“Shut up, Robert.”
You’re toxic to men.
“Get out of my head!”
“Are you feeling okay?” Commander James stood behind me as I watched Blake drive off.
“I . . . um . . . a gnat flew in my ear and . . . um, I’m leaving.” A gnat? I sounded like a raging idiot.
It was a four-hour drive from Missoula to Lapwai, Idaho. I spent the time trying not to think about the upcoming case. I didn’t want to form an opinion without the facts. I wondered instead if Robert was right. Maybe I was toxic to men.
The route took me past the small town of Kamiah. I hadn’t been back to this area in more than twenty years.
My sweaty hands slipped on the steering wheel and I grew light-headed. I’d never wanted to return.
How strange that there would be two different ax murders involving four-year-old children. Especially just over sixty miles apart. And within a few miles of where my own biological parents had been slaughtered before I went to live with Holly.
It’s just a strange coincidence.
But I didn’t believe in coincidences.
The house where the most recent double murder had occurred was easy enough to find. Lapwai’s population was just a bit over eleven hundred souls in the rolling hills of the Palouse farming region. Police and emergency vehicles clogged the streets nearby, and I had to park several blocks away.
An attractive female deputy with the name badge of “K. LoneBear” stopped me as I passed under the yellow crime-scene tape. “You can’t go in there. It’s a crime scene. The chief will give a statement to the press later this afternoon.”
“I’m not the press. I’m with the Interagency Major Crimes Unit.” I held up my badge. “Your chief requested me.”
“Credentials.” She held out her hand and tapped her foot while I rummaged in my purse for the identification card and handed it over. She took her time reading it and comparing my face to the photo. “I don’t know why we need an outsider like you.”
I smiled without showing my teeth.
She pointed outside the crime-scene tape. “Wait there.” Not waiting for me to agree, she spun around and headed to the house.
I stayed where I was.
LoneBear returned shortly and signaled for me to enter the house.
The house reeked with the stench of death. I’d never seen so much blood, not even when Holly and Jacob died.
The room reminded me of a painting by Jackson Pollock, monochromatically spattered with perylene maroon. Matching smears of blood tinted the oyster-colored carpet. I gripped the purse strap slung over my shoulder and carefully picked my way through the crimson splashes. Black fingerprint powder created abstract smudges on the different surfaces.
Overturned and broken furniture looked like a herd of buffalo had stampeded through the living room of the single-story ranch.
Several police officers conferred in the dining room straight ahead. The medical examiner must have already removed the bodies, but it was easy to see where one victim had died. The coppery smell permeating the air made me queasy.
LoneBear watched my face intently for a reaction. She looked disappointed when I gave her a slight, dismissive smile. When she turned her head, I swallowed hard and bit my lip.
“The lady from Montana is here,” she announced to the room.
My body chose that moment for a massive hot flash, a reminder of the lasting effects of my battle with breast cancer and antihormonal therapy. Lava-hot burning started in my chest, raced up my neck, and slammed into my cheeks. Sweat dampened the back of my cerulean-blue uniform blouse, and air seemed to be at a premium. I knew my face would be flushed red with beads of moisture on my upper lip, hardly a professional presentation to a room full of police officers.
I pivoted and studied the blood spatter to my left as if I were at an exhibit at a modern art museum. I hoped by the time anyone came over to greet me my face wouldn’t be flushed and sweaty.
Someone on my right cleared his throat, then coughed gently.
I’m just going to have to meet him looking like this. I turned and held out my hand. “Hi. I’m Gwen Marcey, the forensic artist from the Interagency Major Crimes Unit.”
The man took my hand as if uncertain whether my hot flash was contagious. “Are you okay?”
“Mmmm.”
“Ah, welcome, then, to Lapwai. I’m Seth Kus, chief of the Nez Perce Tribal Police.”
I blinked several times. Chief Seth Kus of the Nez Perce Tribal Police was bodice-ripping-cover-of-a-romance-novel handsome. His caramel-colored skin didn’t seem to sport pores. Blue-black hair, combed back off a high forehead, gleamed in the overhead light. His black eyes, under level eyebrows, had a slight tilt to the outside corners. A few radiating wrinkles around his eyes spoke of spending time outdoors and squinting at the sun. Midthirties, I’d say. His lips were full, cheeks prominent, and jaw chiseled. I mentally pulled out a stick of charcoal and started drawing him.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked again, his right eye narrowing.
I reluctantly dropped my imaginary sketchpad. “Yes. I’m sorry. I came as fast as I could, but it was a long, winding drive from Missoula.”
“Well, Mrs. Marcey—”
“Call me Gwen.”
“Okay, Gwen, Commander James called and told us you were on your way. He said you were a forensic artist. I’m not sure exactly what it is you do.”
