solutior:

No one likes you, Leonardo.

                           ‘Too erratic,’ they say.

                                  ‘Too energetic and unusual,’ a voice exclaimed.

                     [ _{!YOU ARE THE DEVIL’S ARTIST!} ]

    A sigh. ‘Ignore them, Leonardo,’ he continued to resist the FBI and forgot all about the glasses man, making sure their sweaty palms stayed away from his sketchbook. Those pages chronicled his life; home to the earliest blueprints of Lady with an Ermine, protector of the young man’s knowledge. If the authorities ever found out about his drawings, they would ask questions—a lot of questions.

                                  — I hate questions.

    “Viewing my own work,” brows rose as he gazed up at his painting, pleased with the fact that he managed to become a renowned painter at such a young age. “—Is that a crime?” The artist flipped through his sketchbook, finding the drawing of the crime scene and glasses man—side by side.

              [ a m a d m a n by right ]

   “You were as still as a rock while you stood beside the corpse,” Leonardo mumbled, not caring if a few FBI agents overheard. “It was fascinating, really!” He closed the sketchbook before the elder can see it, and yawned. “I haven’t done any harm to the crime scene: I haven’t contaminated the evidence, nor climbed over the yellow caution tape. I stayed quiet— like a proper witness.”

               Leonardo Da Vinci

                                     One of the y o u n g e s t renowned painters {in the world}

The FBI that had tried to escort the painter out of the room suddenly stop as they turn to look at each other, and then the painting that hung on the walls. As if coming out of a stupur, they apologize and back away. 

The painter flips through his sketchbook and Will catches a glimpse of the corpse that lay on the ground and what could only be him standing beside it. His stomach gave a lurch when he saw the sketch – not entirely sure if he should be flattered or not that the younger man had drawn him while his imaginations brought the killing to life in his mind, tainting it. 

He keeps quiet about the drawing though and averts his eyes as the painter closes the sketchbook quickly, hiding it from view. His lips purse into a thin line as the painter talks, hoping that the younger man would not stop to ask any questions.

                                 He can catch insane men

                                            Because he can t h i n k like them

                                                       Because he is INSANE

“Would you – by any chance – have witnessed the crime itself?” He asks, though already knowing the answer. If he had seen the ripper, the ripper would have seen him. And the ripper was too careful to be seen by anyone.

Always worth a shot, though. 

solutior:

Leonardo, you are a _BAD,^BAD man.

                              ❝ — that’s my biggest strength. ❞

You never bother to listen to theatrics. Maybe your teacher needed to dissect your [ brain ] instead, discover what made you TICK.

                  — He did that once, and the insides were ridden with _maggots.

     The shift of the crowd leaving the museum gave him an opportunity to linger behind, concealed in the shadows that gave so much comfort during the darker days of his life. Quickly, he took his journal out and flipped toward the back, glancing at the body then at his intended drawing: repeat several times. The man would have called it insanity—rods and sticks impaled through the night watch’s body, picture frames situated around him as if it were a piece of art. He had to agree… the human body was a work of art and needed to be viewed for public pleasure.

                         Leonardo, you know b e t t e r than that. Appreciating the human body is different than feeling excitement from a [ murder ].

                     You are a painter, an _INVENTOR, a scientist, and a ^{MATHEMATICIAN:} not some { criminal } with a knife running about.

                                              —  t i m e favors the s t r o n g —

        Fingers curled around the edges of his journal, their grip tightening when glasses man closed his eyes; appearing like a statue almost. At this moment, the artist was grateful for invisibility—not a single soul bothered to look behind and spot a black-haired, middle-aged, grey polo wearing, and black jeans man who was not drawing the glasses man in his closed-eye state. Of course it intrigued him! How can someone solve a murder with their eyes closed?

                             [ tick, tock. tick, tock. ]

       Silence was his strongest virtue in the face of excitement and concentration, brows creased as the pencil flew over the pages, sketching crime scene and glasses man, quieting all surrounding noises to nothing more than murmurs.

