CHAPTER 2
Heat rushed to Murphy’s face and a buzzing started in her brain. She stared at the priest for a moment. “Okay then.” She cleared her throat. Remember, Sherlock Holmes never fainted. “You saw five men. Am I drawing five composites?”
“No,” Vasily said, then spoke to the priest for a moment.
The priest nodded, then looked at Murphy. “He’ll describe the man he saw first, the one nearest to him. He glanced at all five bodies but only remembers that one face clearly. He fled the island after that.”
“Okay, one drawing it is.”
“If you could,” Detective Olsson said, “maybe you could do a second drawing as well—a rough sketch of how all the men were arranged. The crime scene.”
Nodding, she jotted a note to remind herself. The dying man stared at her expectantly, but somehow it seemed wrong to just jump into the description. “Mr. . . . ah . . . Vasily, let’s start with your arrival on Ruuwaq Island that day. What kind of day was it?”
“Gray. Dark,” Vasily answered.
“And how did you feel?” she asked.
He raised his eyebrows but answered, “Like hunting.”
“Tell me about the island.”
Vasily spoke for a time to Father Ivanov. The priest listened intently, bending forward in his chair, then turned to her. “He said the island is tiny, treeless, and mostly bordered by cliffs. The south side is low but is filled with treacherous rocks and currents. Because of that, few hunters bother with it. Vasily thought he could climb the cliff on the northeast side. With the icy conditions, it took him part of a day to reach the top. The land sloped to the ocean, with a rockslide on his right near the water. He saw nothing to hunt and was about to leave, but then he spotted piles of clothing near the rocks. The wind shifted and he smelled . . . death.”
“Picture in your mind walking to the bodies. Mentally look around you. What’s going on?”
“Wind cold in my face, light rain,” Vasily answered.
“What did you hear?”
He spoke to the priest. “He could hear the ocean waves crashing and seagulls,” Father Ivanov said.
“Now how were you feeling?”
Again Vasily spoke to the priest. Ivanov listened, then patted the man’s hand before turning to her. “He said the wind was icy, but the cold filled his heart. He didn’t want to look. He wanted to run away from that terrible place.”
She understood. She would have hightailed it out of there the second she spotted the clothing. “I admire your bravery,” she said to Vasily. “Tell me about the man you saw, the one you remember so clearly.”
Vasily launched into more Russian. When he finished, Father Ivanov said, “He believes all five were Asian. The one he remembers was a small, thin man, possibly in his twenties. Black hair, medium skin color, big teeth.”
“Big teeth?”
“I suspect he means the lips were drawn backward so he could see all his teeth.” Ivanov spoke to Vasily for a moment, then nodded.
“How long do you think they had been dead?”
Vasily spoke. “Not long time.”
She tugged the packet of mug photos out of her art bag and handed them to Vasily. “Please go through these photos and find people who look like the man you saw. Point to the ones who look similar and I’ll write it down.”
The dying man took the mug shots and dumped them on the bed. Almost immediately he selected one and pointed at an oval face. She took the photo from him and made note of it. In different images he indicated a high forehead, coarse black hair combed backward, and almond-shaped eyes with epicanthic eye folds. The nose was average in length, though somewhat broad at the end. Rather thin lips rounded out his selection.
Murphy made a note that the lips were pulled away from the teeth and would be stretched out and flattened. She’d draw them fuller in the sketch. Vasily’s face had grown even paler during the facial selection. He returned the unselected photos to the bag and gave it to her. She put it away, then opened her pad of paper to a clean sheet. “Could you sketch some stick figures to show how the bodies were lying?”
Vasily nodded. She handed him the sketchpad and pencil. With a few strokes, he drew five stick figures on the paper, then put an X on the body farthest from the others. “This one I saw best.”
“Where were they in relation to the rockslide?”
Vasily drew a line across one side, then handed her the pad.
After studying the sketches, she asked, “Did you ever return to Ruuwaq Island?”
