Body dump in a vacant lot on the lower East Side. I arrived on the scene in the early morning haze. “Lieutenant Kit Finish, NYPD detective,” I introduced myself to the officer who had been first on the scene. “What we got?” I asked.

“Female. Maybe early thirties.”

“Nothing else?”

“Nah.”

The coroner boys had her on a gurney, and started to load her into the meat wagon. I stopped them, pulled back the blanket and looked at her face. “Poor kid.”

She was gently eased into the ambulance for the trip to the morgue. I watched it pull away. I lit a cigarette and then immediately tossed it. I was trying to quit. It started to drizzle.

Later that afternoon, I called the coroner for more information.

“Hello, Kit.”

“Hello doc. What have we got on our DOA?”

“Red headed female. Late twenties to early thirties. Strangled. Black stiletto heels; blue panties; red bra; yellow ribbon in her hair. The press boys have already dubbed her ‘The Four-Color Dahlia.’”

“Anything else?”

“Tatoo on her right shoulder,” the doc said, “the letters ‘A-M-U-S-E’.”

“’AMUSE?’”

“Right. And on her left shoulder, the letters ‘C-O-M-I-C-S’. What do you make of it, Kit?”

“Maybe she had a thing for comedians. What else?”

“She had a staple in her navel. Possible Playboy Playmate.”

Doc told that joke every time. I said nothing. I didn’t laugh. Bad juju.

A neighborhood canvas had found her purse in a nearby dumpster. Inside, a wallet with a twenty-dollar bill, a MetroCard, and a driver’s license. Her name was Magenta Yellowblack. Her address was in the East 30’s. I drove to her address and had the super let me into her apartment.

Her apartment; stacks and stacks of comic books and books about comics. In the kitchen, mountains of “Puck the Comic Weekly” – the Saturday funnies section from the Old Journal-American. In the den, “MAD”; “Little Lulu”; “Barnaby”; “Peanuts” paperbacks. The living room was crammed full of superhero comics. Every room had luridly colored titles everywhere: “Tales From the Crypt”; “Plasticman”; “The Spirit”; “Batman”; “Captain America”; “Robotman”.

She was more than a fan. Maybe a groupie? I checked her bedroom closet. No “Catwoman” or “Batgirl” costumes. Dead end. I stuck a stick of gum in my mouth, chewed twice, and spit it out. I was trying to quit.

I had a stoolie in the industry; “Spot” Black. “Spot” was an inker. “Spot” inked a new wave of “Tijuana Bibles.” “Spot” was a hack. For a Benjamin Franklin, he’d spill what he knew. We met for drinks at the “Backwards S” café.

“Spot’s” beady eyes shifted left and right as he drank his beer.

“Magenta Yellowblack? Yeah. All the guys knew her. She talked real breathy. Her nickname was ‘Sighin’’”, he said.

Sighin’ Magenta Yellowblack. Some AKA.

“Did she have any enemies?”

“I dunno. She saw a lot of guys. Maybe one of ‘em got jealous.”

“What kind of people are these guys?” I asked.

“Most are freelance. Some are organization guys. There’s that family out in Jersey.”

“The Sopranos?”

“Nah. The Kuberts. They’ve even got their own school for this thing of ours.”

“Anybody else?”

“There’s that New York Italian family; John, Senior and John, Junior.”

“You don’t mean the Gott –?“

“Nah! The Romitas.”

“Is that all?”

“The Buscema Brothers. But, they’re no longer with us. Just like Gil Kane and Will Eisner and Harvey Kurtzman and Carl Barks. She knew all the guys; Carmine Infantino; Neal Adams. She knew the king – Jack Kirby! And, she even hung out with dames; Ramona Fradon, Marie Severin Trina Robbins, Shary Flenniken, Dale Messick, to name a few. Sighin’ Magenta knew everybody! Even my old buddy Wally Wood. Gosh, I sure miss workin’ with Wally.” His beady eyes shifted left and right.

“Give me some names,” I told him as I slid a piece of paper and a pencil towards him.

It was quite a list. I’d check on it tomorrow. That night I had a dream. Sighin’ Magenta came to see me.

“Find my killer, Lieutenant Finish,” she begged.

Next day, I went down the list.

All Ditko would tell me was, “My art is me.” That, and “I am my art.”

Romita admitted knowing her, too. “She always called me, ‘Tiger’”, he said wistfully.

It was the same story everywhere. All the artists admitting knowing her. All claimed to love her but never laying a hand on her. All claimed their significant others knew about her. All had airtight alibis.

