Dead Write: A Forensic Handwriting Mystery

by Lowe, Sheila

  Haunted. The word kept echoing in her head and she realized that every one of the images she had viewed since arriving at John Shaw’s gallery was haunted in some way. All at once the eeriness that saturated the room swelled when she felt a presence behind her.

  A man’s voice said, “Stand still, I want to shoot you.”

  Claudia swung around, ready to defend herself, saw a flash of light and realized that he had a camera pointed at her. “Stop it!” she demanded as the strobes continued to light up the room.

  He stopped at once, lowered the camera, letting it dangle from a strap around his neck. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I was observing you observing my pictures. You were so rapt, I wanted to capture what you were feeling.”

  He was six-four with copper-colored hair standing up in a tuft above his forehead, making him look even taller. A square face with a brownish red moustache and beard trimmed short. Startling blue eyes; a dusting of freckles across the nose and cheeks. He looked like Thor, the red-bearded god. He might have been at home wearing a kilt and tossing a caber.

  He matched the file photo of John Shaw.

  “Will you allow me to photograph you?” he asked.

  Claudia met his probing gaze. “I don’t think so. The moment has passed. But I have to say, there’s something really disturbing in these photos.”

  His pale skin flushed with pride. “That’s a true compliment.” He extended the great paw that was his hand and enfolded hers in it. “I’m John Shaw. This is my gallery.” His handshake was warm and firm.

  “My name is Claudia Rose,” she said. “Isn’t it unusual for a gallery owner to also be the artist?”

  Shaw smiled. “I welcome the unusual, but I do show other artists, too. You’ve happened to visit at a time when my own work is on display.”

  Claudia smiled back. “Grusha Olinetsky suggested I come.”

  He blinked. “Grusha?”

  “I’m the new handwriting analyst for Elite Introductions.”

  “Ah, I see. Well, nice to meet you, Ms. Rose. My handwriting was analyzed a while back when I joined the club, so I doubt Grusha would expect me to do it again. But I’m glad you took her up on the suggestion.”IT

  Claudia tilted her head at the nearest photograph. “I can understand why she thought I should see your work. These photos are—well, you’re an amazing artist.”

  “Thank you.” Shaw glanced around the gallery, his eyes lighting briefly on each picture. “This has been an amazing journey.”

  Grusha had said he’d sustained a head injury in Iraq, Claudia remembered. She flashed on his handwriting sample and the dented upper loops that might reflect such an injury. The results of certain types of head injuries were not always seen on the outside, but they could permanently alter behavior.

  As one of Grusha’s suspects, John Shaw had to be viewed with suspicion. Claudia didn’t think he looked like the man in the video with Heather Lloyd, except maybe for the beard. But she was only going by his size, and the bulky ski clothing might have distorted that. Heather had been a tall woman.

  “Your ‘journey,’ ” Claudia said. “Is it something you can talk about?”

  Shaw bowed his head so she could no longer see what he was thinking. “Yes, I can talk about it. Talking about it is penance for me. I need to talk about it a lot.”

  “Penance? For what?”

  “I killed them,” he said, and a cold chill went up Claudia’s spine.

  “What does that mean?”

  His gaze went to the photographs, resting on each one before he spoke again, his voice rough with emotion. “We were riding in a jeep outside of Baghdad, the four of us. Jerry, Pat, Vince, and me. They were just kids, you know? Just kids. I told them I wanted them to stop so I could take a leak.” His eyes came back to Claudia and she could see the depths of the guilt he carried with him. “They said it wasn’t safe. If I hadn’t insisted on stopping, they would still be alive. They were waiting for me and the jeep was hit by an RPG.” His shoulders sagged as if the weight of the soldiers’ deaths sat on them. “I lived with those kids for six weeks. I nearly died with them. I should have.”

  Claudia looked back at the photo of the young marine. Her heart ached as much for the man who was making this confession as for the dead boy. “I’m so sorry. That must be a terrible thing for you to bear.”

  “They talk to me,” he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  “What?”

