Formula of Deception

by Carrie Stuart Parks

  Once the features were in place, she picked up a 6B pencil and darkened the hair. Tilting the paper, she added a few highlights with her portable electric eraser, then blended the strokes around the jaw with a paper stump.

  The face didn’t look right. She erased and tried again, this time working slower.

  A blotch showed up on the cheek where she’d rested her hand and the oils from her skin passed to the face. “Look what you made me do,” she said to the cat.

  Mr. Brinkley held the chamois in his front paws, rolled onto his back, and kicked the soft leather.

  “Thank you for not commenting on oil transfer as an amateur mistake. Yeah, I think I need to start over.” She sketched the face again. This time the drawing looked too light against the dark hair, so she added more shading around the side of the face.

  A spot of sunlight lit up her drawing pad.

  She looked up and checked the time. She’d been working for over two hours. Mr. Brinkley had given up torturing the chamois and was sitting by the door. She stood, stretched, and let the cat out.

  The day was becoming overcast and cool, with spats of rain creating a polka-dotted surface on the lake. She was tempted to go for a run, but the composite needed to be finished. She’d go jogging as a reward afterward. The thought made her grin. Years ago, eleven to be exact, she would have scoffed if anyone had predicted she’d enjoy jogging.

  Eleven years ago she lived a very different life.

  She returned to the table and examined the drawing. If the man was Asian, there wouldn’t be a lot of shading around the eyes. She picked up an eraser and shortened the eyebrows, added more shading under the chin, and placed a highlight in the iris. Not great, but done.

  After taping a piece of tracing paper over the drawing to protect it, she picked up her cell and called Elin.

  The woman answered on the second ring. “Detective Olsson.”

  “The composite is done, at least as much as it can be without Vasily seeing it.”

  “Great. I’ll pick you up and we’ll drive back over there.”

  Murphy hung up and changed back into her shabby jacket and slacks. If she got any more police work, she’d have to break down and buy something more professional.

  The composite sketch went into a file folder, which she added to her art bag along with the rest of her drawing supplies. She placed a green rain slicker next to her shoes by the door.

  Elin drove up just as she finished getting ready. Murphy pulled on her shoes and jacket, trotted over, and got into the car. Elin handed her a steaming Starbucks cup. “I didn’t ask you what you liked, so I just got you a cappuccino. If you don’t want it, I’ll drink it.”

  “Over my dead body.” She took a sip. “Ah. Bless your heart and all your vital organs.”

  Elin grinned. “I called Father Ivanov to let him know we’d be coming. He said he’d meet us there. He’s finishing up at the church, but he said Irina is at the house. She’ll let us in.”

  Murphy nodded and cupped the hot drink, unable to remember the last time she’d had enough money to splurge on expensive coffee.

  The last time she’d lived without doubt. Or fear.

  They parked behind a deep-blue Ford pickup. “Before we go in, could I see the sketch?” Elin asked.

  “Sure.” She removed the file folder and handed it to the detective.

  “Interesting.”

  Did that translate into “bad sketch”? “Um . . .”

  “He looks Filipino.” Elin returned the sketch. “As you were drawing this, did you think he looked Filipino?”

  “I didn’t think about much of anything. I just drew the features Vasily selected.”

  “We’ll post this online immediately, put a bit of a reward with it. That should encourage public-minded citizens. Are you ready?”

  “Yep.”

  At the front door, Elin poised to knock but paused, arm raised.

  The door was open an inch.

  Elin pulled out the Glock pistol from the holster on her belt. “Hello?” Nudging the door open with her foot, she glanced inside, then around her. “It’s Detective Olsson. Anyone here?” Her voice echoed slightly in the empty living room.

  Murphy gripped the art bag tighter with her suddenly sweaty hands and hesitated on the stoop.

  Elin cocked her head and put her finger to her lips.

  The house was silent.

  Stay put, she mouthed to Murphy, then crept into the living room, gun extended.

  Murphy licked her lips and followed closely behind.

