The Murder Artist

by John Case

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that’s good,” Liz says again, throwing a glance at me. “Isn’t it?”

  “Definitely,” Shoffler says. “It eliminates a possibility, and that’s always positive. Means resources can be focused elsewhere. So-” He rubs his hands together. “You folks have any more questions?”

  “There’s been no ransom call,” my dad says with a worried glance my way. “Isn’t that, I mean – why do you think that is?”

  “Well, it’s early days,” Shoffler tells him, “but I don’t expect you’re going to get one.”

  “No? But, but – why not?” Jack demands.

  Shoffler screws up his face, sighs. “First off, if you’re after money, why take two kids? It’s not like it’s a bake sale, if you see what I mean.”

  “I’m not sure that I do,” Jack says.

  Shoffler shrugs. “Two kids’d be twice the trouble, but they wouldn’t get you twice the payoff. Desperate parents – my opinion is they’d pony up just as much for one child as for two. And then” – he hesitates, but in the end doesn’t tiptoe around it – “fact is, there’s plenty of rich folk in the world. Somebody with a profit motive? I think they’d go for parents with… ah… greater resources than Alex and Liz here. Unless” – he looks inquiringly from Jack to my father to my mother – “the boys’ grandparents…?”

  “I’m a high school principal,” Jack says. Uncharacteristically, he follows this statement with a nervous laugh. His relative lack of means is the only subject known to make Jack defensive. “Maybe Bob here is one of those secret millionaires next door.” He laughs again, and looks at my father.

  “No,” my father says. “I’m not saying we” – he looks at my mother – “couldn’t come up with a good piece of change if we liquidated everything. Which we would do, of course, but it would take time. But-” He shakes his head, conceding Shoffler’s point.

  “Well,” Shoffler says, “you see what I mean.” His hands float up into the air and then come back down on his thighs with a slap.

  “What about a nonmonetary reason?” my father asks.

  Shoffler frowns. “Such as?”

  “My son, the kind of stories he does-” A glance my way. “He makes enemies.”

  Shoffler raises his eyebrows, looks at me. “That so?”

  I get that rush in my chest, the adrenaline burn of alarm. I hadn’t thought of this. The idea that whoever took the boys did so because of me – it’s sickening. I tend to go for edgy pieces. Gangbanging, money laundering, arms trafficking. Stories like that. So maybe…

  “My father’s right,” I tell Shoffler. “I didn’t think of it.”

  “Well,” Shoffler says. “If you can come up with anybody who might take a grudge that far…”

  “But why go after the kids? Why not me?”

  “Just get with your files and see if anything jumps out at you. Make a little list for me. Can’t hurt.”

  I promise to do that, after which Shoffler looks at each of us in turn. No one seems to have anything else to say.

  Jack gives in to a mighty yawn. “Excuse me.” He stands up. “Well, thank you very much.”

  “Would you like some iced tea?” my mother asks, also getting to her feet. “Or coffee?”

  “Actually,” Shoffler says, “I know it’s late, but we’d like to conduct the search now.”

  “The search?” Liz asks. “What search?”

  “The search of the residence,” Shoffler says. He shoots a glance at me. “Your husband and I have talked about it. He thinks the kidnapper was here. In this house. That maybe we’ll find something. Anyway, it’s routine.”

  “I don’t think he was here,” I correct Shoffler. “He was here.”

  “Did you tell them about the dimes?” Liz says. “And that rabbit?”

  “What’s this?” Shoffler asks.

  When I explain, he nods, pulls out the notebook, makes a notation. “We’ll take those into evidence.”

  “I don’t get it,” I tell Shoffler. “There’s no question Kevin was here. He called me from this number,” I say. “I turned over my telephone to you guys. You know that.”

  Shoffler nods in a noncommittal way, hitches up his pants. “Right. And we’ve asked Verizon for the records.”

  “What?”

  “Just to backstop the log on your cell phone. Make sure the call from Kevin wasn’t forwarded, you know, from somewhere else.”

