Still Life: The Randi Lassiter Series, Book 1

by DB Kennison

  The artist had finished the bare spot where the woman was “slain” with muted pigments of flesh and ivory. The red was nowhere inside the body outline. But the way the body had been lying as the red had sprayed around her, the shape did look like a crime scene to anyone who’d seen it produced. She imagined without that knowledge it was an abstract painting. It would look like the use of creative license with color and shape—not the chalk outline of a corpse with unmistakable appendages.

  Jon guided her back to the art prints they’d skimmed past earlier, pieces that she assumed were done in a similar manner as the one they’d witnessed. For the first time, they both got a sense of his visual concepts. Three impressions were hung on the wall and neatly spaced apart. She noted a purchase tag labeling the item as SOLD and read the buyer as Rita Richmond. Just as she’d thought, the misses had the money.

  They stopped in front of the last print and Randi let out a gasp. She trembled but could not bring herself to look away. Even though it had been weeks and she’d seen Larissa in the alley for only a matter of minutes, she knew what she was looking at was the same crime scene.

  Jon put an arm around her, seeing the same thing she did. He pulled out his phone and called his partner. After a brief set of instructions, he turned to Randi. “You okay?”

  She gave a slow shake of her head as her eyes filled with tears.

  Jon lifted her chin and had her look at him. “It’s okay,” he said, keeping her focused on him instead of the wall. “I understand.” He brought his hand around to cup her face and wiped a tear away with his thumb, then pulled her into him and held her as she shook.

  Chapter Thirty

  Randi ignored the steaming mug of cocoa, opting to use it as a hand warmer instead. Unsure of what had caused her to become so sick earlier, Randi didn’t want to put anything in her stomach. Jon’s suit jacket was around her shoulders and the scent of him on the fabric kept her awake. Through the big window, she saw a flash of lightning in the distance as the sky threatened to rain. The temperature inside Hometown Café hovered around seventy degrees, and she had trouble getting warm.

  Claire came to the table and dropped off a piece of apple pie a la mode that they were supposed to share. She looked from Randi to Jon and back, her cocked eyebrow questioning Randi’s choice of company considering the last time they were there. Claire pursed her lips and left to deliver banana cream pie to the cowboy wearing too much Stetson cologne two booths over.

  They’d held off discussing Truman’s art. Jon had placed Randi under the genteel care of Georgia while he and Terri photographed and confiscated the artwork as potential evidence. Truman hadn’t been charged with anything yet, but he was escorted to the station to be interviewed. Jon wasn’t in any hurry to get there. Yes, there were details to attend to, but as long as Truman was in custody they could wait. Let him sweat.

  Jon picked at the pie as they held introspective vigils. Randi got the feeling that Jon wasn’t going to put her through a discussion if she didn’t want it, so she started.

  “So you think Truman must have killed Larissa and documented it in his art?”

  “Sure looks that way.” He put the fork down, having taken only two bites and scooted the plate toward Randi. “You saw the prints. It could have been the crime scene. The only difference was the victim’s hair. Larissa was a blonde, Truman’s portrait was of a red head.”

  “Any chance it could be coincidence? I mean, how stupid would it be to kill her, copy her death on canvas and then show those prints at an area art show? He’d have to have wanted to get caught.” She picked at the pie, feigning interest.

  Jon shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me. I can tell you from experience that the minute you think you have a criminal mind figured out, you really don’t. Ask any criminal psychologist. They can come close to a basic understanding, but each one is different. Each one has his own twisted logic. And at the end of the day none of it makes sense to people like you or me.”

  Randi slipped her arms into the jacket and wrapped it around her.

  “I suppose. I can’t grasp why they kill to begin with, let alone understand the sick shit that gets them off.”

  A look of sadness crossed Jon’s face. He tried to grin at her but failed. “Welcome to my world.” A sorrowful excuse for a laugh came out, followed by an awkward silence before he changed the subject.