“No.” His voice was a whisper.
“Why did you wait so long to tell anyone what you saw?”
The priest cleared his throat and glanced at Detective Olsson. “Vasily hasn’t had the best relationship with law enforcement.”
Pulling out a piece of drafting velum, Murphy placed it over Vasily’s rough sketch and drew prone bodies, then held it up. “What should I change to make this look more like what you saw?”
He closed his eyes as if unwilling to revisit the scene, then pointed to two figures. He made his fingers into claws, then wrapped his hands around his throat to show strangulation.
“They were strangling each other?”
He nodded.
She changed the drawing.
Pointing to a third man, Vasily made his hand into a fist and struck the bed.
“This man was beaten? With a fist?” she asked.
Vasily nodded. “And rock.”
Once again she made the changes, then turned the rockslide line into a drawing of rocks. “Now what should I change?” She held up the image.
“One rock by two men look like table.”
She drew a rectangular rock parallel to the two men, then showed him the drawing. “Now what?”
“Nothing.” Vasily shrank into his pillow.
She closed the sketchpad, removed her glasses, and took Vasily’s hands in hers. “Vasily, thank you for sharing this memory. I’ll take this home with me and bring the drawings back when I’m finished for you to correct. Was there anything else I should have asked you or you wanted to say?”
Vasily blinked at her several times, then started to talk. The Russian words tumbled over each other as he barely paused for breath.
Father Ivanov leaned backward in his chair, his gaze going from Vasily to Murphy.
Vasily didn’t notice. He continued to speak, now with spittle forming at the corners of his mouth.
Murphy watched the man’s face, nodding as if she understood what he was saying.
The flow of words ended and Vasily closed his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered. His skin had turned ashen, with delicate purple veins crossing his eyelids. His grip on her hands relaxed.
Her heart pounded in her ears. Is he dead? Did I just kill him?
A hand clutched her arm.
She jumped.
Detective Olsson tugged at her. “Come.”
She put on her glasses, picked up the art bag, and allowed the other woman to lead her into the living room.
“What was that all about?” the detective asked.
“I don’t know. Is he . . .?”
“Dead? No, he’s still breathing.”
Murphy let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. “Maybe he was remembering more details—”
“No.” Father Ivanov gently closed the bedroom door behind him and entered the living room. “Nothing new about the deaths. It was as if . . .” He stared upward, his eyes unfocused.
“As if what?” Detective Olsson asked.
“As if he needed to unburden himself of every evil deed he’d ever done.”
Murphy shivered slightly. She was glad she didn’t understand Russian.
“So, a final confession.” The detective folded her arms.
“In the Russian Orthodox faith, you don’t confess to the priest. You confess to God in the presence of the priest.”
“Like I said—”
“No. This was . . . different.” He shook his hea
d, and his gaze sharpened on Murphy. “He seemed to want to share with you. He certainly opened up.”
“I didn’t do anything.” Murphy shifted her weight from one leg to the other. “I think he just needed to have someone near, holding his hand.”
Detective Olsson raised her eyebrows at the priest. “She has a point. I don’t suppose you’ve been holding hands with the man . . .”
Father Ivanov stiffened. “It’s not my place—”
She held up her hands. “Just pulling your chain, Father. We’ll return with the completed drawings as soon as Murphy is finished. From what I understand, seeing the completed sketch usually triggers additional memories. Vasily may remember a whole lot more information.”
The priest folded his arms. “That’s good. I’ll pray that your drawings turn out well.”
She reached for the door. “Come on, Murphy, let’s get those sketches done.”
Murphy paused before leaving. “Thank you, Father Ivanov. I appreciate your translating.” She could feel his gaze, not much less disapproving than when she’d arrived, on her back as she closed the front door.
Detective Olsson slipped into the police SUV and waited for her. Murphy climbed in, rubbing her hands together to warm them.
