which the red haired woman had spoken took note of the degree of passion in her voice, and that he did try to make amends for his comment that had been taken to degrade art, especially her own art. Elizabeth had allowed her gaze to soften, to change from one which showed her displeasure into one that was while still disappointed in appearance, understanding rather than condemning.

She hadn't really expected him to notice the way his comment had bothered her, nor had she expected him to take the time to explain his reasons for having made it. It was actually interesting, and did point to the one unfortunate thing about her artwork. Elizabeth did admit, at times, in brief flashes, that she would have liked to have had more time to view the living forms of those she had captured in her masterpieces. While fleeting and ephemeral beings who would have inevitably faded, some of them had been quite enjoyable to associate with. Still, that was the price of being immortalized, and great art required great sacrifice. But even if her brief reminder of the costs was only a tickle in her mind it was enough for her to be genuine as she spoke in reply.

"I understand, to you as a protector," she referenced her earlier words, "the fact that the darker mediums remind you of pain that comes from loss you see first hand makes you less able to appreciate their value." Her words did not condemn, nor were they judgmental. "You clearly aren't culture less, without culture you would be unable to recognize the merits of my argument." She offered a smile in return, and filed away the information he was presenting for future reference. "Besides, I too find ballet dreadfully dull and boring."

After she had shared her thoughts on the images she listened as Lyle responded, carefully observing how he was taking the breadcrumbs that she was leaving for him. It was clear he was picking up on some of it, and also clear that the fact that he hadn't been able to piece more together was frustrating him. Just as notable though was that he was still laboring under the same false assumptions as the news media and other authorities, such as that the killer was male. Elizabeth had no intention of correcting that mistake. And so she spoke in response to his last theory, not addressing the threads to could have led to consideration that the killer was not a man, making an obvious possibility, that they had willingly encountered someone they planned to sleep with, one to consider.

"It is certainly possible, if each of the images have deeper significance they could represent something from his life. Perhaps then the first victim was a reminder, a trigger, similar in some way to a particular figure in his life, that would explain why unlike the others no liberties were taken." The red haired woman offered, leaning over the images as well, and running her gaze over them once more. She was again struck by how poor the quality of the prints were, it almost pained her to see her masterpieces reduced to this.

Then she spoke again, raising her right hand and winking as she did so. "I Elizabeth Rescorae solemnly swear to disclose nothing we have discussed about these murders to anyone else." She had every intent of honoring her oath of secrecy, she had no need to share, and this was working out wonderfully. She would lead the man hunting her on a wild goose chase, it was delightfully ironic that he had come to her for advice. "And I will certainly see what else I can glean from these replicas." She gestured expansively to the prints upon the table.

Then she paused for a moment. "While I have prior plans for tonight, I believe that tomorrow I can make time in the evening. It isn't always this quiet during the day." Technically she had no plans for the evening, other than catching up on her lost sleep, but that was important, especially since it was getting harder to maintain the illusion that she had not been awake all of the previous night.

"And the boredom would be unbearable, although I wonder how good of a job I'm doing protecting those many." Lyle's expression turned sombre when Elizabeth's reply caused him to glance at the images of the five dead men, reflecting the weight of responsibility he'd taken on. Any further murders between now and capturing the perpetrator would be on Carter's hands. Although intellectually aware that wasn't true and he could only follow the evidence where it led, that instinctive reaction reflected the man he was and what made him good at his job. He'd never stop the pursuit.

Despite not being a connoisseur of the visual arts, Lyle was observant and immediately noted the change in Elizabeth's body language and demeanour. Her friendly response to his peace offering made it clear they weren't on the exact same page, but at least each appeared to understand and respect the others view. "Or possibly it just reminds me of those I couldn't save." He flicked her a smile in return, trying to make light of it. "I'll ask my Shrink next time I visit. At least, I'm happy to hear you don't consider me culture-less and it's always nice to meet someone who shares my dislike of ballet. I believe the demise of my relationship started when I embarrassed my ex in front of her work superiors by snoring through a premiere performance of Swan Lake."