  “Well, I don’t know about you but I think we should call it a night.” Jon left a ten-dollar bill on the table to cover the tab and a generous tip.

  The silence on the ride home was deafening. Randi broke it with awkward small talk, tidbits of her life with her cat Tater, her work as a realtor, and the adventures of working with CJ Daniels, former nudist and present-day space cadet. Jon shared some of Dammit’s more amusing habits in return but left out any discussion about work.

  Randi asked the inevitable question. “Dammit?”

  “Yeah, when he was a puppy I had a hard time deciding on a name. I was thinking Ralph or Hank. But I couldn’t keep the little guy in check, and it was always, ‘damn it, stop that’ or ‘damn it, spit it out.’ Seemed to be the only thing he’d responded to.” He went quiet again.

  The conversation felt forced and uncomfortable. Randi wondered why after all they’d been through there would be such a distance between them now. She got the feeling that they would not pick up where they’d left off pre pass-out. That thought made her a little sad.

  When they arrived at her house, Jon walked her up the porch steps to the front door. When she went to give his jacket back to him he grabbed her hand and pulled her against him. With a firm hand at the back of her head, he looked into her eyes and then slanted his mouth over hers.

  She responded, leaning into him without thinking, giving the kiss her full attention. She felt his tongue graze her skin. It was luxurious and shocking at the same time. Randi melted into the embrace and placed her hand at the back of his neck, compelled to assault him with the same passion. He responded with a moan as her fingers wove their way into his hair.

  Abruptly Jon pulled away. A pained expression crossed his face as he fumbled in his pocket for his vibrating phone.

  “Yeah.” He held Randi to him with one arm and gazed into her eyes as he listened, but whatever he heard on the phone jerked his attention away from her. His arm fell away, and he began to pace in a tight circle.

  “Damn it! I’ll call you back when I’m on the road.”

  “Your dog knows how to call you?”

  Jon chuckled as he pocketed the phone and looked down at Randi with longing. “Oh, and your cat can’t?”

  “Is it about Truman?” She asked.

  “No. Some other psycho.” He looked to the heavens as if begging for help and gave an ironic laugh. “Or just shitty karma. Again.”

  A bolt of lightning lit up the sky, followed by the crack of thunder. Jon gripped Randi by the shoulders and placed a warm kiss on her forehead. “Got to go.”

  She saw the regret in his eyes, which made her feel a bit better, but under the circumstances it was a small consolation.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Wearing women’s boxers and a tank top, Randi finished her nightly face cream ritual before she crawled into bed and pulled the covers up under her chin. The thunder and lightning had moved on, leaving a light, drizzling rain in its wake—perfect sleeping weather.

  Tater jumped up next to her and kneaded the bedding with her paws to make a little nest and curled up in it. Randi was exhausted, fighting a headache that threatened to turn into a migraine. She needed to turn the light out and go to sleep, but she couldn’t. The events of the night kept replaying in her head. There’d been too much disturbed art, murder and mayhem—and far too much handsome detective—for sleep to come easily.

  Randi wasn’t sure if she could think of Jon as anything more than a verbal sparring partner. The problem was she couldn’t f
orget his kiss.

  There was a sudden bang against the side of the house. She leapt up, sending bed covers and Tater flying. Her feet found the floor so fast she almost fell over.

  “What the…” She wanted to pull the curtain aside to see what caused the noise, but she was too frightened. It sounded like someone had thrown a rock at the wall. She reached up under the lampshade and flipped the light off. Standing still in the dark, she held her breath as she strained to hear the sound again. She’d locked the front door, hadn’t she?

  As her eyes adjusted, she pinched the edge of the curtain and pulled it back. With the lights off, she could make out the silhouette of bushes and trees, and the fence surrounding the yard but saw nothing that could account for what she’d heard. She caught movement in the corner of the yard, but couldn’t be sure if it was anything more than the arborvitae swaying in the wind.

  After a time, she dropped the curtain and crawled back in bed. It took a while before Tater felt confident enough to jump back on the bed.

