Page 3 of Pink Ink

This entire day has been a collaborative effort that theoretically benefits everyone.

Chad can use the video for auditions, Lindsay can use it for her social media, and the pictures Kimi took will be for her portfolio—even if her art degree is just an excuse to attend university to get out of her mother’s hold.

Three short films down. Four more to go.

It hurts that thirteen hours of filming will only amount to a seven-minute film.

I wish I could vent to Mom about all of this.

Kimi helps me to my feet, and I snatch the knife covered in pink goo off the floor so no one injures themselves, then watch the most recent scene with Nicole. I hit pause when the camera pans to my fallen frame on the floor, and pull up the crime-scene images on my phone, careful to angle it away from Nicole, and triple-check the pose is the same.

No one here needs to know they’re helping me re-create real-life murder scenes—a side effect of my unhealthy obsession with true-crime podcasts and dream to direct horror movies. This whole thing we’re doing is a byproduct of having a “friend” who likes to play show-and-tell with the juicy murders that come through his precinct.

Like this particular one.

I frown, scrutinizing the composition of the corpse. According to my guy on the police force, the subject was a hotshot lobbyist who fell from grace after doing something he shouldn’t have.

Lawrence never gives me any details about the investigation or the victims’ names, so usually I make them up, except the late Mr. Hogarth has been all over the news for embezzlement.

For the sake of art, I improvised and guessed he was a lonely man with nothing but a job and an empty house. That’s what we filmedtoday—except Chad’s dingy flat was my unfortunate substitute for the fancy apartment overlooking the Manhattan Bridge.

Lawrence tells me about any murders he thinks might have been committed by “my guy.” He and the rest of his precinct are unconvinced there’s a prolific serial killer roaming around, but I’mcertainthere is. All of my projects for this class are based on the murders committed by Böcklin’s Shadow, or the Shadow for short—the serial killer I named that the police have been too useless to notice.

There’s no obvious MO or trophy collection that I’ve been able to identify, only the artistic touches to each scene. Sometimes, it isn’t so obvious—a strategically placed hand here, oddly symbolic clothing there, things so artfully done that it’s too perfect to be an accident—but then came Mr. Hogarth.

The reference to the most well-known painting in the world is so obvious it’s mind-boggling, and borderline embarrassing, that not a single detective has spotted it. The killer is making a mockery of New York’s finest, with Mr. Hogarth as the star of the show. He was pointing at a cross like inThe Creation of Adam. The fact that he’s half naked and lying on a green towel is a literal dead giveaway that the Shadow was re-creating Michelangelo’s painting.

It’s dark, depraved, and simplistically genius.

Even with the forensic team’s bad angles and flat lighting, I could stare at the crime-scene photos for hours, picking apart every detail, questioning whether the Shadow added certain items into the frame as filler or for symbolic meaning.

I’ve seen thousands of artworks throughout my life because of my mom and the years I spent working at the museum. None have come close to the artistry of his kills.

He’s the inspiration behind every film I’ve produced this year.

For this project, instead of God, the camera I’m pointing at is Big Brother, all-seeing and omnipresent. But Professor Bradford might be too thick to make the connection.

I hope I’ve got the shot. Even if I don’t, none of us have the time or energy to refilm the scene. Especially since this is due next week.

Screw it.

“Okay, that’s a wrap,” I call out the gloriousWword.

The collective exhale makes me feel only semiguilty for making everyone stay longer than planned.

“Thank fucking Christ,” Chad huffs.

That’s it. I’m never asking him to join again. He wasn’t exactly butterflies and roses to work with either. The prick. His ego, bad acting, and shitty attitude were the reason our eight-hour day turned into thirteen. I’ll get revenge by picking the footage that makes him look like the tool he is.

Alas, someone needs to act like an adult. “Thank you, everyone, for all your hard work today. You all did amazing”—Not you, Chad—“and I couldn’t have done it without you.”That last part wasn’t for you either, Chad. “I’ll email the final edit next week, but please don’t post about it anywhere until the end of the semester.”

Everyone—except Chad—smiles and contributes to the clean-up process. Nicole helps me pack up the combo stands and the other film gear while Kimi and Lindsay clean up the rest, peeling gaff tape and wiping pink liquid off the floor and props.

By the time we’ve all said our goodbyes, it’s almost midnight, and I can hear my bed crying out my name.

“I think I threw my back out when I fought off Chad,” I grumble to Kimi, hugging my light stands as we trudge down the streets of New York City, looking like a couple of basket cases from the pink corn syrup still on me.

“I wish you had punched him for real.”