As she'd appraised the images, Lyle's mind had whirred. He took in her comments and the possibilities Elizabeth offered up, whilst simultaneously conjuring up is own and making random connections between them all. Like jigsaw puzzled pieces, scattered information sat in his mind and he'd need time alone to allow them to sink in and coalesce in his mind. That familiar sensation of being at a complete loss until it all came together added to the man's frustration.

It was a mental process that couldn't be rushed, and the scenario he blurted out had come without a lot of conscious thought, the first of what he hoped would be a multitude of angles to consider. What he did know was that accompanying the majority of serial-killer cases was some childhood trauma or trigger, whether that be psychological, biological or a combination of both nature and nurture. He just had to gain a bead on what, in this case, it was. Still, something about how easily five men had vanished without a trace nagged discordantly at him.

His mood lightened when she raised her hand and winked, causing Lyle's eyes to crinkle in amusement. "I'll hold you to that because it really would a pity to have to place you in cuffs." He arched a brow at Elizabeth, a teasing expression on his face before he realised the sexual connotations of what had slipped from his lips unbidden. Lyle gritted his teeth, hoping she wouldn't take offence and swiftly carried on. "Tomorrow evening works for me. To be completely forthcoming, some in the Agency frown upon the engagement of civilian assistance and I also need to keep your involvement out of the media."

Not quite full, honest disclosure, for Lyle was going completely outside agency regulations and covering his own ass. He flipped a card embossed with his name and contact details from a shirt pocket and proffered it to Elizabeth. "So, it'll need to be off Bureau premises, and it'll take me a day to walk the originals out of the Lab. Call me tomorrow and we'll organise a time and place." Which would be his apartment,. He refrained from offering to provide dinner as that'd make it appear too much like a date.

Elizabeth nodded slightly, it was not a dramatic movement of her head but it was enough to show that she had in fact heard and understood what he was saying. She wasn't sure that she truly understood the emotions that he was talking about though, being reminded of people that he couldn't save, the closest thing she could think of was being reminded of pieces that she could have created but never did. Those who for some reason or another did not work out. Fortunately there was no need for her to say more there and the brief nod appeared to have gotten the message across well enough for her not to have to speak on the subject of loss, something she knew she wasn't really able to portray as well as people expected.

Things took another turn after Lyle had finished listening to what she had decided to share with him, after she had finished dropping her breadcrumbs and letting him follow the trail where he wished. The red haired woman raised a brow and raised a slender hand to cover her mouth as a surprised laugh slipped from between her lips. "My word. That hardly seems an appropriate thing to say to a lady." Her words were a gentle reprimand, but the tone made it clear that she was hardly offended. That plus the way she was laughing.

Without truly meaning to Elizabeth found herself giving the agent in her gallery the once over yet again. He certainly had appealing elements, and there was the glimmer of potential. She could almost see the way his visage would look externalized upon the canvas in that most precious of paints. Before her thoughts could go to far down that lane she stopped them through force of will. There was no question that using a federal agent, especially one who was coming to her to investigate her crimes as the subject for one of her paintings would be an exercise in absolute lunacy and an unconscionable risk. Since her urges had so recently been sated it was not hard to push the thoughts away, but, it was strange for her to be seeing the glimmer in others so soon after she had last created.

"I'd much prefer to be outside of the media coverage. Some people in my business think that any publicity is good publicity, but I know that to be associated, even tangentially with such actions as your perpetrator has committed" she gestured to the low quality print outs of her own work, "is foolhardy in the extreme." She smiled. "That is to say, do not worry. I am happy to keep out of the spotlight." She reached out to take the card from Lyle's hand, their skin briefly coming into contact in the process before she set it down upon the counter.