  Randi placed her chilled hand against her forehead as she tried to relax. She experienced nearly half a minute of nothingness before her brain was pummeled with angry visions: Truman “slicing” his assistant to create his art, graphic portraits that mimicked an alley murder. Sharp, painful imagery bombarded her like golf-ball sized hail.

  Truman had captured the essence of violence on every canvas. Bodies, one or two at a time, were laid out, posed and maimed in paint. Art? Yes, they were abstracts. Split flesh, exposed bone, and bright blood was distinguishable in every one of them. He couldn’t possibly be stupid enough to murder and then paint it as art…

  Yet the posing was too identical to be a coincidence. It was the same, right down to the arrangement of her fingers. But why the change in hair color from blonde to red?

  Randi idly scratched Tater’s ear, and was rewarded with a deep rumbling purr. “Maybe he changed the hair so it would differ from the crime,” she thought aloud. “Artistic license? Maybe he thought no one would recognize her.” It was possible, but far from convincing. Why keep everything else the same? But was it the same? Only those who witnessed the real crime scene or the performance recreation would see the finished product as a reflection of murder. Without that perspective the pieces were just conceptual art.

  Her eyelids grew heavy, and she closed them for just a moment, hoping to shut off the barrage in her head. She yawned, rubbed her chin over Tater’s soft head and began to drift into a fitful sleep.

  “What a total dumbass…”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  It took Jon three and a half minutes to get across town to the Arlington Arms Condos. Nicknamed the Armpit Apartments, it was a two-story walkup with patched stucco, rusted iron railings, and a swath of a brown lawn that ran the length of the unit. Apartment entrances ran along the front of the building, so it looked more like a dive motel than an apartment complex—armpit was just about right.

  Wacko’s rust-tub of a pickup was angled to take up two parking spaces at the back of the lot under a street lamp. Jon could see the rain falling softly under the lamplight. The storm had slowed to a fine mist, just enough to irritate anyone stuck out in it.

  Jon had a bad feeling about the situation. Terri had told him over the phone on the way over that they’d already evacuated the apartments. He could see Greg Stanton and a deputy in a county uniform holding a line down the block so that no one could catch a stray bullet. A news van loomed at the edge of the blockade, and a reporter was harassing Stanton, his arms flailing as he tried to get closer to the action.

  Officers and their three squad cars had taken up a defensive position in a semi-circle. Clad in rain slickers, they were hunkered down behind their vehicles, doors open and weapons drawn.

  Jon pulled up, and Terri broke away from the chief to meet him at the barricade. “Neighbor called in gunshots. Wacko was yelling when we got here.” Her mouth pressed into a grim line. Her soaked hair was plastered to her scalp. “Apparently he was following up on some lead, and now the guy in unit 206 is holding him at gunpoint. That’s all we know.” She glanced at the building. “Been quiet for a while now.”

  Thomlin approached, and Jon thought he’d aged twenty years in the past month.

  “Damn it, I don’t want to have to wait for negotiators to come down from Madison. I need you to resolve this thing.” He ran a hand over his damp face. “At least start a conversation with the guy so we can find out what the hell he wants.”

  “Maybe we should let the guy shoot Wacko and we can call it a night?” Terri’s attempt to lighten the mood was shot down by the glare the chief gave her.

  He turned to Jon. “What do you need from us?”

  So much for having a choice in the matter. Jon took a minute to get some perspective and quickly began to delegate. “Have everyone stand down. For now.” He nodded at his partner. “Terri can back me up. What’s this guy’s name?”

  “Fred Turner. Guy has a clean record. Not even a parking ticket. Neighbors say he’s a good guy, lives by himself, real quiet.”

  “Yeah, how many times do you hear those words on the six o’clock news?” Terri grabbed the portable radio, shook off her slicker and tossed it into the back of her car. They put on bulletproof vests and checked the safeties on their weapons.

  Jon directed Trujillo to cover them as they approached the building. The young man’s face flashed pale before he realized he hadn’t acknowledged the order, then vigorously nodded as he took up a ready position.