                                                  …   ^{AM I THAT UNNOTICEABLE?}

     Now relocating to a spot closer to the scene, Leonardo leaned against the wall and continued his sketch. Lead scratching paper became increasingly loud, yet the authorities present thought him a ghost. Yes… all artists are ghosts.

                     Your work is seen, but no one sees the man behind the art.

       One of the authorities present finally noticed and ushered him out, but the artist didn’t listen. He never listened — knowing the outcome; escorted out of the art museum, was not one he wished. Besides, the paintings and sculptures all around him are his brothers and sisters—there’s even one of his paintings, Lady with an Ermine, hanging on the wall. “—Leonardo da Vinci!” He pleaded to the police officer, clutching the journal with both hands. “I’m da Vinci—can I stay here?” Black hair bounced with every word spoken, hands moving erratically. “—please!? I learn best from witnessing it first hand, not told to me by some… some idiots!”

                                   Fwum

The FBI disappear

                                  Fwum

The body is gone, too, blood travelling back into the body that was now very much alive. Now standing upright and with a large mop in his hands, he moves around the area as he cleans, whistling to himself. He has earbuds in so he does not hear the footsteps that approach behind him. As he stops whistling briefly, he senses the person behind him and turns around, mop dropping from his hands as he doe so.

                                ‘I wrap my hands around his head to keep him in places as my thumbspush out his eyes. He screams and tries to move, but he is blinded and cannot see what I’m about to do. This is my design.’

He lets the man drop to the floor, desperately trying to crawl away as his eyes continue to bleed. Picking up the broom that fell to the floor, plunges it through the man’s throat. He is silenced, but still alive. 

                                 'I sever his vocal chords with surgical precision. This is not a fatal wound. He is unable to yell, but he is still alive. I will keep him alive for as long as possible. He will feel everything but cannot do anything about it. This is m–’

“… am da Vinci!" 

Eyes snapping open, he stumbles back a step to regain his balance as he looks around himself frantically. His hands shake and they close into fists at his sides in an attempt to conceal the shaking. Sweat covers his forehead and he stares at the body still mounted on the differnt pipes and frames in front of him.

                               How did you [ feel ] when you saw Marissa’s body?

        … Guilty.

                              Because you couldn’t save her?

                  B e c a u s e  I  f e l t  l i k e  I  k i l l e d  h e r

He looks around to find the source of the voice that snapped him from his imagination and sees the FBI shooing away a young man, no older than 25. His eyes are frantic as he tries to move around the agents. A sketchbook is held in his hands and a pencil wedged in  the curve of his ear. 

It is another moment before he recognizes the name that the man is shouting. Leonardo Da Vinci – the man behind the painting of Lady with an Ermine,  that hung just on the wall beside them. The lack of art around his small house do nothing to show his appreciation for it. Having been attracted to the emotions painters are able to show in their drawings, he’d always enjoyed putting himself into the story behind those emotions; he is able to feel what the painter felt when creating the piece, and what they are hoping to portray with the stroke of their brush. 

Leonardo da Vinci is a name he is familiar with.

                              A killer who turns his victims into A R T

He walks over to where the artist stands, shooing away the FBI. 

"Why are you here?" 

solutior:

It was wise to ^{R U N .}

But the inventor                  [ lingered ],

h y p n o t i z e d by the artistic value of the paintings.

Oh, he didn’t forget about the _CORPSE on the ground, did he?

                                That was part of { art } as well.

     Swift hands quickly ran over a page in their journal, sketching the crime scene in front of him into a picture. Brown orbs fixed themselves on the bloody body, surrounded by forensic scientists, crime scene investigators, and FBI agents attempting to gain knowledge on whoever did it. Certainly not him, who sat on a bench nearby, out of view from most authorities present, lips pulled tight as the drawings in his journal became increasingly complicated. Wavy black hair gave him the appearance of a man in his mid-twenties, but either way, that was not far off.

                                 _CURIOSITY killed the ( cat ).

