Web of Lies (18 page)
Carefully measuring in millimeters, I used an exacto knife to cut the vinyl erasers to the required lengths. As I cut each length, I turned the piece on its end and used a ballpoint pen to label its number. Locations one through ten, indicating the center of the face from forehead to chin, required one marker each. Locations eleven through twenty-one, marking the sides of the face, required two apiece. With each cutting, I measured and remeasured, holding my breath as I pushed the exacto knife straight down through the eraser material. Mistakes at this crucial point would skew the final results.
Markers cut, I was ready to glue them onto the skull. From there I would position the skull
exactly
in what’s called the Frankfort Horizontal Plane for photographing from the front and side views. Facial reconstruction is tricky at every step, including the photography. If the skull was positioned wrong, if I aimed the camera incorrectly, I would distort the picture, making the skull look narrower or wider than in reality. The photos had to be precise, because from them I would begin to draw the face.
I took a moment to lean back and flex my shoulders and neck. Pulling in a deep breath, I studied the two boards I’d set up earlier that day — one for the frontal drawing and one for the lateral, or side. Each was covered with a large sheet of Bristol paper. On top of this paper I would tape the photo of the skull, then cover it with a sheet of vellum for tracing. At that point I would begin to connect the dots, contouring around the tissue depth markers for the general shape of the face.
Vaguely I registered a fifteen-minute chime from the grandfather clock in the great room. It was telling me I needed to get on with my work.
The tissue marker placement chart lay at the end of the table. I reached for it, studying the twenty-one locations. My challenge went further than simply following the chart. The unique features of every skull demand that the procedure be tailored accordingly. Markers five and six, between the nose and upper lip, for example, should be angled a little differently depending upon gender and race. Placement of markers nineteen, twenty, and twenty-one, around the sides of the mouth, varies according to position of the teeth.
Sudden self-doubt flailed in my chest. Who did I think I was, attempting such a project at this stage in my career? What if I couldn’t get this part right?
I
had
to get this part right.
I closed my eyes, steadied my breathing.
God, I really need Your help.
I reached for marker number one and my tube of cement glue. As I started to unscrew the tube’s cap, the phone rang. I jumped, dropping the marker. It rolled toward the edge of the table. With a sigh I crossed to my desk. Caller ID read a familiar number: Tim Blanche’s direct line at the station.
Oh, terrific.
I steeled myself and picked up the receiver.
“Annie, hello.”
With two words his voice said it all. An awareness that I would be upset with him, balanced by his typical righteous self-defense. I pictured him seated at his desk, impatiently tapping a pen upon strewn papers, that Elvis smirk on his lips.
“Hi, Tim.” I couldn’t help my guarded tone.
“Look, uh, I needed to call you for a couple of reasons. First to say I’m sorry for that story in today’s paper. I have no idea who told all that to the reporter.”
Really. And who blathered to the informant in the first place?
“It wasn’t even accurate.” My fingers tightened on the phone. “We never claimed to know for certain that the vision has to do with Orwin Neese. We only came to you
in case
it did.”
“Yeah, I know. The media get things wrong all the time.”
So now it was the newspaper’s fault. Anger heated my words. “Speaking of the paper, are you going to run that composite I gave you?”
A pause. I could hear the excuse wheels turning in his head.
“Because you still could, you know, even though you don’t want to. Let it leak to the media just like the rest of the information. Then you don’t have to take the heat for falling for our ridiculous story.”
“Look, Annie — ”
“The fact is, Tim, Chelsea and I came to you because we thought you could be trusted. I know some supernatural vision isn’t the kind of lead you were looking for, but what do you have to lose? If Neese
is
holding those two people, now he’s been tipped off. They could end up paying with their lives.”
Blanche snorted. “I didn’t call to hear you tell me how to handle this case. You’re the artist, remember? I’m the detective. I
said
I’m sorry the newspaper thing happened. I think you should accept that.”
Only Tim Blanche could apologize for something without accepting one iota of the blame. I would get nowhere with the man.
Face it, Annie, he’s not going to give that drawing to the media.
