“Only since last spring. My father had it built almost six years ago. My sister and I inherited it when he died unexpectedly. A heart attack.”
Emily closed her eyes.“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” Edwin murmured similar condolences.
As I nodded my thanks, Emily made her way to sit, straight-backed, on one of the oversized couches. Edwin waited as I chose the couch opposite Emily, a large, glass-topped coffee table between us. He sat in an armchair in the middle, facing the fireplace.
“Your children are how old?” Emily asked.
“Kelly’s thirteen and Stephen’s sixteen.” I gave a little wince. “Two teenagers.”
“Oh, boy, I remember those days. But you’ll make it. We all do.”
At the last comment her eyes drifted toward the fireplace, and I sensed she looked through a spiraling tunnel into the past.
“Mom?” Edwin’s voice was gentle. “Do you want me to tell Ms. Kingston—Annie—why we’re here?”
“No, no, I’ll do it.” Emily lifted her shoulders, suddenly all business. “I’d like to start at the beginning, if I may. So you can fully understand how important this is to me. First, as I told you on the phone, I’ve known of you since last summer, when all the news stories covered your daring face-off with that horrible murderer.”
Face-off. Ironic way to put it.
“In the fall, Annie, I read the follow-up feature story about you—how through that experience you’d decided to become a forensic artist and were now taking classes. I was interested, you see, because in the back of my mind, my own plan was forming.” Emily smoothed her skirt. “I told you that twenty years ago this spring my husband, Don—Edwin’s father—was shot and killed. Along with his vice president, Peter Dessinger.”
“Yes. I’m so sorry.”
She nodded. “My husband was a keen-minded businessman. When we were newly married, he founded a small plastics manufacturing company. Over the years he built it into a very successful business—one he would pass on to his two sons. Since Don’s death, Edwin has been running the company. He was very young when he took over so suddenly, but he’s done well . . .” She glanced at Edwin.
“And your other son?”
Emily’s mouthed pinched. “Our younger son,Wade, was killed in an auto accident shortly after his twenty-first birthday. Just a little over a year before Don died.”
I swallowed, searching for an appropriate response. Losing a son and a husband in such a short span of time? I couldn’t imagine the grief. Emily noted my stricken expression and gave me a sad smile.
Edwin looked at his hands. Even all these years later, he apparently found it difficult to watch his mother’s pain.
“Peter Dessinger had been with Tarell Plastics for over fifteen years,” Emily continued. “He and Don were not only business associates, they were the best of friends, and our families knew each other well. In 1980 Don hired a new chief financial officer who was quite young—only twenty-nine. This was the man I told you about over the phone. Bill Bland.” Emily shook her head. “Can you believe a name like that? And he looked bland too. Average height and weight, light brown hair combed to one side. Glasses. Sort of a doughy face. Absolutely . . . banal. He had little sense of humor, few hobbies other than reading. He was very reserved, almost standoffish. In short, what one might consider a stereotypical accountant type.”
Maybe, but he must have hidden a mind-boggling secret life. The stereotypical CFO didn’t commit double homicide. I repressed a cringe. My overactive brain was already hurtling me down speculative paths. What would make a person like Bill Bland do what he did?
Edwin seemed to read my mind. “The man my father hired wasn’t the same man I came to know. There was a dark side to Bill Bland. Even so, we never would have guessed what would happen. Not in a million years.”
“People are often not what we think.” I gave him a wry smile even as my ex-husband’s face taunted my thoughts. Three years ago, out of the blue,Vic announced he was leaving me for someone named Sheryl—a girl much younger and prettier than I. Not in a million years would I have seen that coming.
Emily looked me in the eye as if sizing me up. For some reason she seemed to like what she saw. Maybe she’d made a fatal mistake about Bill Bland, but I sensed she still believed in her ability to judge people.