  “But-”

  Shoffler ignores me. “It’s late and we’d like to get started,” he says. “I’m guessing it will take a couple of hours. So you all – you’re welcome to – go for a drive or something.”

  “A drive?” my mother says, in the same incredulous tone she might have used if the detective had said “a swim” or “a manicure.”

  “Some folks find it upsetting,” Shoffler explains to her in his patient voice, “strangers going through their house. Their things.” He shrugs. “If you decide to stay, you’ll all have to remain in this room until we’re done with the rest of the house. Then we’ll finish up in here.” He makes a clicking sound, snapping his tongue away from the roof of his mouth. It seems unnaturally loud.

  “Well, I don’t want to go for a drive,” my mother says.

  “I think we’ll stay put,” I say.

  “Good enough,” Shoffler says. “In that case, we could cross something else off the list. Get everybody’s fingerprints.”

  “What?” Jack says.

  “Strictly routine, Mr. Taggart. We need the prints of the people who have been in the house, so we can exclude them. Eventually, we’ll have to print everyone else who’s been in here – housekeeper, babysitter, handyman – for the same reason.” He looks at his watch.

  “Why can’t this be done tomorrow?” Jack asks, his arm around Liz’s shoulder. “My daughter is exhausted.”

  Shoffler wags his head. “I know. It’s very late – believe me, I’m aware of that. But I’m sure you understand that if there is any evidence here, anything that might provide a lead, we want to know about it right away. Not only can we act on it sooner, the longer we wait, the more the scene becomes contaminated. Plus, the team’s already here, outside, ready to go-”

  “They’re outside right now?” I hear myself say. I don’t know why this bothers me, but it does.

  Shoffler looks at his watch. “You mind if we get started?”

  CHAPTER 10

  We sit there for an awkward moment, not knowing what to say, until Jack grabs the remote and turns on the television.

  It’s impossible. What could be appropriate? He scowls as he blips from one hopeless choice to another. Baseball, crime shows, sitcoms, a Frontline program about the teen fashion industry.

  “Dad,” Liz says.

  Jack turns the television off. But when it goes dark with its electronic fizzle, we can hear them in the living room, conducting their search. It sounds like they’re taking the place apart. The counterpoint of conversation, the sounds of doors and drawers being opened, the audible evidence of the search – all this disturbs me. Even though I pushed for the search, it still feels like an invasion of privacy.

  And suddenly the word invasion, which with its military connotations always seemed too forceful for this usage, seems perfect. Listening to these strangers pawing through my family’s belongings makes me feel as if I’m under attack, my territory violated. I hate the sound of their footsteps, the murmur of voices, the occasional spurt of laughter. It bothers me so much that I lift the remote from the end table, press the power button.

  A mistake. I’ve caught the top of the ten o’clock news. There’s a collective intake of breath as the photo of the boys flashes on the screen, the announcer saying: “No news in the case of the missing Callahan twins…”

  “Oh, God,” Liz says, as I punch the television off.

  It’s almost a relief when a jittery redhead with bad skin and green fingernails arrives to take our fingerprints.

  We all endure this woman’s
bad temper as, one at a time, she calls us to the seat next to her. Using the coffee table as a platform, she presses our fingertips into an ink pad and then rolls out each one onto a prepared card. As she rolls my left pinky and then lifts it straight up from the file card, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something sordid about the process. The card contains nothing but the minimal information required to identify me, that and the oblong blobs left by my fingertips, each with its own intricate pattern of whorls and lines.

  I am given moistened towelettes to remove the ink from my hands while my mother takes my place. Maybe it’s because the Xanax has worn off, maybe it’s the half a dozen cups of coffee she’s downed since her arrival. Whatever the reason, she can’t seem to allow the technician to manipulate her fingers. She keeps twitching, moving the fingers herself. She apologizes and the tech issues an exaggerated sigh as she rips each messed-up card in two and tosses it into the wastebasket.

  “Relax,” she tells my mother for what must be the tenth time, “let me move your finger. You’re rolling it – see, you’re smearing it.” Her tone of voice varies between accusing and patronizing. “Let me manipulate your fingers. Don’t roll…”

  “I’m not rolling,” my mother says. “I’m trying not to.”