  Jon and Terri moved slowly toward unit 206 at an angle so as to avoid being in a direct line with the apartment’s picture window. Jon walked slightly ahead of Terri, both of them with their weapons drawn. They took up position with her to the right of the door. Jon was on the left. Terri held her weapon up and in close to her body. She had her back to the wall so she could roll and push through the door gun first if need be.

  Across from Terri, Jon reached over and rapped hard on the door but didn’t wait for a response. “Mr. Turner, it’s Detective Jon Bricksen. We’d like to talk to you.”

  The air was close with the silence that followed. Jon and Terri looked at each other, barely breathing as they waited for a response. Jon swiped at his dripping hair and knocked again.

  A voice on the other side of the door suddenly yelled out, “I didn’t do anything!”

  “Then we don’t have a problem, do we Mr. Turner? Just open the door and talk to us.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “My neighbor, Mr. Wachowski, is in here. He’s been shot.”

  Terri and Jon exchanged a worried glance.

  “How bad is he hurt, Mr. Turner? We should get him to the hospital.”

  “I didn’t shoot him.” Fred sounded panicked. “He came over banging on my door, ranting about my truck being at a crime scene. When I opened the door he barged in, waving a gun at me. I panicked and threw a pillow at him. I thought he was going to shoot me. I didn’t do anything.”

  “Mr. Turner, I need you to focus. How badly is Mr. Wachowski hurt? Does he need an ambulance?” After a long silence, Jon continued. “Mr. Turner, even if you didn’t shoot him, if you keep him from getting medical attention and he dies that’s on you.”

  There was a shuffling sound on the other side of the door. He heard muffled voices, which heated up into an argument. The door abruptly opened four inches, barred by a chain guard and Wacko called out from somewhere behind it.

  “Jesus you pussies, just shoot this motherfucker!” He was cut off by a thwack. “God damn it, you little prick!” The door slammed shut.

  “Mr. Turner…” Jon spoke in a firm, controlled tone. “You cannot assault an officer and have us stand idly by.” Tempting as it was.

  The door cracked back open. “I hit him with a magazine. I wanted you to know he is fine. He doesn’t need a doctor.”


  “I am not fine!” Wacko yelled. “Shoot this bastard!”

  Twack. “Ouch! Cut it out you little shit! Don’t listen to him, Bricksen. He’s the guy who killed that girl in the alley.” Thwack. “Ouch! Jesus!” The door slammed shut again. There was a lot of commotion in the room and everything went still.

  Jon and Terri exchanged a confused look. Nothing about this was adding up.

  The door opened again, but still only four inches. “Look, you’ve got to believe me—I didn’t do anything.”

  “You know what, Fred? Strangely enough I believe you, or at least I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.” Terri’s eyes went wide as Jon holstered his gun and moved to stand directly in front of the door with his hands raised. “Are you armed, Fred? Do you have a gun?”

  Fred peeked around the door. A pair of gentle brown eyes stared at Jon for a few breaths, the man behind them trying to make a decision. Jon witnessed the second Fred’s anxiety level went down as his shoulders dropped. Fred nodded.

  “I’ve got Mr. Wachowski’s gun. When the pillow hit him in the face Mr. Wachowski came at me. He…he slipped on some magazines I had on the floor and tumbled into the coffee table. The gun came out of his hand and went off. That’s how he got shot. I don’t want it!” Wacko’s service piece suddenly slid out of the crack in the door and landed on the wet ground at Jon’s feet. The ammo magazine followed.

  “You got any other guns, Fred?”

  “I don’t even like guns.”

  “Any other weapons? What are you using to hit Mr. Wachowski with?”

  A copy of Popular Science flew out the door and skittered to a stop as it hit a puddle.

  “Okay Fred, this is how it’s going to go down. You’re going to unlock this door and walk slowly out with your hands behind your head. I’m going to cuff you and then we’ll take you downtown where we can get to the bottom of all this, okay?”