“So.” She sighed. “Things went fine for the first three years. Then Bill began to have trouble at home. We didn’t hear about it at first; he was so private. And when Susan, his wife, didn’t show up for the company Christmas party, we believed his story that she needed to stay home with their sick one-year-old. But in time the truth started coming out. They were having trouble—real trouble. She’d left him for another man, who would soon be moving out of state. She’d taken the baby with her. By the spring she and Bill were divorced. Bill could hardly function. He loved his family deeply. I could almost say fiercely. Seemed to me he wanted to control his wife too much. And he was so meticulous, you see—every part of his life in a certain order. His work, his home, his finances. Now all was in shambles.”
Edwin rubbed the arm of his chair—an unconscious gesture of concentration that I could imagine him making as he solved problems at work. “Bill was a control freak, all right. I knew him better than Mom did. Still, he was very private in a lot of ways. Later I learned from Susan that Bill didn’t have the money to buy out her half of their house. And he really wanted to stay in that house.”
“And he faced monthly expenses of alimony and child care,” Emily added. “Susan was cunning, not planning to marry her new man, so the alimony would keep flowing.”
That hit home. Sheryl had been cunning in her own way. Later I realized how she’d set her sights on Vic the moment she met him. Bill Bland, like I, had been left adrift, a castaway on a bleak and rugged island. He’d even had his child taken . . .
Watch it, Annie.
Ambivalence weighed my thoughts in equal balances. If the Tarells’ request proved what I expected, such empathetic thoughts about this murderer would be necessary. But oh, so uncomfortable. Not that it mattered. I wouldn’t accept their assignment.
Emily lifted a hand from her lap. “Of course, these are only our assumptions as to why he embezzled the money. We never did get a full explanation from him.”
“Because he fled, you mean.”
“Well—” Edwin’s fingers now drummed the chair arm—“that’s true. But he said enough that night when we confronted him about the money. So I’d say it’s more than just assumptions.” He drew a breath. “I think my mother told you I was in the room that night my father and Peter were killed. See, I worked for the company in the finance department. I was the one who discovered the missing funds in the first place. It was clear to me from the beginning there was only one person who could have done it.”
Emily made a little sound in her throat. “And of course after . . . everything happened, and the detectives looked into the business side of things, the trail was very clear. It led straight to Bill’s personal checking account, if you can imagine the stupidity of that.”
She fell silent, fiddling with the hem of her skirt. For a moment, none of us spoke.
Emily looked up abruptly. “Tell me, Annie, about the forensic art courses you’ve been taking.”
I blinked at the change in subject. “Okay.”
I’d been fortunate that quite a number of courses were available in the past school year. I explained to Emily and Edwin that through various institutions such as the Scottsdale Artists’ School in Arizona and Sam Houston State University in Texas, I’d taken weeklong workshops, including introduction to forensic art, basic and advanced facial reconstruction sculpture, comprehensive composite drawing, understanding the human face, the aging process, and advanced two-dimensional identification techniques. Many of the basic drawing concepts were already familiar to me, since I’d majored in art and had ten years’ experience as a courtroom artist, but I wanted to start my new career from the beginning.
“That’s a lot of time away from home and your children.”
“Yes. But I have a terrific sister. Jenna. She loves to boss me around. She had a lot to do with pushing me into this field in the first place. So when I need someone to stay with the kids, I sort of . . . remind her of that.”
Mild amusement played over Emily’s lips. “Serves her right.”
“Certainly does.”
The grandfather clock bonged 1:30. Emily pulled in a breath. Her gaze lingered upon the clock, making me think of the painstaking passage of time during the last twenty years. Every day, week, month, spent healing from grief meant an equal time of Don Tarell’s murderer evading justice.
“Do you believe in God, Annie?” Emily turned her eyes back on me.
Well. How was that for an unexpected question? I looked to Edwin, who turned his eyes away. Evidently, he’d leave any personal probings to his mother. For a moment I considered sloughing off the inquiry, but something in Emily’s eyes stopped me.
“Yes.”
“Good. And do you believe He wants to lead our lives?”
I hesitated. Did Emily somehow sense my private soul-searching? Surely she couldn’t know. A year ago I would not have hesitated to answer her question with a no. But a year ago was before my neighbor Lisa was killed, before The Face.
