Page 65 of Killer Clone

If Chris Murray was friends with Darwin Rhodell, then Chris Murray was capable of anything.

Someone was delivering a eulogy in the chapel, and Stella heard a round of laughter more polite than heartfelt, but still, it was nice. She didn’t slow down to listen in, though.

She’d sat through too many of those services, accepting the condolences of family members she’d rarely met and hadn’t seen since, listening to people who’d barely known her father orbrother and, yet, needed to inform her how kind they were and how much they’d be missed.

The funeral services had helped Stella’s mother. She’d been busy making the arrangements. Talking to family and friends before and after the service had brought her mother back to life. The color returned to her face. She even smiled occasionally.

For Stella, after the deaths of her father and brother, the days of the funerals was the worst. All she’d wanted to do was climb into bed, pull the covers over her head, and dream of a time when they’d both been alive. She hadn’t wanted to see or speak to anyone. She just wanted her grief to sink into her bones and hibernate so she could function again.

Stella held her badge at arm’s length to the attendant at the chapel door. “We need to speak to Chris Murray.”

The attendant’s gaze slid to the door. “I’m afraid he’s busy right now. Perhaps you’d like to wait. He shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes.”

Stella could imagine herself yanking the chapel door open, telling Murray to get his ass outside, and braving the stares of the mourners.

Chris Murray had associated himself with a serial killer, a sadistic murderer who’d shot her friend and taken Stella herself captive. A friend of Darwin Rhodell was no friend of hers.

Hagen headed to one of the chairs by the wall. He was ready to wait.

Stella cocked her head toward the door. “Go and get him, will you?”

The woman hesitated, then slipped into the chapel. At the opening of the door, a woman’s voice flowed out, barely intelligible above her tears. The gentle closing of the door cut her off.

Stella waited. By the wall of the lobby, Hagen took a place in the middle of a row of three seats. He sat with his elbows onhis knees and his head down. Stella leaned on the attendant’s lectern.

The door opened. The attendant returned, closely followed by a man with a long chin and a slow, ambling gait on legs that could’ve been made of rubber. He eased the door shut without making a sound. When he spoke, his voice was little more than a whisper dragged out of him with a long rope. “Hello again. How…can I help you?”

Hagen rose from his chair and joined Stella. “You didn’t tell us you were friends with Darwin Rhodell.”

“With…Darwin? Oh.” He took a deep breath and straightened his back. “I see. Yes, I can understand how the FBI might find my connection to Darwin…interesting.”

Stella folded her arms. “Yeah, Mr. Murray. We do find that interesting.”

The attendant watched them closely. Murray said nothing to her. Instead, he pointed toward the end of the hallway and led Stella and Hagen to the top of the stairs. They were less than ten yards from the attendant at the door to the chapel. But the trip was unnecessary.

Murray’s voice was so soft that no one farther than a couple of yards away could’ve heard him anyway. “I was…friends with Darwin. He was a…a gifted artist.”

Stella’s jaw tensed. Praise for Rhodell grated like nails on a board, but Murray wasn’t wrong. Rhodell’s gallery had been filled with beautiful paintings of sunsets and nature, all vibrant colors and deep impressions. He kept the horror in the back.

“And you didn’t know what he was doing?”

Murray rubbed his chin. He thought before he answered, but his words still dropped slowly. “No, no. We weren’t close like that. I paint in my spare time. Just a little. Nothing like Darwin, of course. I’m not so talented. And his style is very different from my own. Much more vibrant.”

Stella scanned the funeral home’s lobby. Three paintings hung on the wall, all reproductions of nineteenth century pastorals, dark and brooding. Rhodell’s more dramatic pieces would fit right in.

“How did you come to meet him?”

“I took one of his classes. He became interested in my work, and we became friends. Of a sort.”

Hagen lifted an eyebrow. “How do you mean?”

“We’d meet sometimes. Take walks. Paint together on occasion. But I stopped speaking to him about a month before his arrest.”

“Really?” That timing was suspiciously convenient. Coincidental, even. There was little in Stella’s world that was convenient or coincidental. “Why was that?”

“He asked me if I could…give him some body parts. From the morgue.”

Stella stared at him. “He asked for body parts. And you didn’t think to tell anyone?”

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