  “Their spirits; they talk to me in the night.” His face twisted in pain. “It doesn’t matter if I’m asleep or awake. They’re always there with me.”

  “Have you seen anyone for help with post-traumatic stress?” Claudia knew a little about reactions to traumatic events, and John Shaw’s behavior seemed to her like someone suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. His handwriting had displayed signs of his thought patterns being off-kilter.

  “I don’t need help.” He glared at her, letting her know that she had breached an area that was off-limits. “I don’t deserve help.”

  “Were you injured, John?”

  He shrugged as if the question were of no consequence. “The concussion from the RPG left me pretty deaf for a couple of days. They dug some shrapnel out of my legs. My head got dinged up a bit.” He paused. “I can still smell the disinfectant at the hospital, y’ know? They used it to clean the blood off the floors. But what happened to me was nothing. Jerry and Pat and Vince are dead. I’m still here.”

  “You must be still here for a reason,” Claudia said to fill the awkward pause that followed his words. “The universe must have something for you to do.” Not killing Grusha’s clients, I hope.

  “You know, you’re very photogenic,” Shaw said. “Have you ever been photographed professionally?”

  The non sequitur left her feeling as though she’d tumbled down a rabbit hole and landed at the Mad Hatter’s tea party. “Not since wedding photos, and I’ve been divorced for a while now.”

  “Would you consider posing for me?”

  She thought of the nudes in the other room. “I might, if I get to keep my clothes on.”

  “Where’s the fun in that?” he said with a wink. “Say, how about a glass of wine? I’ll show you my portfolio.”

  “If that’s like showing me your etchings, I’ll pass, thank you.”

  Shaw laughed, flashing a set of large, even, white teeth. “I like you, Claudia Rose.” He took a key from his pocket and opened a door at the back of the room. “This is my office. Why don’t you wait for me in here. I’ll join you in a minute.”

  Curious, she followed his direction to the office and sat in one of the two sling-back chairs. The walls were windowless and painted black, which made it resemble a darkroom—apropos for a photographer. John Shaw’s desk was piled carelessly with photographic contact sheets, a couple of high-powered camera lenses, and a mountain of paperwork.

  When he returned, Shaw had a large photo album tucked under his arm. He handed Claudia a glass of Chardonnay. “I thought if I showed you some of my portrait work you might be more inclined to trust me.”

  “I’d love to see it.”

  After he’d handed her a glass, he dragged the other chair closer so they were sitting side by side. He opened the album and handed it to her. Even if she had not seen the gallery photographs, the album showed that the man behind the camera had a remarkable gift. These were not standard head shots. Each portrait had been manipulated in a unique way to bring out what Claudia thought of as the subject’s soul.

  She thumbed through the pages and found that John Shaw’s work in this book focused on a single theme: women, women, and more women. An Asian ballerina, light as air, floating above the stage with the grace of a butterfly. The picture had been overexposed to imbue the dancer with a ghostly delicacy.

  A figure in a black burka, the traditional Muslim woman’s garment. The one who wore it was covered entirely except for her eyes, which were full of mischief, but also wary
of the photographer who wanted to bare her essence.

  A very young woman whose nude body had been painted in luminescent colors. Her breasts were ringed in shocking pink and turquoise, the colors repeated on her navel and pubic area. She lay stretched out on a couch that was covered by a sheet, staring into the camera with such a pained face that it made Claudia think that she had qualms about being turned into a canvas. The very next photo was of the same model, but an extreme close-up of her face. There was something familiar about her.

  “She doesn’t look very happy,” Claudia remarked.

  Shaw paused, his glass halfway to his lips, and glanced over to see what she was referring to. “Oh, Jess,” he said offhandedly. “She drove me crazy, begging to pose, but later, she wasn’t so sure about it.”

  Jess? The coincidence was too great. “You don’t by any chance mean Jessica McAllister, do you?”

  John Shaw frowned. “What do you know about Jess? I thought you said you were new at Elite Introductions.”

  “I am new, but I’ve met her father. I know who she is. Was. Don’t you think she was a little young to be doing this sort of modeling?”