Before my promise to God, made out of sheer desperation, to seek Him.
“Well—” I searched for the right words—“I’ve been going to church this year and . . . learning things. The people there certainly seem to think that God wants to lead us.”
She studied me, no doubt wondering at my evasive answer. “I believe that too.” Her words were quiet but firm. “And I don’t mean to scare you or put you off, but I do think He’s led me here today. To you.”
I could find no response. Edwin studied the floor.
Emily shifted, crossing her ankles. “For twenty years, Annie, I’ve prayed for justice concerning my husband’s and Peter’s murders. Twenty long years. All this time Bill Bland has been a fugitive. Hard to believe that he could just disappear into thin air, but he has. Over the years the trail has grown cold. The case is still open, but the Shasta County Sheriff’s Department hasn’t been actively looking for him. Now we’re approaching a major anniversary. I’d been praying for a way to put the case before the public again, and God answered my prayer. Most creatively, I must say. As I mentioned on the phone, American Fugitive wants to run the story of the murders—with an updated sketch of Bill Bland. That’s where you come in.”
Edwin raised his eyes to my face. I worked to keep my expression from sagging. I’d guessed right: they wanted me to create the adult age progression; specifically, a fugitive update. An update of twenty years. In my studies of forensic art in the past year, this kind of assignment was the one I’d hoped never to receive.
“Annie? You’re awfully quiet.”
I laced my fingers and squeezed. I would not relish disappointing this woman. Or Edwin. “Do you realize what’s involved in a fugitive update?”
Emily lifted a shoulder. “I know you have to understand how the face ages. Which would require knowledge of facial anatomy and how it changes. But you’ve studied that, haven’t you?”
“Yes. But I have to be honest with you, it’s not the anatomy part that bothers me. It’s the inside part.”
Her eyebrows knit.
“I’d have to study the suspect, Emily. I’d have to learn everything I could about him. His genetic background. His habits, his facial expressions, how he eats, how he moves. How he thinks. All these things determine how a face ages. For instance, his eating habits affect how much weight he’ll gain. Certain facial expressions, like squinting, will affect how wrinkles appear.”
Edwin nodded slowly. “I see. You said you would have to learn these things. As if . . . you won’t?”
I tipped my head toward the ceiling. How to explain to these strangers that my stubborn, independent brain made me the worst possible candidate for such a task? My mind ran its own movie projector on a daily basis, envisioning in screaming color any stray thought that ventured its way. I could only imagine the insanity it would wreak upon me if I embarked on this assignment. The deeper I dug into understanding Bill Bland and his murderous brain, the more I would “see” every picture in my head. I’d play captive audience to his abandonment by his wife. To his heart-banging fear at his first stealing of the company’s money. To the black and desperate moment of his decision to kill.
“You fear—how to put it—descending into the mind of a murderer. Is that right?” The worry lines in Emily’s forehead deepened. “I do imagine that would be a frightening proposition. But isn’t this what you’re training for?”
“Yes, but there are all kinds of assignments in forensic art. Drawing composites, aging children who have been missing, reconstructing skulls. I’m training for all of them, but it’s just this one—”
“Please.” Emily held up her hand. “Please just think about it. We don’t need your answer right this moment. Although we do need it very soon.” She pressed two fingers against her mouth. “What do I have to say to convince you?”
I sought diversion in details. “Why are you asking me to do this? Shouldn’t someone from American Fugitive be choosing the artist?”
“Normally, no doubt.” Edwin’s hand lifted from the chair arm, then began drumming again. “But—”
“This is where God’s answer to my prayers comes in.” Emily leaned forward. “Sharon Dessinger, Peter’s wife? She moved back east years ago. Her daughter, Stacey, lives in New York. Last Christmas Stacey finally began dating again—five years after a messy divorce. And who does she end up going out with? A man who writes for American Fugitive. Now you see why I cannot think of this as mere coincidence. Neither can Sharon. This show was her idea.”