"I will,..." Elizabeth cut herself off, raising her hand in front of her mouth again as she unsuccessfully worked to stifle a yawn. "Sorry, I had a late night." A brief pause followed as she internally kicked herself for revealing any sign that she was less than 100% alert and sharp. "I will call you tomorrow then and we can work out the details. It was a pleasure to meet you Agent Carter, though I wish it had been under less dire circumstances." She began to walk towards the entrance where she had previously fastened the closed sign and locked the door.

Upon reaching it she unlocked it again and stood to the side so that her sole patron of the day could leave unobstructed. "Before you go, I must ask. Why did you choose me?" It couldn't simply be a coincidence could it? Elizabeth was beginning to think it really was, but this, a query at a moment that would be unexpected, she thought it might get a response from the agent that would give things away.

"Speaking before I think is an ingrained habit that's hard to break." Lyle grinned in return, glad that the comment hadn't offended Elizabeth. Her laughter was refreshing, considering the circumstances and the content of the previous conversation, and although the words were half-apologetic, the way his lips remained curled up in a smile and his eyes didn't waver from hers made it obvious that he wasn't totally sorry he'd said what he had. She was attractive and intelligent and that were subjects they disagreed on was, to Lyle, a positive rather than a negative. If only his ex had shared his penchant for treating intellectual argument and debate as foreplay.

When the conversation returned to its serious note, the humour in Kyle's expression faded. He followed her gaze back to the images that he'd momentarily allowed himself to forget about, and nodded in agreement, "A case like this attracts the ghouls and the crazies, and I presumed you'd want to keep those away from your gallery. I don't think they're the type most likely to purchase your wares, and the media are the worst of the lot, they'll suck every last drop of blood out of you that they can. Maybe that's where we should look for our killer." A brief smile flitted across his face at the joke, before Elizabeth's yawn and subsequent explanation reminded Lyle that he'd taken up enough of her time.

Stepping in behind her to follow Elizabeth to the exit, Lyle glanced around the store, which hadn't seen a customer since he'd entered, wondering what had kept the woman up so late. Ms Rescorae didn't appear the party animal type, but then one never knew, particularly when it came to artists. Or she could be one of those who worked best or was at her creative peak in the early morning hours. As they crossed the gallery, he trailed a hand across a few of the pieces and peered back at them when they passed, attempting to picture what other people saw in them. He still hadn't figured it out by the time they reached the exit. "Thanks for your cooperation. It was a pleasure to meet you Elizabeth and despite the circumstances and our artistic differences, I've a feeling we'll work well together."

Lyle waved goodbye and had one foot out the door, before her surprise question caused him to stop mid-stride. He turned back to face her, a contemplative expression on his face, and composed an answer which was mostly truthful. "I simply googled art galleries and was drawn to the name. Crystalline memories, something about it attracted me. Not to mention, most of the Bureau's consultants are retired elderly men who only offer assistance to keep their pretentious egos fed. You could say I'm biased against that type so the clincher came when I saw the owner was a young woman who'd offer a fresh perspective." Lyle shot her a companionable smile. "I hope that answers your question. Goodnight Elizabeth, I look forward to hearing from you tomorrow."

The woman remained in his mind, as did the case, when he entered the SUV. There'd be no sleep for Lyle that night, first he'd call in at the morgue to speak to the coroner, then continue on to the lab and check if any progress had been made on potential tyre track matches between the dumping grounds, before he stopped at the office for a debrief with Jarrod and to grab the files. After that, he'd pick up some takeaway Chinese and a bottle of scotch and spend the remainder of the evening at home searching for anything the original investigators at missed.

At eight in the morning, as soon as Alice Ryan was due to commence her shift, Lyle planned to be waiting with a coffee and muffins as the opening salvo in his attempt to charm her into releasing the originals of the prints to him, and complete the bureaucratic red-tape afterwards. At least he had Elizabeth's company to look forward to in twenty-four hours or so, if he managed to remain awake and alert enough to engage in coherent conversation.