  “She wanted to do it,” he repeated, going on the offensive. “She didn’t need permission; she was old enough to decide for herself.”

  Disturbed, Claudia took one last long look at Jessica’s face and wondered just how much she really had wanted to do it, and how much was at John Shaw’s insistence. Slowly, she turned to the next page. The picture made her catch her breath. Shellee Jones’ pretty face scowled angrily back at her. It was easy to identify the woman from Grusha’s client folder, but this picture had caught her in the act of some sort of protest, not so unlike Jessica McAllister.

  Claudia glanced over at John Shaw, who was eye ing Shellee’s picture with an unfathomable expression. “Are you specializing in pictures of dead girls?” she asked before she had a chance to filter the words that had formed in her brain and stop them from pouring out of her mouth.

  Shaw snatched the photograph album from her hands and slammed it shut. “So nice meeting you, Ms. Rose,” he said. “It’s time for you to go now.”

  Chapter 25

  After eating a light meal in the hotel restaurant, Claudia checked in with her brother.

  Pete informed her that Annabelle and Monica had gone out to see a movie with a group of their friends. The thought of Annabelle on the loose with her niece gave Claudia a mild anxiety attack, but Pete assured her that he had taken the girls right to the AMC Loews in the Marina and would be picking them up outside the theater promptly at 9:55, when the movie ended.

  Then Jovanic phoned and whispered erotic promises about all the ways they would make up for lost time when she returned home. When the sex talk had run down, she brought him up to date on her activities over the four days she had been in New York—what they hadn’t had time to discuss while he was there.

  “I can’t believe you’re smack in the middle of a crazy situation again,” Jovanic said, exasperated.

  “Yeah, I know. I didn’t mean to; I just keep landing in these messes. And now I am involved, so I want to help Grusha if I can.”

  “Do you have a special magnet for wacko clients?”

  “It’s beginning to feel like it. Ever since I met you, in fact. So maybe you’re the magnet.”

  Jovanic snorted. “Cute. It’s all my fault.” Then he said, “Hey, I spoke with your pal, Izzy Perez.”

  “Izzy?”

  “A cop can’t go around being called Isadore, okay?”

  “Well, did you tell him I was legit?”

  “Yeah, I vouched for you. But you just can’t get involved in this shit. Leave the investigations up to NYPD, okay?”

  “I tried to, remember? He wasn’t interested.”

  “Okay, so then, just let it go,” Jovanic argued. “If Perez thought it was serious he would have pursued it. You and Olinetsky are turning something that’s probably a coincidence into serial homicide.”

  “Make up your mind, Columbo. You just implied there was something to investigate, and now you’re saying it’s coincidence? Which is it?”

  “I don’t give a shit which it is; I want you out of it. But I know you well enough. Once you get a wild hair, nothing’s going to stop you, is it?” He was right. She was like a dog with a bone; couldn’t let go.

  “How about you helping me?” she said. “I’m not convinced Perez actually did check out any of those names I gave him. You could check.”

  “Let me get this straight. You want me to help you go behind NYPD in an investigation you shouldn’t be involved in? Honey, even if you found something, it could take months to break open the case. You gonna move to New York?”

  He had a good point. Claudia gave it a moment’s thought. “Okay, tell you what. You run a background on the people I’ve told you about, and I’ll make a reservation and come home on Monday.”

  “You want to cut a deal, is that it?” Jovanic said, giving up the argument.

  Claudia could feel his grin. “Yeah, cut me a deal. I’ll go to Grusha’s party tomorrow night. That’ll give me a chance to see all the players at the same time. I’ll wrap up on Sunday, and from Monday forward, I promise to limit my involvement with Grusha to analyzing handwritings she sends in the mail. How does that sound?”

  “Fine. Call the airlines, make a reservation, and come home.” His tone softened. “I want you here, babe. Where I can keep an eye on you.”