  Elin reached for the bedroom doorknob, turned it, and pushed the door open.

  Vasily was propped up slightly on the pillows. An old Native woman sat in a chair next to his bed, a Bible in her hands.

  Both stared blankly ahead. A stream of blood drifted down their faces from the neat bullet hole in each forehead.

  CHAPTER 4

  Murphy felt like someone had punched her in the stomach. She staggered backward a step, then spun and checked the room behind her. Is the killer still here?

  Elin entered the bedroom, took a quick look behind the door and checked the closet, then raced to living room. “Don’t move,” she ordered Murphy.

  She couldn’t have moved if she’d wanted to. Her feet seemed attached to the floor.

  Elin charged into the kitchen, did a quick turn, then kicked open the bathroom door. She entered, and the rings on a shower curtain rattled. Returning to the living room, she pulled out her cell and handed it to Murphy. “Dial 911, then put it on speaker.”

  A voice promptly answered. “Nine-one-one, what is the nature of your emergency?”

  She moved the phone closer to Elin.

  “This is Detective Olsson. I just arrived at 1657 St. Herman Drive. Two people down inside the home. Possible homicide. Adult victims are male and female. Possible gunshot wounds. Send backup and roll medics. Also, get someone over to pick up Bertie Fisher at the airport. She’s the state crime-scene technician flying in. Ravn flight 888. Should be touching down around eleven. Bring her straight here. And get hold of the medical examiner in Anchorage and see if someone can fly over here ASAP. Did you get all that?”

  “Ten-four.”

  “Good.”

  Murphy disconnected.

  “What’s going on here?” Father Ivanov stood in the front doorway.

  “Bad news I’m afraid, Father. I need both you and Murphy to step outside and wait. We have an active scene and can’t have it compromised—”

  “Scene?” The priest took a step into the room. “Do you mean crime scene?” He started toward the bedroom.

  Elin caught his arm. “You can give everyone last rites, or pray over them, or whatever you need to do soon enough, Padre, but for now I need to preserve the evidence.”

  His gaze went from her face to the bedroom, then back again. “Are they both dead?”

  “Murdered.”

  “I would like to serve Litia, a special memorial service.”

  “As soon as we process everything, you can do the service. Now please step outside.”

  Murphy unstuck her feet from the floor and followed Father Ivanov and Elin to the shaggy front yard. The sun peeked through the clouds, lighting up the landscape with a cheerful glow. That was all wrong. It should be raining. And everything painted in charcoal gray.

  The quiet street echoed with approaching wailing sirens. Elin left them to direct the patrol cars.

  “What did you see?” the priest asked her.

  “I’m so sorry.” She wanted to sit down before her legs gave way, but there was nothing to sit on. She leaned against the blue pickup. “Someone shot Vasily and Irina. Right here.” She touched her forehead.

  That did it. Her knees buckled and she dropped to the ground. Ground is good. She could just sit here for a bit and look at the mottled green shag carpet.

  No. Not a shag carpet. Grass. Uncut grass.

  Father Ivanov knelt beside her. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I
. . . um . . . needed to tie my shoes.” Idiot. You’re wearing slip-ons.

  “I see.” He stood. “I thought you were used to this type of thing.”

  “I’m rusty.”

  “So they were both dead when you got here?”

  She mentally replayed their arrival. Outside of chirping birds, the distant rumble of floatplanes, and a barking dog, there hadn’t been any sounds. No traffic had driven past. No cars parked nearby except the blue truck.

  She hadn’t smelled gunpowder or whatever it was that indicated a gun had been fired. “Yes, they were both dead, and I didn’t see or hear anyone running away. What time did you leave this morning?”

  “About forty-five minutes after you.”

  She looked at her watch. “So they were killed sometime between nine and eleven—”

  “Ah, so the forensic artist emerges.”

  Her face grew warm. “I just feel terrible that someone killed that poor man and woman. Why would someone do that?” The thoughts flooded her mind before she could stop them. Stupid question. You know evil people kill the innocent. The dizziness passed and she stood. “Sorry. It’s been a long time since I worked at the crime lab in Kentucky.”

