My cousin shared this on Facebook about his brother’s death:

Thanks to everyone who has reached out—we’re all still in shock at the loss of my brother.
Here’s what we know:
The art world failed Raphael again and again and again. We live in a world that doesn’t allow classical artists a means to monetize their talents, and even when it seemed he was starting to get somewhere as an artist, the art world seemed to find a way to disappoint him—its cliquishness and snobbery unable to accommodate a fiery personality like his.
His talents were ludicrous. They were amazing. He was the top tier of top tier talent, so good at what he did that even his peers at elite institutions like the New York Academy of Art were jealous and resentful of what he could do with a simple ball point pen or pencil; and yet he found it impossible to make a living as an artist.
In the 1400s, he’d have been celebrated and rewarded the way his namesake or Michelangelo or Leonardo or Caravaggio or Botticelli were, commissioned by the powers that be to make beautiful public spaces. 500 years later people would have stood in awe of his paintings, drawings, and sculptures. Michelangelo was famously punched in the face by a jealous rival once, and I think it no stretch to say Raph would have been a celebrity in the Renaissance of equal heft, needing to hone his boxing skills against jealous peers. The jabs he endured were typically slights of a more subtle variety.
Alas, not the world we live in.
And so like many talented artists have to do, Raph turned to making a living at something else to subsidize his artistic endeavors. In the last few months he went from resenting his own ungodly talent—finding it a curse at times—to actually enjoying art as a release while on the road.
He took well to driving a truck, and was instantly good at it. All the miles on his Yamaha FZ1 had given him a steady hand and a gift for commanding an 80,000lb missile across the plains of CO and KS.
He was finally finding his way in the world, and instead he was taken from us by the worst stripe of toxic masculinity.
What we know so far: in an effort to be close to the truck depot where he was dispatched, he took a room in a house in Commerce City, CO; his landlord was a woman. This woman also rented a room downstairs to a crazy person, a man who felt entitled to the romantic affections of the landlady.
He has apparently confessed to the police that he assumed the reason his romantic overtures—at 67 years old himself—were not being returned was Raphael.
And so he murdered them both over it, ambushing them in cowardly fashion.
Later today my brother Dan, Dad, and I will go searching for meaning in all of this by meeting the detective on the case.
I suspect there is none to be found.