Don’t know why, but in my second-to-last interview, I asked the artist, “Where can I find Wally Wood?”

“Wood’s gone a long time. By, the way, nobody who really knew him and worked with him ever called him that! He was ‘Wallace’ Wood - or ‘Woody’ if you were a good friend.”

And suddenly, I knew I had one more artist to interview.

An hour later, I kicked in the door of “Spot” Black’s studio. Nobody home. I tossed the place. I found an old window blinds cord that stank of stale perfume stashed under one of the cushions of his couch. I also found a room full of oil paintings of comic book panels, very similar to the works of Roy Lichtenstein.

“What are you doing here?” came a voice from the front door. It was “Spot”.

“I’ve got a warrant, ‘Spot.’”

“You-you can’t prove a thing about anything.”

“I’ve got the murder weapon. Found in your studio. And I’m pretty sure I’ve figured out the motive. All I need is a confession.”

“To hell with you!” he spat.

I noticed he had a garbage disposal in his studio sink. I grabbed the wrist of his right hand and dragged him over to the sink.

“You gonna spill?” I snarled.

“Drop dead, Finish!”

I grabbed a Winsor & Newton Series 7 Number 3 sable watercolor brush from his drawing board and dropped it down the drain. The garbage disposal chewed it to sawdust. “Spot” screamed.

“That costs forty dollars!”

“Let’s try a Rapidograph pen next!” I threatened.

“I’ll talk! I’ll talk! Yeah! I killed her! I did it.”

“Why?”

He gasped and swallowed. “J-Jealous! J-jealous of the other guys!”

“Liar!” I said.

“Jealous!” he insisted.

“Don’t jive me with that jazz!” I told him. “A class dame like that wouldn’t have anything to do with a hack like you! I saw your paintings in there!

“You were gonna be like Roy Lichtenstein; paint a lot of oils that mocked the comics and make a killing in the snob market. But your plan backfired.

“When people go to the movies and see the Silver Surfer fly through the New York Skyline, they realize that Kirby was ahead of his time. When they see Dr. Octopus climb a building with his mechanical arms, they realize that Ditko is a visual genius, too! These guys and all the others were way ahead of their time; technology had to catch up with them!

“When you realized that people wouldn’t look down on comics anymore – and, therefore, your paintings wouldn’t sell – you wanted revenge! And you knew who to kill.”

I took a deep breath and continued.

“’Sighin’’ Magenta Yellowblack. The doc in the morgue has dyslexia. The tattoo on her right shoulder wasn’t the word, ‘AMUSE.’ It was two words: ‘A MUSE’. You killed the inspiration for all those comics people. And, you’re gonna fry.”

I took him downtown, and not too gently, either. Back at the precinct, I got some bad news from the Chief.

“Finish, we can’t hold him; the body’s disappeared.”

“Whataya mean? Since when do bodies disappear from the morgue?”

“This one’s gone. No body; no case. Let him loose.”

“Okay, boss. But I can’t seem to find the key to my handcuffs. Must’ve dropped it back at ‘Spot’s’ studio. I’ll take him back myself.”

And I did. I got him to his studio and unlocked his cuffs. Before I left, “Spot’s” garbage disposal had a seven course meal of all his art equipment.

It was near midnight when I was done typing up my report. I heard high heels on the wood floor. I looked up, and there was Magenta.

“Can I have a drink from that bottle in your bottom drawer?”

“I thought you were dead.”

She laughed quietly, and said, “They can’t kill me! Some psychiatrist tried in the 1950’s. Even Senator Kefauver tried to arrest me once. That big ol’ Teddy bear Bill Gaines protected me.”

I poured her a shot. She took it and threw it back. Took a Kleenex from her purse and daintily dabbed her lips.

“You really know all those people?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know George Herriman, creator of ‘Krazy Kat’?”

She gave me a Mona Lisa smile, and murmured, “Li’l Angel!”

“You were the muse to Elsie Segar, the guy who created Popeye?”

“I am what I am.”

We were quiet for a moment. The she spoke.

“Kit, I’ve got to go now. Thanks. Thanks for avenging me.”

“One last question, Magenta. Why? Why did they do it? All that craftsmanship. All that visionary work for low pay and no appreciation. Why?”

“Ditko already told you. Their art is what they are, and they are their art.” She leaned over and kissed me and slowly walked out of my office.

I was too wound up to go home and sleep. I pulled a “Calvin and Hobbes” paperback out of my top drawer, and as I opened it, I thought I heard a breathy giggle.