  “I thought you said West Virginia. Or was it Virginia?”

  “Of course.” She folded her arms. “I’ve worked all over.”

  Ivanov caught Elin’s attention and the detective walked over. “Do you need us both here?” the priest asked. “I can drop Murphy off—”

  “Actually”—Elin ran her fingers through her hair—“I was hoping Murphy wouldn’t mind helping us out here.” The women looked at each other. “We’re shorthanded and could use help diagramming the scene.”

  Murphy hesitated.

  “We’ll pay you, of course.” Elin gave a grim smile. “You did say all your money was in that stolen purse.”

  “Diagramming. Yes. My specialty.” Good thing her pants weren’t bursting into flame.

  Elin took a deep breath. “Thank you. We won’t move the bodies until the coroner arrives from Anchorage. I have a photographer taking pictures now and someone checking for fingerprints. When Bertie gets here, she’ll be looking for tool marks, blood spatter, expended cartridges, vacuuming and taping for trace evidence, all the usual scene processing.”

  “Of course.”

  “Once they finish, you can go to work. See that big uniformed cop over there?” Elin pointed at a large man holding a clipboard and tape measure. “That’s Mike. He’ll assist you. When you’re done, sign and date it and give it to me.”

  Murphy gazed at the simple house, then around her at the police vehicles with flashing lights and a small gathering of neighbors. Two officers were unwinding yellow crime-scene tape around the perimeter of the yard. Just outside of the tape, near the crowd of spectators, was a woman with a camera.

  The camera was pointed straight at her.

  “Who is that woman?” Murphy nodded in the photographer’s direction.

  “A reporter from the Kodiak Daily Mirror,” Elin said. “Just ignore the press. I’ll let Mike know to help you.”

  The press. And they’d taken her photograph.

  Don’t sweat it. No one she knew would be reading a small local newspaper from Alaska. He was in prison, and had been for thirteen years. Her hair was a different color. She’d lost weight. And she was wearing oversized glasses. No one would recognize her. Least of all him.

  Maybe. The scar might show in the photo. “Is there something I can do while I’m waiting?” She’d do anything that would take her out of the photographer’s sight.

  “Sure. We can always use a trained eye.” Elin waved a patrol officer over. “Joshua Ward, this is Murphy Andersen. Take her with you when you do the search of the grounds.”

  Joshua was over six feet tall with umber-brown hair, matching deep-set eyes, and a chiseled jaw. Although the vest and duty belt added twenty pounds of bulk to his upper body, his arms shouted weight training and a gym. He gave her a once-over, gaze lingering on the scar, then nodded briefly. “Sure.”

  She caught her breath. He was the most strikingly handsome man she had ever seen. The only flaw on him was the wedding ring on his finger.

  Not waiting for her to comment, Joshua headed for the street. “Are you with the Explorer Scouts?”

  “No.” At least he was original about her youthful appearance.

  “Oh. We usually use the Explorers when we do a search, especially in thick underbrush or woods.”

  “I’m a tad old to be an Explorer.” She walked faster to keep up.

  Joshua glanced at her. “Don’t look it. We’ll be taking that alley.” He pointed. “And go around to the back of the house. We’ll work our way to the front. You’ll be an arm’s length from me. Pay attention to what you’re stepping on. Be looking for footmark impressions, anything that could have been dropped, or really, anything that doesn’t look like it’s been there awhile.”

  “I’m a trained forensic artist.”

  He glanced at her again. “Don’t look like that either.”

  After several hours of using her sleeve to sweep aside the pushki and stare at dirt, clumps of grass, very old, discarded cigarette butts, and beer cans, she was convinced police work was singularly lacking in any appeal, with the possible exception of Joshua. Murphy also believed the killer had simply walked away, out the front door and down the street.

  The small crowd of onlookers had grown, and more police vehicles now clogged the street. Her stomach reminded her that all she’d put in it today was a Starbucks coffee.