“I can do your interviews, of course, and watch subjects for signs of deception. If you have a description from a witness, I can sketch it. I can photograph your scene, scale out and draw it, work on surveillance photos, image modification—”
“Whoa, I’m sold. Everyone in this department is artistically challenged.” He started to turn toward the dining room when his attention shifted to my right. “Officer LoneBear, shouldn’t you be on patrol now?”
“Of course, Chief.” Her gaze held his for a long moment before sliding down his body. “Will you be coming to the casino tonight?”
Chief Kus clenched his jaw. “I might. I’m sure Gwen here”—his gaze slid to my ring finger—“wouldn’t mind joining me for a good dinner.”
LoneBear looked like she was ready to claw out my eyes.
Chief Kus took my elbow and moved me toward the area of drying blood near the dining room table. “I’m sorry about that. LoneBear . . . well, I’m sorry if I put you on the spot.”
I waved away his apology.
He nodded his relief. “I’ve formed a task force. I’m heading up the investigation. You’ll be reporting directly to me.” He looked around, then pulled me slightly aside and said in a soft voice, “Feelings are running high about these murders. They’re our own people, brutally murdered, with a missing child. You may get some pushback for being an outsider.”
“Thank you for sharing that. I can handle it. I’ll try to ruffle as few feathers as possible.”
The chief nodded, then indicated a pool of blood. “The victims’ names are Adam Sinopa and his wife, Alice. Adam was found here.”
I looked from the floor to the walls in the living room. “The weapon was an ax?”
“Possibly some kind of a small ax or hatchet. We think Adam was struck on the head first with something else.”
I knew by now my face wouldn’t be flushed. I just hoped it wouldn’t go pale. “Okay. So he fled from his attackers but didn’t make it. I’m not a blood spatter—”
“The IMCU is sending someone. I just want you to have the background before you meet with the possible witnesses. Alice was in here.” He again took my elbow.
Although his fingers only lightly touched my arm, it felt like an electric current.
This is ridiculous. I just blew my relationship with Blake. I didn’t need to start another that I could wreck as well. Without appearing to do so, I extracted my arm from his grasp. We arrived at the bedroom and the second crime scene was abundantly apparent.
“We think the murders occurred after midnight but befo
re 0800 this morning.” He didn’t seem to notice my actions. “Alice was still in bed.”
The bed in question had been stripped of bedding, but the mattress and walls told the story. Some blood showed on the right side of the mattress, but the left side was drenched. “She was found on the far left side.” He moved in that direction. “On the floor between the bed and wall.”
“So she rolled away from her killer.”
Chief Kus’s eyebrows rose. “I thought you weren’t a blood spatter expert.”
“I’m not.”
The man stared at me a moment. “Must be that artistic eye.”
“Something like that.”
He moved away from the bed and waved me toward the door. This time he didn’t take my arm. “The phone lines were cut. The daughter’s room is over here.”
Sucking in a deep breath, I walked to the little girl’s room, which opened off the kitchen. The walls were painted azo green with stenciled ballerina teddy bears. Lettered over the bed was a poem:
The teddy bear dances
In the gentle moonlight.
She twirls and she prances,
Her dreams taking flight.
A shelf circled the room near the ceiling with a large collection of stuffed animals, mostly teddy bears. No blood, but the bed was unmade and a few toys were scattered on the floor. A white rocking chair sat in the corner of the room. Sitting in the middle was a lamb puppet.
A Shari Lewis Lamb Chop puppet.
My legs grew rubbery. I grasped the doorknob to stay upright.
“Are you all right?” The chief’s buzzing voice was distant and faint. “Mrs. Marcey? Gwen?”
I couldn’t hold on. Blackness lapped around my eyesight before closing in.
CHAPTER THREE
I INHALED THE AROMA OF NEWLY CUT GRASS AND OPENED my eyes. The sky overhead was a cloudless rich blue. Not just blue, most definitely Winsor blue. I had a tube of it somewhere. Such a lovely color—
A face intruded on my view. He looked familiar. Quite handsome. A striking resemblance to . . . Chief Kus of the Nez Perce Tribal Police.
And I had fainted at a crime scene.
“Mrs. Marcey, Gwen, are you okay?”
Heat rushed across my cheeks. I put my hands over my face and curled up on my side.
“Mrs. Marcey?”
“Go away,” I said through my fingers. “I’m waiting for the earth to swallow me up.”
Chief Kus cleared his throat. “We’ve called the paramedics—”
“Oh no!” I sat up quickly, then clutched the ground to keep it from rolling any more. “I’m fine. Really. Please don’t make a fuss. I . . . I . . .”
A number of law-enforcement officers, the same group that had been discussing the homicide in the dining room, now stood around me.
“Rookie,” someone muttered.
“Amateur outsider,” someone else whispered.
Wailing sirens grew louder, then stopped.
I groaned. My first official job for the Interagency Major Crimes Unit was turning into a goat rodeo. “I appreciate the concern, Chief, but really, I’m fine.”
Chief Kus’s right eye narrowed and he stepped away. A paramedic took his place. “What’s your name?” he asked, taking my pulse.