  After they ended their conversation, Claudia was unable to get to sleep. She mixed a Jack and Coke from the tiny bottles in the minibar, threw herself on the bed and used the remote to switch on the TV. With old movies playing in the background, she ran all the complications of the Grusha assignment through her head again and again until she dozed off. The last thing she was conscious of before falling asleep in the early hours was a dinner party scene in The Thin Man. As her eyelids drooped, Nick Charles was announcing to the assembled guests, “The murderer is right here, sitting at this table.”

  The cell phone was ringing, invading her dreams. At first, she wasn’t certain what the sound was. The noise had penetrated her sleep and in her groggy state she thought it must be the dinner bell in the movie. She didn’t know what time it was now, but one thing she knew for sure—she had not had enough sleep.

  Except for the sliver of gray light penetrating the crack between the blackout drapes, the hotel room was as dark as pitch. Claudia groaned and felt around the nightstand for the phone. As she found it she noted that the clock radio read 7:19. Too early.

  “Hello?” Her voice sounded dry and croaky. Holding the phone to her ear with one hand, she sat up and took a swig from the bottle of water that she kept by the bed, trying to wake herself up.

  “I’m going to kill him!” Grusha Olinetsky’s voice screamed through the phone. “Chjort! Chjort! I—vill—kill—him!”

  Fully awake now, Claudia moved the instrument a couple of inches away from her ear. “What happened? Who are you talking about?”

  Grusha’s voice rose to a hysterical shriek, switching to Russian. Hyperventilating.

  Claudia raised her voice above the clamor. “Grusha, stop! I don’t understand what you’re saying. You’ve got to calm down!”

  The matchmaker switched back to English, but the words came out as short gasps. “How could he do this to me? I cannot believe it. I am going to—”

  In the background was another voice. Sonya. The assistant came on the line, speaking urgently. “Put on the TV, channel seven, quick.” Sonya sounded upset, but not in the out-of-control, panicky way of her boss.

  “Hang on, I have to find the remote.” Claudia set the phone down and switched on the bedside lamp. Sometime during the night, the remote control had found its way under the covers and ended up at the foot of the bed. Digging it out, she turned on the TV and navigated the channels with a sense of foreboding, as if she already knew what would be waiting for her when she got to channel seven.

  “Oh, shit.” The p
rogram to which Sonya had directed her was Hard Evidence, and the guest was Andrew Nicholson. She boosted the volume, her heart sinking.

  A tall, slender blond, Nicholson was dressed in an expensive-looking dark suit with a red power tie. He looked ready to testify in court. Worse, he looked credible, and for the viewing audience, that was often enough.

  “. . . and you wouldn’t believe some of the members she allows in,” Andy was saying in a gossipy tone. A dozen expressions animated his face as he spoke, using his hands for emphasis. “If they have money—and plenty of it—she’ll take anyone. And I mean anyone. And the handwriting analyst she’s using now, well . . . can you say ‘hired gun’?”

  The camera panned to the studio audience, who were watching with avid attention. The camera moved to the show’s host. She looked directly into the lens, her mouth parted in counterfeit amazement. “Oh, my! This is just fascinating. We have to go to commercial now, but when we come back, handwriting expert Andy Nicholson will reveal more secrets about your handwriting and the dating service he once worked for. I’m Megan Jackson. Stay tuned; Hard Evidence will be right back.”

  A commercial began to play and Grusha’s voice came back on the line, only marginally calmer. “I’ll kill that little drecksack. How dare he do this to me!”

  Claudia wanted to remind her that Susan Rowan had warned her of Nicholson’s lack of ethics, but she doubted that I told you so would go over very well right now. And Jovanic had been right; Andy was gunning for her. Maybe not literally, but in a way that could be damaging to her career. Not only had Andy practically stolen the Hard Evidence gig right out from under her; he was now using the interview to get back at both her and Grusha. Narcissist that he was, it probably hadn’t occurred to him that his words might be grounds for a lawsuit.

  “Can you call the TV station and threaten to file suit for slander?” asked Claudia.

  “Sonya is calling my lawyer right now. Oh my god, what vill I do? What else vill he say? I vill have to cancel the party tonight. I cannot face my clients after this.”