  A plump woman in one-piece navy-blue coveralls stepped out of the house. Her short ginger-colored hair matched the thousands of freckles on her round face. She handed a number of brown paper bags to a patrol officer and pointed toward a van. Elin joined her, spotted Murphy, and waved her over.

  “Bertie, this is the artist I told you about, Murphy Andersen,” Elin said. “Murphy, meet Bertie Fisher from the state crime lab.”

  “How do you do, Bertie?” Murphy held out her hand.

  “Murphy, did you say?” Bertie stared at her face for a moment, then pumped her hand. “Nice to meetcha, Murph.” She let go and slapped Murphy on the back. “Glad to have your help. Ready to do some drawings?”

  “Sure.” She glanced around, looking for one last glimpse of Joshua.

  The man was talking to an Audrey Hepburn–clone female officer. When he finished, she patted him on the arm and moved to a patrol car. He watched her walk away, then glanced at Murphy.

  She averted her eyes to an intriguing section of peeling white paint on the porch, then strolled into the house. With Mike’s help, she measured and recorded the living room, kitchen, and bathroom, carefully avoiding the smudges of fingerprint powder. Compared to painting landscapes in acrylics and watercolor, crime-scene diagramming was methodical and tedious. She handed the clipboard with her notes to Mike and turned toward the bedroom.

  She slowly approached and hesitated in front of the closed door. Just don’t look at them.

  “Did you forget something?” Mike asked.

  “Ah, yeah, my . . . pencil needs sharpening. Go on ahead. I’ll be right behind you.” She stepped aside.

  Mike twisted the knob and entered. Bertie entered the house and went directly to the bedroom.

  Taking a deep breath, Murphy counted to ten, then followed. The stench slammed into her nose. Body fluids, coppery blood, sweat from the officers who had gathered evidence earlier, and the sickly smell of death.

  She gagged and leaned against the wall. The pale-blue paint color faded to off-white. She blinked rapidly and the color returned. Mustn’t faint. Bad form.

  A hand patted her on the shoulder. “Elin told me you were rusty,” Bertie said.

  “Yeah.”

  “If you feel like barfing, go outside.” Bertie grinned, revealing a gap between her front teeth and deep dimples in her cheeks.

  “I’ll be sure to make a run for it.” She tried to smile back. “Do you
have any idea . . .”

  “Too early.” Bertie shook her head. “Elin said the door was unlocked when you came over the first time. No one would have needed to force themselves in. This all went down quickly, so probably he just walked in, pow, pow, and strolled out.”

  The last thing poor Vasily and the old woman saw would have been the barrel of a gun. She tried to get that image out of her mind. “Anyone have an idea why?”

  “I’m a criminalist, working on the evidence, the ‘how it happened.’” Bertie rocked back on her heels. “Criminologists work on the ‘why it happened,’ the thinking of the killer.”

  “I know that.”

  Bertie grinned. “I don’t care what the killer was thinking. I just want to throw his sorry hide into the slammer.”

  “Me too. Like on television.”

  “Yup. It’s either CSI or Criminal Minds. Of course, neither show is accurate.”

  “Right.” Murphy cleared her throat. “But I don’t watch much television. I don’t even own a TV.”

  “I do. I’m absolutely addicted to Hallmark movies. And any of those shows about six-hundred-pound people. Makes me feel thin.” She patted her ample stomach. “Anyway, making an educated guess about this murder, with these two such low-risk victims, I’d say Mr. Scherbakov set something in motion by revealing what he saw so long ago.” She tapped the side of her nose. “And I’m verrrry interested to see what we find when we go to Ruuwaq Island tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 5

  By the time Murphy finished diagramming, it was raining again, the crowd had thinned to two people, and the bulk of the law-enforcement and emergency vehicles were gone. Bertie offered to drive her home and pick her up the next day for the floatplane trip to Ruuwaq.

  “Thank you.” Murphy hopped into Bertie’s rental car. “The rain’s cold and home is a long walk.”

  “And it’s late.” Bertie angled to the street.