"Every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter."

Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray.

...

His black R50 BMW had reached such a speed whilst rolling over the slippery pavement, that his heart started to beat wildly.
What his eyes had just seen had been enough to give him back that feeling he missed so badly, and that image, carved in his mind, was a proof that all of his nightmares -and dreams- were coming back to life.

He couldn't believe himself he was excited about what had just happened.

How human was that? To feel some sort of adventurous turmoil after of someone else's death; but for him, this wasn't just another dead body. He had found what could bring an important lead to the "Painter Case," which had been wrongly  "closed" for three long years now. The urge in his heart to get home and discuss this with his partner was immense.

This new murder, if his intuition was right, was going to approximate them to the most ferocious serial killer whom the century had known. If the police reopened the case -something they would have to do after he gave them his analysis of the crime scene-, Klein would go back to work on the only thing that ever made him feel alive.

Perhaps it didn't seem like a big deal, but this guy had been hunting people for a long time, and he was brilliant enough to know how to circumvent the law forces, so any small step forward meant the world to anyone after him, especially to Jude Klein.

The Painter had been astute in his first real encounter with the police three years ago. It all turned from being almost the end to a closed case, even when there was not enough proof to do so. The police had assumed he died in the explosion, and that he would never be back again.

On the other hand, Klein had been the only one clever enough to know the latest scenario was just a scheme, a very well planned deceiving, probably because the Painter killer was losing himself after being pushed towards the edge of his glory, and he needed a break back then.

What a better strategy than that?

He fooled everyone, but not to Klein. Too bad no one listened to him when he said it was the biggest mistake to close the case. Now someone was dead, and the police were still trying to ignore it.

Nevertheless, Klein had to hurry. Every wasted minute was a chance of losing him again, and a possibility for more innocent people to get killed.

Finally, the city was on the sightline. Tall buildings and golden street lights made of the view a stunning modern painting. The travel to his flat wasn't as fast as he would've wanted, as the afternoon was crowded with big cars and slow-motion traffic lights.

Klein fastened his bike, smashing against the wind curtain and shivering to the thin raindrops crashing on his thick leather jacket. His mind kept going through everything over and over, examining thoroughly every detail he caught back in the crime scene.

He couldn't let go of things that had insulted him, harmed him or challenged him, and this guy was, after all, a rude, aggressive and challenger person. Klein had already got inside his game, and it was too late now to go back.

The Painter was slithery and smart and acted like a kid showing out his toys, only his, were artworks made of dead bodies. He was cocky and ruthless. He enjoyed pain and human agony.

The detective climbed down of his black and silver beast, taking off the helmet, bright black as well, and rushed to go upstairs, where his home/office was.

The street seemed dead in silence. The gilt lights of the tall street lamps had become brighter as the sky was darker. It was barely half-past seven, but the weather wouldn't allow the daylight to reach the city.

While stepping over the wooden staircase that led upstairs, Klein felt a sudden shiver drilling through his spine. It was a feeling that indicated his senses had felt and seen something out of place, but his brain hadn't completely understood it yet. It was a feeling he had rarely felt a few occasions in his entire life.

He opened the door quickly and rushed inside, perceiving a shadow escaping through the opened window.

The cream curtain waved at the cold breeze sneaking inside the room, and a muddy footprint was marked on the window frame. A crimson flash reached his eye corner, forcing him to look at his right. A scarlet thread was pouring out of his bedchamber, staining the purplish-grey carpet with a dark tone. Klein opened the door, hoping to be mistaken, but his perception was right.

As soon as he stepped inside, the naked frame of his partner, Steven, was laying inert over his white sheets, still pouring blood, in an unnatural position, whilst a disgusting big black bird was feeding on his body. His back was arched and his right arm suspended by thin metallic threads, pretending a defensive position as if he was protecting himself from the bird. His face was pure horror; his mouth was opened in a deaf scream, and his eyebrows frown in silent torture. His eyes were telling despair and pain, partially covered by the caramel locks of his hair that seemed to be placed in purpose in that way. The blood river extended down to the floor and reached Klein's feet, freezing his body and provoking a churning inside his chest. Klein couldn't move or even blink. He had never in his life felt what he did at that moment.

How much frustration, anger, even fear crossed his blood... Steven was his only friend in so many years, even though when Klein never used that word to refer to him. He had been the first decent assistant he ever had since he became a private detective. The sweet Steven resisted the constant bullying Klein put him through and was always respectful, polite, and smart. He never left like some did, or shut his opinion just to please him and keep his job. It would be impossible to find anyone to replace him.

Even so, Klein couldn't feel sadness. All he felt was the rage. A burning, uncontrollable red fire growing inside him, flowing from every heartbeat to every bone and muscle, and still he was frozen.

After a while, standing there, his face became expressionless, like he had been possessed by an evil spirit, and he came back from the shock. It was clear now as water what had just happened.

The scene in his bed was a human reproduction of the Furias from Titian to Ribera, an XVI Century painting.

Only one creature in the world he knew capable of such an atrocity.

"The Painter."

He had just crossed the line.
He had entered his home and took something valuable from him. Then he escaped in front of his nose.

He went to the kitchen, grabbed a plastic bag, and wore a pair of silicone gloves. He went back to his room, hoping he didn't erase any evidence he could use to find the killer, and slowly approached to the black-feathered bird. His right-hand stroke the neck of the vulture, as the other one opened the plastic bag, locking it inside until the last oxygen drop left its filthy blood.

Many black feathers fell over the floor, whilst the animal was fluttering to save its life which Klein had taken ruthlessly as evidence. It was easy though.

After taking several pictures of the crime scene, the detective grabbed his cell phone and dialled the police department number. A female voice, like made of ice, answered with the usual phrase and question.

"I want to speak with detective Jorah."

"The detective is in the interrogation room right now. He can't be disturbed."

The woman seemed bored with repeating the phrase, as the words came out lazily and slowly, blowing the nerves out of Klein.

"Listen to me carefully, Mrs. 'whoever incompetent you might be,' this is an urgency bigger than any case he's attending. Tell him this is Jude Klein. Tell him I have news".

A bitter sarcastic tone came along with the words, and a grin was drawn on his lips. On the other line, all to hear was the woman's breath.

"The Painter is back."

...

A/N: The painting Furias from Titian to Ribera, referred on the chapter, Is the inspiration of "The painter" to this chapter's murder. (The image is not allowed to be shown in wattpad I don't know why)

The painting is from the 16th century, belonging to a group of canvases painted for Mary of Hungary.
This one is the image of Tityus, who dwelled in Hades for his attempt of raping one of Zeus's lovers, and whose liver was constantly pecked at by a vulture.

Hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as I did. I know is just the beginning, but I wish you would stay for more.

Don't forget to hit the star if you liked it.

See you next chapter. ;))