  “You are.”

  “Stop bullying her,” I say. “This is voluntary, correct?” My mother casts me a grateful look, but she’s beginning to sniffle.

  “Let’s try again,” the fingerprint bitch says, filling out another card with yet another exasperated sigh.

  This time, it goes well for a minute or two, but then, Mom twitches or something.

  “You’re doing it again!”

  My mother breaks down, begins to cry.

  “Leave her alone,” my father says, getting to his feet.

  “Excuse me,” the tech says, extricating herself from her seat and marching toward the door. “I don’t get paid enough to put up with this grief.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” I say in an automatic tone.

  “Do you want some water, Glenna?” my father asks in an anxious voice. “Alex – do you think we could get some water in here?”

  “Sure.” I drag myself up from the couch and speak to the policeman posted in the hall. I realize – and the thought fills me with guilt – that I am tired of my parents, that I wish they would go home. Jack, too. I know they’ve come because they had to come and lend whatever support they can. I guess I’d be hurt if they hadn’t come. But it feels as if Liz and I have to take care of them.

  Shortly after the policeman brings the water, Shoffler shows up. He stands in the threshold and raps his knuckles against the inside of the doorjamb. “Can I have a word with you, Alex? With you and Mrs. Callahan?”

  There’s something about the look on Shoffler’s face that freezes my heart. First of all the latex gloves he’s wearing – they’re all wearing them – provide a chilling, clinical note. I stand up fast, as if there’s a rope attached to the top of my head and someone’s yanked me to my feet. “What is it?”

  “You can speak freely right here,” my father says, with a little inclusive sweep of his hand. “We’re all family.”

  Shoffler holds his hand up, palm toward my father like a cop stopping traffic. “Just the parents,” he says, with something that’s more like a grimace than a smile.

  Liz is gray. We follow Shoffler upstairs into my study, where a uniformed officer, also gloved, sits on the corner of my desk holding a clipboard. Shoffler introduces the man: “This is Officer David Ebinger.”

  Shoffler explains that it’s the custom, post-O.J., to have a single officer handle evidence, from tagging and bagging, to checking it in and out of the evidence room, to introducing it in court. “We have to establish chain of custody,” he says, in a matter-of-fact way, “in case there’s a court case somewhere down the line.”

  We nod. We understand.

  And then Shoffler closes the door. “We found something,” he says.

  I can’t say a word.

  On my desk sits a brown cardboard box about the size of a shoe box. Its flaps are open, splayed to the sides, and taped to it is a white tag with writing on it. Shoffler nods to Ebinger and then, using the eraser end of a pencil, extracts from the box a crumpled and badly stained piece of clothing. Once he’s got the whole thing clear of the box, I see what it is: a yellow T-shirt. The stain is reddish brown and I know instantly that it’s blood.

  Liz moans. I put my arm around her and she leans in to me, turning her face in to my chest. She can’t look, but I can’t stop looking. Shoffler is trying to gently shake out the piece of cloth suspended from his pencil. It must have dried in this crumpled state, and it’s so stiff his efforts don’t accomplish much. For some reason I feel compelled to watch, filled with dread that the shirt will slip off the pencil and fall to the desk and that I must not let this happen. Finally the folds of fabric in one part of the bunched T-shirt lose their adhesion. It’s like a clenched fist opening, and suddenly I can see what the bunched folds hid, a palm-sized flat expanse of the T-shirt.

  I don’t need to see any more.

  What’s visible is the cartoonish drawing of a fish tail, the tail of what I know to be a whale, the interior of which I know to be printed with the word NANTUCKET.

  “That’s Kevin’s,” I say. I seem to speak without volition. “Sean has a green one.” I can’t take my eyes off the shirt. I try to concentrate on the fabric, exclude the image of Kevin in the shirt. There’s a weird metallic taste in my mouth. Liz is shivering in my arms.

  “Where did you find it?” I hear myself ask.