     Slowly, Leonardo closed his journal and tucked it away, placing the pencil on the curve of his ear, and drew closer to the crime scene, taped off by yellow caution tape where more people, the art museum visitors, gathered. The corpse also drew him to the inner edge of the crowd, to the point he almost fell over the yellow tape if not for a helping hand from behind. His eyes found a curly-haired, eyeglass-wearing FBI agent at the scene as well — who if felt that someone was staring at his back, Leonardo went back to the corpse, pupils widening and turning as if they were machines: scanning every crevice of the scene, every part of the body.

               I grab the nurse and t h r o w her to the ground

                        I hold her still as I slowly squeeze her eyes, letting the blood run DOWN my fingers.

                                   She is blind, so she cannot see what I’m about to do next 

                                                  t̸̡̨̰̔͆ͮ̌h̵̷̡͉̬͍̽̐͆i̷̜͉̬̠̤̪̓̅͂̈́́̕s̱̝̪ͬͯͤ̓͂͆ ̧̒̓ͤ́ͮ͛ͫ͑҉̮̦̠̘̱͇̪i̷̳̥̮͉͍̤̒̀ͮ̚s̸̸͕͍̺̙͕͓̘̝͆̾ͤͭ͐ ̸̳͓̗̦ͣ̅̐͌̽̐̕m͐̿ͤ̃ͭ̍̊ͦ҉̡͍̝̘̼̠̮͕ͅy̨̡̳͚̣ͥ̓ͯ̉͆ͅ ̶̘̫̣̟̜̦̯ͫ̿͆͞d͕̖̥̭̃ͯ̇ͫ͗ͦ͆̅̀̀e̩̖̻͈͇̅͗̂̓ͨ̉̒ͅs͙̬̩̥̩̟̄ḭ͓̾̎̓̒̓̂͘g̖͎͇͈̞͔̤ͥ̊̓ͪ̉͂͗͋n̛̳͚ͭ̀ͭ͋ͩͩͯ͟

The shrill ring of a phone jolts the profiler up and out of his bed. Cold sweat covers his body and soaks his clothes. His hair hangs damp and flat against his forhead. His bed sheets are soaked through. Eight pairs of curious eyes turn to him as he sits up, ears perked and tongues slack. His dogs lay around his bed, all eagerly awaiting him to pick up the phone and stop the piercing sounds of the ring. He stifles a yawn and rubs the sleep from his eyes as he slowly drags his feet over to where the phone is. 

                                  [Incoming call: Jack Crawford]

He groans to himself at the sigh of the caller, knowing the agent will have something new for him to work on.

                                   You don’t know what seeing this d o e s to me

                                               You want to quit? [ QUIT ]

Reluctantly, he answers the phone, holding it up to his ear. Jack starts talking the minute he answers without so much of a ‘hello’. He speaks of another murder – in an art museum. Body was found in a similar position as those that had fallen victim of the Chesapeake Ripper. Gorged eyes, impaled multiple times by long sticks, rods, broken frames from paintings. It had been one of the night-time security guards.

Will nods and 'mhmm’s as Crawford talks, listening only to that which affected him. He hangs up once Crawford finishes talking and starts to get ready.

                                   Ah, yes.

                                           A unique c o c k t a i l of {personality disorders} and {neurosis} that make you a gifted profiler.

“… When was he found?”

“Just this morning when they opened up the museum – one of the vistors found him.”

“You’ve closed off the building?”

“Most of it.”

He walks up the stairs and into the museum with Crawford at his side, telling him all they know about the murder. No more calls had been made to him with the recording of his former student, but in its place was another murder. The crime scene was surrounded by people, FBI and bystanders alike. The profiler’s lips purse into a thin line at the sight of the people – all too excited at the thought of a murder as they climb over one another to get a better look.

“I though you cleared out the building.”

“I thought so too." 

He makes his way to the body as Crawford shoos the bystanders away and out of the building. Most of the FBI look away from him as he approaches, having been told to not make any comment on Will and his method of profiling. Unaware of the man who still stands off the side of the scene, his eyes close and the clock rewinds.