“After the caretaker reported this story to me three days ago,” the detective said, “I followed up with Father Ivanov, then looked for missing-persons reports in that time frame. No luck. Not one, let alone five. Then I had to figure out where Vasily hunted. With the large number of islands in the Kodiak Archipelago, plus almost seventy in the Aleutian Island chain stretching across almost seventeen hundred miles, that was a lot of territory to cover.”
“But he gave you the name.”
Detective Olsson started the engine and pulled away from Vasily’s tiny home. “Ruuwaq Island was what he called it, but that’s not the official name. I called up all the pilots I knew and described the island. Butch Patterson, a retired trooper with Alaska Wildlife, finally came up with a possibility. I had him fly over the island yesterday to see if he could spot anything. He said the rockslide was there, but nothing else, at least that he could see from the air. He suggested I have Jake Swayne, his replacement, take Bertie, the crime-scene tech, out there tomorrow morning.”
“Bertie?”
“Roberta Fisher, from Anchorage. State crime lab.” She pulled out onto the street. “I told Bertie you were doing our sketches. She, ah, she’s asked if you’d go with her.”
“Why?”
“She said she needed help. I offered a couple of deputies, but none of them can even write their name legibly, let alone diagram a scene. I assume you’ve done crime-scene diagramming before.”
“Of course.” Murphy felt herself skidding down that slippery slope of lies.
Detective Olsson turned toward Murphy’s apartment. The sun was well up in the cloudless sky in spite of the early hour.
“I suppose a boat ride—”
“Not boat. Floatplane.”
“Oh.”
“You’re not afraid of flying in a small plane, are you?”
“I don’t think so. I see them every day taking off and landing, but I’ve never flown in one.” She thought for a moment. “Back to Ruuwaq, how did the men get on the island in the first place? Vasily didn’t mention seeing a boat.”
“Good question.” They soon pulled up in front of Murphy’s place. “Call me when you finish those drawings.” The detective handed her a business card. “You can drop them off at the station, or I’ll send someone to pick them up.”
“I don’t have a car, Detective, so sending someone would be a good idea.”
“Call me Elin. How do you get around?”
“Bicycle.” Murphy grabbed her art bag, stepped from the car, and closed the door.
Elin rolled down the passenger window. “I suppose that makes life simple. No car payment, no insurance, no maintenance.” She waved and drove away.
“Yeah,” Murphy muttered, “and no way anyone can find me.”
CHAPTER 3
For the past year, Murphy had called the daylight basement of a single-wide trailer her home. The rent was cheap and the view priceless. Although the exterior of faded, avocado-green metal overlaid with rust was grim, her windows on one side opened to shimmering Mission Lake. Once she’d found out the name of the lake, she had to live here.
In the distance, just beyond a narrow spit of land, were Bird and Holiday Islands, rising out of the Woody Island Channel of the Gulf of Alaska. She never tired of watching the seagulls and bald eagles fish the lake, nor the changing light as it crossed the emerald-green land. Kodiak Island was a rain forest, and the seventy inches of rain that fell there each year provided a moody atmosphere that matched Murphy’s outlook on life.
Myra Hampton, the landlord, a chain-smoking woman in her forties, provided a temperamental microwave, dorm-size refrigerator and freezer, hot plate, and Crock-Pot. Cooking for one person was as much fun as scrubbing floors, but Murphy had mastered the Crock-Pot and created interesting meals that could be divided up and frozen. Even experimental Crock-Pot failures smelled good and hid the odor of cigarette smoke that drifted down from above.
Her room had its own entrance, so she could come and go without disturbing Myra’s television game shows. Her landlady was generous enough to give her rides to town or the grocery store during the snowy days of winter. The studded tires on her bike helped on the icy days.
The only personal items she had brought with her to Kodiak were her necklace and a framed photograph of her identical twin sister, Dallas. Should anyone see it, they’d think it was Murphy. Before the scar.