It was quite amazing. American Fugitive had a track record of success that would make even the most cool-minded criminal on the lam lose sleep. In the past ten years the series had seen hundreds of murderers, rapists, burglars, and con men brought to justice. If an on-target drawing of Bill Bland was televised on the show, he most likely would be caught.
Had God opened this door for Sharon and the Tarells?
“But why me? Why doesn’t the show pick someone in New York?”
Emily smiled. “Because you’re here. Right near the Shasta County Sheriff’s Department, which handled the case. You’ve even worked with detectives in that office. They’ll trust you with the whole file. You can go over it, read it, absorb it—”
She pulled back, mouth closing, as if realizing she’d used the wrong word.
“Plus—” she raised her chin—“you have easy access to the people you’d need to interview—people who knew Bill Bland. Edwin would be a good place to start.”
“I see.” I looked from Emily to her son. “It does make sense that you have someone local—and I’m about the only forensic artist around. But I’m afraid I’m not qualified to take on such a major assignment yet.”
Since my first case last summer of drawing The Face, when I wasn’t even a forensic artist, I’d completed five other sketches of suspects in the Redding area, mostly for small-scale robberies. A grand total of six—a far cry from the minimum twenty-five needed to be certified even at Level I. And this bereaved widow and fatherless man wanted my work to be on a national television show?
“Annie.” Emily’s voice firmed.“You’re qualified. You handled that case last summer like you’d been doing it for years.”
That was a laugh. If she only knew half of what I went through.
“Well, I . . . thank you for your confidence.” How lame my words sounded.
“Nothing to thank me for. You’ve earned it.” She patted both palms against her thighs. “All right then. It doesn’t seem there’s any more that we can say. Edwin, do you have anything?”
He cleared his throat. “No. Well, yes.” He cupped his hands, resting both elbows on the arm of the chair. “Let me b
e honest with you, Annie. I sense your hesitation. I just ask that you not start this unless you think you can do it successfully. My mother has been through enough, and I don’t want her disappointed.”
“Oh, Edwin.” Emily frowned at him, then fixed me with a determined look. “You’ll have to forgive my son; the executive in him is coming out. I’ll be disappointed if you don’t do this. Very disappointed. Because I know you can, Annie. And I know you’re God’s answer to my prayers. To put an end to this . . . purgatory of waiting. To finally see justice done.” Her voice dropped. “And I’ll tell you this plainly. If ever you’ll be given a case that demands justice more loudly, I’ll be surprised.”
She held my gaze as I absorbed her words. Emily seemed to know she’d found the point of my weakness. In my darkest moments of pursuing The Face, only my strong desire for bringing Lisa Willit’s killer to justice had kept me going. I couldn’t let Dave and Erin Willit down. And every day I spotted them now in their yard across the street, every time Erin came over to see Kelly, I felt a satisfaction in the depth of my being. Despite the danger I’d encountered, I’d made the right choice.
“One thing,” I hedged. “You can’t even know if Bill Bland is still alive.”
“True.” Edwin dipped his head.
His mother lifted a hand. “If he’s not, I’d like to find that out. We’d still need your drawing to do that.”
My drawing.
My heart panged. I so wanted to help these people. If I was in a position to bring an end to their purgatory, why shouldn’t I? Focusing on the circular oak stairway across the great room, I thought of my own losses—Vic and our marriage; my father’s sudden death; Lisa’s murder; my son’s rebellion and drugs.
“Emily, what would be the timeline for this assignment?”
She raised her brows. “I’ll admit time is tight. Sharon received a late go-ahead for the show, and the drawing has to be done in a few weeks.” She shook her head. “All the more reason, Annie, that you are the person for this job. Besides, you’ve got the talent to do it quickly, and more important, you’ve got the heart. Yes, I know about your way with people and your tenacity. I talked to Detective Ralph Chetterling at the Sheriff’s Department before coming here. He assured me you’d accept the assignment. And that you’d succeed.”
Stain of Guilt Page 2