My gaze slid to the large file drawers across the office and hung there. But I
did
have my own copy.
I licked my lips, pushed down my emotions. I had to admit he was right. I had no business telling him how to do his job. “Fine. Apology accepted.” Not that he would believe that from my tone. “So what else did you call about?”
A heavy pause. I envisioned his slitted eyes, the
tap-tap
of his fingers. “This is a courtesy call, really. And not one I had to make, I might add.”
Translation: I’d ticked him off royally. Better hold my tongue.
“I wanted to check up on you, see if you’re all right.”
“I’m okay.” My voice softened a little. “I’m very grateful for the officer outside my door.”
“Yeah, good. I’ve also got an update for you. We managed to pry some information from one of Neese’s buddies. The guy was with Neese yesterday when he left that note on your car.”
I blinked. “What happened? Why was Neese there in the first place?”
“You’re not going to believe this. It was a ‘random thing,’ to quote this guy. Said Neese is crazy and you never know what he’s going to do. The guy admitted he was helping Neese skip town, with Neese ducked down in the front seat. Then they went by the station, at which point Neese sat up straight just to show how macho he is. At that moment you and Chelsea were getting out of your cars. He saw you and decided to leave the note. Chelsea’s slashed tires were an added bonus.”
I closed my eyes, trying to assimilate the information. A threat on my life — a random thing? What kind of man
was
this? “Are you trying to tell me he’s not really out to kill me?”
“Well, I can’t say that. He left the note; we can’t just ignore it. The man’s already killed at least one person, and in broad daylight.”
I shook my head. “I don’t understand this. Why would he
want
to kill me? It’s not like he wants to stop me from doing something. My work on the case is done, so where’s the logic?”
“
Logic?
With a guy like that? Where was the logic in threatening to kill his girlfriend because she looked at another man? In running a victim down in front of a store full of witnesses? Or walking onto the police station parking lot when he’s a wanted man? This guy doesn’t think; he just reacts. He’s a lowlife.”
I had no argument for that. Threatening me, terrifying me and my children — a haphazard act.
“Did this friend know where Neese was headed?” I asked.
“No. But Neese left the impression he had some place in the area to hole up in for a couple days while he takes care of some ‘financial business.’ ” Blanche sniffed. “We’ll lean on this guy some more, see if he remembers anything else. Anyway, I wanted you to know Neese may still be in the general area. And that he’s unpredictable and deadly.”
I turned, glanced out the window. The new surveillance officer sat in his car looking bored, one palm hitting the steering wheel. I hoped this one had more than two years’ experience on the force. “Don’t worry, I’m well aware.”
“Okay.” Blanche’s voice turned brisk. I heard the squeak of his chair. “Gotta go. Just know that I’m on this. I’ll find him.”
I hung up the phone, frowning. Blanche sure had an unsettling way of settling things.
Forget him, Annie. Just . . . move on.
I forced myself to turn toward the work that awaited. But those file drawers on the other side of the office beckoned me. I stepped out from behind my desk, crossed the room. Opened the top drawer and slid out the drawing of the man Chelsea had seen. I stared at it. What if I gave this to the press? After all, it was
my
drawing . . .
Yeah, but it’s his case.
I checked the clock on my wall. Almost four thirty. If I did give it to the newspaper, I’d have to do it soon for it to run in tomorrow’s edition. Once the act was committed, there would be no taking it back. And Blanche would know I’d done it.
The man would probably never speak to me again.
As if I cared.
I stared at the drawing, indecision playing tug-of-war in my head.
H
e ran a finger down the terrarium glass. This one held more than one spider.
“Here, little ones. Come out, come out for Daddy.”
Button spiders were so shy.
Inside the terrarium lay piles of twigs. And in those twigs, webs. He tapped the glass.
He bent down, cocked his head. Yup. There was one —underneath the bundle in the corner. The brown button that was more of a cream color. On its underside he could see half of the orange hourglass marking. He craned his neck. There was another one — a black button. His lip curled as he watched the spider navigate its web. Above its spinnerets ran the characteristic red stripes.