  “Could you confirm that, Mrs. Callahan? I mean the identity of the shirt?”

  Liz stiffens, lifts her head away from my chest. She turns her head, takes a look. She makes a terrible little sound. Her hand flies up to her mouth. She manages a few choppy nods.

  Shoffler presses her. “Are you telling me the shirt belonged to your son Kevin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did you find it?” I ask again, but again Shoffler doesn’t answer. He maneuvers the shirt back into the box, pushes the flaps shut with the pencil. Ebinger meticulously tapes it closed.

  “There’s one more thing,” Shoffler says. “Would you follow me?”

  Shoffler leads, Ebinger follows in our wake. I try not to speculate on the fresh horror he’s going to show us. I concentrate on looking at the back of Liz’s head, the slight sway of her dark ponytail. We enter the boys’ room. I can hardly breathe.

  “We decided to leave this in situ for the moment,” Shoffler says, levering open the door of the closet with his pencil. “Can you explain this?” he asks, using the pencil to point to the top shelf. He moves aside, allowing us to peer into the closet. There, next to Candyland and Sorry is a small glass mixing bowl full of a clear liquid. It’s on the very edge of the shelf, ready to topple.

  “What is it?” Liz asks. “Is it water?”

  “We’re not certain yet – but, ah – as I said, if you can tell us what it’s for, that would help.”

  Liz looks at me, but all I can do is shrug. I have no idea what a bowl of liquid is doing on the top shelf of the boys’ closet.

  “Did they have a pet or something?” Shoffler asks. “I mean a frog, a bug… a fish? That would make sense.”

  “I don’t think so,” I tell him.

  “Hunh,” Shoffler says, “you don’t think so.” He turns toward Liz. “Mrs. Callahan?”

  Liz just shakes her head and frowns and gives me a funny look.

  “We’ll take a sample of the liquid and print the bowl. Is it your bowl, by the way?” He looks from me to Liz.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I guess so.”

  “I don’t recognize it,” Liz says.

  “Hunh,” Shoffler says again. “Well, Dave is going to deal with this,” he says, nodding toward the closet, “and the crew can take on the family room. You can have the run of the rest of the house now.” He removes his gloves.

/>   “Detective-”

  “It shouldn’t take long,” he says, ignoring me, “and then we’ll be out of your hair. I expect everybody’s pretty tired,” he continues, “especially the grandparents.”

  “The shirt,” Liz squeaks, “does that-?”

  “Sorry,” Shoffler says, retreating into formality, “the shirt is evidence, and questions about it will have to wait. It would be premature to speculate. We’ll send it to the lab and then I’ll be in a better position to discuss it.”

  “But-”

  He’s moving toward the door now, walking past Liz and me. There seems to be no choice but to follow him out into the hall. We pause before returning to the family room, so that the two policemen coming out of my study can get to the front door. Each of them carries a large cardboard box sealed with evidence tape.

  “What’s that? What are you taking?”

  “I think it’s your computer.”

  “My computer?”

  “Relax, Alex. It’s routine. The kidnapper was here, right? Naturally we have to remove some items to examine them. Detective Ebinger will give you a search warrant inventory when we’re finished, and you should look that over. As for the computer, what if the boys have been in touch with someone over the Internet? We have to examine that possibility.”

  Liz turns on me. “You did have parental controls on that thing, didn’t you, Alex?”

  “They never used the computer.”

  “Alex!”

  “They never went near it! I don’t even think they knew how to turn it on.” This is probably true. The Apple engineers disguised the iMac’s on/off switch so well that when I bought the machine, I had to call the shop to ask where it was.

  “You promised me.”

  “Liz-”

  Shoffler interrupts. “Alex,” he says, “would you be willing to take a polygraph test?”

  “What?”

  I say what, but I heard him. I also know what it means. Murder – even the murder of children – is often a family affair. When children go missing, the parents are automatic suspects. I can hear Officer Christiansen’s voice during our walk back to the Jeep in that deserted field outside the festival gates. “Nine times out of ten, it’s a parent.”