The Painter of Beaubar

In all my days, I have not seen such debaucherous horror as the killer the papers have been calling the "Beaubar Artist".
He believes himself some sort of 'artist' like a character in a penny dreadful, and his murders art. I think I pitied him, until I saw one of his murder scene. Now I only seek to find him at the end of a rope. Unfortunately, he has evaded me so far, and has shown surprising forethought towards jurisprudence and the methods of the constables.
He is toying with us.
I led a squad of constables, heavily armed and with a mage in our employ, into a house down on Tenants Line, certain that we were about to catch an 'artist' in the act of creation, and we could haul him off to his perminent residence right then and there. Instead we found a charnel house, designed and put together for our amusment.
Bodies posed as servants and attendants, welcoming us in to the parlor, where more still held trays of teacakes and coffee. None was whole, either, but an amalgam of bodies. The shear number of limbs present belied a number of victims that boggles the mind even still, not to mention the disturbing fact that it didn't line up with the amount of missing people reported.
The Painter even showed himself a skilled magician, having enchanted one of these... flesh golems to guide us through his series of... exhibits. I will refrain from recounting them all upon these pages, for my own good and to deny the murderer his satisfaction, but that only goes so far in preventing the scars that have been left upon my mind.
Finally, the meat automaton lead us into the attic, and as I climbed up the ladder it made an over the top flourish and presented the Painter's latest work. The far wall was painted in crimson. I knew it to be blood before the coppery scent struck us like a fully laden hackney-cab. A thousand or more handprints layered on top of each other for create the impression of twisting fabrics. A woman spinning, in a long flowing dress. A dancer, exulted in blood. All except for one singular bare patch of wall that still remained free of viscera. 
Then the golem sprang to life once more, producing a knife from Icons-know where, somewhere between it's many limbs I suppose, and drove the blade into the heart of the nearest constable. The rest of our party drew our side arms and let loose, but the automaton didn't seem to care. It had one last task. 
While our bullets blew off chunks of flesh, fingers and toes, limbs and feet, the creature solemnly made it's way to the wall. At that range we couldn't miss, and by the time it was arm's reach from the painting, nothing much remained, but just enough for it to reach it's hand out and press it to the wall in the sole empty space. Then it shuttered and came apart. Ichor splashing and limbs rolling away from each other like the golem had all the thread holding it together removed at once.
It is for the best, as I believe all of our cylinders were empty. 

-From the investigative journal of P.A Lovestrahl, missing.

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