Twice a month she delivered several small acrylic paintings of regional scenes and a selection of handmade sea glass jewelry to a downtown gift shop. They in turn sold them to tourists. She signed the art and jewelry Taanga, an Aleut word for water. The gallery owner ignored her obviously Caucasian appearance and sold them as created by a Native.
Murphy was grateful. The more layers between herself and her past, the better.
A marmalade-colored cat greeted her at the back door.
“Good morning, Mr. Brinkley.” She unlocked the door and let the cat scurry into the basement in front of her. She had no idea of his real name. The small notch in his right ear proclaimed him a feral cat, but he’d claimed ownership of her and demanded kibble accordingly. After emptying the last of a bag of Cat Chow into his bowl, she pulled out her art supplies. “I got a job today.”
The cat continued to crunch on the dry food.
“It’s a cold case, just like on television.” She placed the supplies on the small kitchen table in front of her. “I might be able to do a bit of research on my . . . mission as well. What’s that you say?”
The cat ignored her.
“Yes. I did have to tell a tiny lie to get the job. Well, maybe a few small lies.”
She checked for a reaction. “Of course not. It’s perfectly safe. Thank you for your concern.”
Mr. Brinkley finished his last nugget, sat, and began licking his rear.
“Well now, how should I interpret your sudden desire to clean your bottom? A reflection on me? No, you wouldn’t be that rude. How about it’s always a good idea to be vigilant for rear attacks?”
The cat stopped licking and stared at her.
She took off her glasses and stared back. The cat was the first to look away. “Ha! I won.”
“Murphy, is that you?” Myra called from upstairs. “Is someone there with you? You know you aren’t allowed visitors.”
“I’m just talking to the cat.”
“You’re not allowed pets either!”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s not mine—”
“Just be sure you remember the agreement you signed. I have others interested in renting your apartment.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She’d just bet folks were lined up to live under a mobile home.
Let it go. Best not to annoy or upset the woman. This was a perfect place to
live.
Moving to the tiny closet, she unwrapped the scarf from around her neck. She kicked off her shoes and finished undressing. She hung up the pants and jacket, then pulled on a pair of black leggings and an oversized T-shirt.
Mr. Brinkley jumped to the ledge above the sink and stared out at the birds swooping over the lake.
After assembling the ingredients for chicken à la Kodiak—anything she could gather from the overpriced and meager offerings at the local grocery store—she placed them in the Crock-Pot and turned it on low.
Her light box was on the closet floor. She’d had it forever, because it was useful for when she needed to copy a drawing onto thick watercolor paper. She placed it on the table, then transferred the rough crime-scene sketch to gridded paper. The location of the table-shaped rock was the first thing she sketched, lining it up with the prone bodies of the dead men. When she finished she placed the drawing in a portfolio, then tucked it into her backpack. She’d take the sketch to the library later in the day to make copies. If she was going out to Ruuwaq Island, she could use the copies for measurements without damaging the original.
The cat jumped onto the table and curled up on the light box.
She scratched him under the chin. She used to have a cat, jointly owned by her sister. They’d each given him a different name. He hadn’t cared. He hadn’t answered to either name.
What would a super-sleuth forensic artist need on a case? Maybe a clipboard or two? For sure a number of sharp pencils in a holder. In addition to her YouTube research, she’d seen enough composite sketches on television to know to draw the face from the front, not three-quarters as many portraits are rendered. Using the mug photographs Vasily had chosen as a starting point gave her an excellent idea of how the man looked. The photographs had the added bonus of showing the highlights and shadows for shading.
Mr. Brinkley snagged the kneaded rubber eraser and placed it on the light box. She retrieved it and gave him a chamois to play with.
First she mapped out each facial feature with an HB pencil, then adjusted it to match the chosen photograph. The eyes on an average face are halfway between the top of the head and the chin. The width of the eye will generally fit five times across the center of the face. The length of the average nose is one and a half times the width of the eye. The mouth is located one-third of the distance between the bottom of the nose and the chin.
Formula of Deception Page 2