“I like you even more.” He picked up a long, whittled stick and carefully poked its end down toward the creature. Black buttons could cause some real damage. “Think I’ll take you to my little room downstairs.”
Of course the spider scurried away. They didn’t like to be messed with. Sometimes these guys would even drop to the ground and play dead. But if they got trapped or squeezed — watch out.
He pursued it with his stick. Finally the spider crawled upon it. “Hah. Got ya.” He pulled up the stick and poked the end of it into a jar. With a fingernail he pushed the spider off, then slipped the lid onto the container without screwing it down.
“Hang in there. I’ll have you in your new digs in no time. Just have to get a few of your pals.”
He moved to the next terrarium, home to a half dozen delicate violin spiders. They had long, long legs and a violin shape on their heads. “How pretty you are,” he crooned.
Down into the terrarium went the stick.
How had the newspaper put that part about the spider room victims? Amy Flyte and the possible missing man. He chortled. They thought they knew so much. Possible missing man — dig that for a name.
If only those reporters knew a little more. Like where he planned to take his creepy crawly little friends.
I
needed a drink of water. Good excuse to escape the office while I mulled over my decision. Laying the composite down, I headed for the kitchen. As I crossed the great room, my peripheral vision snagged on a car driving up. Jenna and Chelsea.
Thank You, God.
They would help me think this through.
I busied myself with pulling a glass from a cabinet, filling it with ice water as I heard the garage door go up. For no reason at all my heart began to beat hard, as if I were a hapless child with a dire request about to face parents. I
wanted
to call Luke Bremington as an “unnamed source” and offer him a copy of the drawing. But I knew I shouldn’t.
The door leading from the garage/hangar opened. Chelsea appeared, carrying a green overnight bag. “Hey!” Her face lit up and she raised the suitcase. “I got my stuff.”
“Great.” I put down the glass and folded my arms. Chelsea toted her suitcase to the edge of the kitchen and set it down. Jenna followed, lugging her heavy pilot bag.
“Annie, hi. Everything okay here?” My sister looked around as if expecting a stalker to jump from the shadows.
“Yeah. It’s been quiet.”
“Oh, good.” She thudded the bag onto the kitchen table. “You should have come with us. It was a gorgeous day for flying.”
“Glad you had such a good time. Chelsea, did your husband meet you at San Carlos with your things?”
“Yes.” She laughed. “Don’t ever try having your husband pack for you. I had to go over every item of makeup on the phone with him this morning, not to mention every piece of clothing.”
I smiled. “Are you hungry?”
“No. We ate in the Bay Area with Paul
and my sons.”
“Speaking of which, you ought to
see
her sons.” Jenna bugged her eyes. “Michael’s what, sixteen?” She looked to Chelsea, who nodded. “And Scott’s fourteen. Great-looking kids. Our girls would go nuts.”
No doubt.
Chelsea surveyed me. “How are
you
, Annie? How’s your work?”
“Work’s fine. I got the skull and I’m progressing along. It’s a male and young. He was killed by a blow to the head.” They processed the information, expressions sobering. “I need to get back at it soon. But first I need some advice.”
We sat around the kitchen table. I told them about my conversation with Tim Blanche and my desire to give the composite to the media. Chelsea listened quietly, concern in her eyes. Meanwhile my animated sister huffed her disdain at Orwin Neese’s “random act” — and at Tim Blanche.
“So what are you waiting for?” Jenna spread her hands. “Call the reporter.”
“You know it’s not that simple. I’d be overstepping my bounds as a forensic artist. Decisions on how to track down suspects and victims aren’t mine to make.”
“But this drawing is
yours
. You didn’t do it as some police assignment. Besides, you’re involved personally in the Neese case. You’re a witness to the murder, and now the guy’s threatened to kill you.”
“I know, but — ”
“Oh, when I think about it, Blanche just makes me
furious
!” Jenna slapped the table. “He’s so worried about his own reputation. Okay, so your vision stuff is a little strange — ” she shrugged at Chelsea — “and we don’t even know if it’s relevant to the case, but still, it’s
something
.”