“Gwen Marcey. What’s yours? Never mind. Please, this isn’t necessary. I’m fine, just embarrassed.”
“What happened?”
“I guess I fainted. I had a long trip, didn’t eat . . . Please don’t make a fuss.” After a lot of convincing, the paramedic glanced at the chief, gave a slight shrug, and moved away.
Glancing around, I found I’d been carried to the front lawn of the murder house. Most of the other officers had moved to the front door and were whispering to each other. Standing, I looked around for my purse, finally spotting it lying some distance away. I retrieved it and returned to the chief. I could still barely look him in the eye. “I’m sorry about that. I’m ready to work. Did you . . . get the pdf files on our services?”
“Yes.” A flick of his hand summoned an officer with a three-ring binder. “The names, addresses, and phone numbers of the witnesses we’d like you to interview are in here.” He was all business. “Since you do those sketches, maybe if someone saw something . . . ?”
“Of course.”
“You’ll find the homicide report in there as well. You’re booked into the Clearwater River Lodge.” He handed me the binder and a business card.
I took all the material from him and quickly reviewed the contents. “Are there photographs?”
The chief pulled out a small notebook and jotted something. “I’ll send them over. Would you also do a rough sketch of the crime scene? That is, if you promise you won’t faint.” He didn’t smile, but his lips twitched slightly.
“Promise. Um, my kit’s in the car. I’ll need to get my tape measure and compass—”
“We have those here. There’s graph paper in the back of the binder. Officer Attao”—he signaled to a patrol officer standing nearby—“can help you.”
Officer Attao proved to be a Native American with a roundish face, black hair, and tanned skin.
“Steve, this is Gwen Marcey, the forensic artist,” Chief Kus said. “Please assist her while she sketches the scene.”
Officer Attao nodded a greeting. “Gwen? Is that short for Gwendolyn?”
“No. Just Gwen.”
Kus gave a small signal to his officers. They parted as I approached, maybe to give me room to faint again, should I need it. Or maybe to make it clear how unwanted I was.
Once more in the living room, I placed the binder on an end table and opened it to the graph paper in the back. While I roughed out the room, Attao brought me a compass and tape measure. I dated the paper, recorded the reading on the compass, and handed Attao the stupid end of the tape measure.
He looked at it a moment. “Your agency didn’t have any regular investigators available? Just an artist?”
I gritted my teeth for a moment. “Just me. But I do have the ability to draw my own conclusions.” I checked to see if he got my humor.
He didn’t.
Moving around the room, I jotted down the measurements and locations of windows, doors, furniture, and a freestanding pellet stove. The dining room was next. The dining room and kitchen were connected with off-white ceramic tile flooring. The blood had soaked into the grout. “I don’t suppose anyone measured the location of the body before you moved it?”
Attao just looked at me.
I measured one of the tiles. It was 24 x 24 with a quarter-inch grout in between.
“What are you doing?” Attao asked.
“I can get the approximate location of the body from the crime-scene photos by counting how many tiles over it was from the different walls.”
Chief Kus approached. “How’s it going?”
“Almost done in here. I still have the two bedrooms. Did you want any of the other rooms measured?”
“No. That’s great.” He spotted someone outside and headed off.
The master bedroom didn’t have any other furniture in it beyond the bed, dresser, and two small tables.
Attao’s phone rang. “Attao. Yeah. Okay. Be right there.” He hung up and looked at me. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. You okay?”
“Yes. Just the one remaining room.”
After he left, I tugged a small sketchpad out of my purse along with a lead holder. I wrote Known on the left side of the paper and Unknown on the other, then drew a line between them. Under Known I wrote identity of victims, location of murders, approximate time, hit with something first, ax.
I wandered out of the master bedroom, still writing. Under Unknown I wrote daughter alive/target? number of assailants, know victims? why killed? Avoiding the large bloodstain on the floor, I strolled to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. The sparse contents—milk, beer, bread—each rested on its own shelf. The freezer was stuffed with microwavable meals. The cupboards were loaded with Hamburger Helpe
r, mac and cheese, and cans of SpaghettiOs and applesauce.
Mrs. Sinopa appeared to be of the same caliber of cook that I was.
In the child’s bedroom the Lamb Chop puppet stared at me from the rocking chair. Lots of children have puppets. I’m sure this is readily available on the Internet. Just because it was Jacob’s favorite toy . . . And the blood . . . And the age of the child . . . And . . .
I’d ask Chief Kus.
I reluctantly turned my back on it. The fingerprint-powder-smudged dresser held a framed photograph of a beautiful little girl. I crossed to the bed and pulled the covers back. The sheet was urine soaked. I pulled up the corner. The mattress pad underneath wasn’t waterproof.
“Her name was Beatrice.”
I turned to find Chief Kus leaning against the door.
“Was?” I asked.
“Is? We don’t know. She’s been gone for maybe sixteen hours. Roughly 89 percent of kids abducted are murdered within the first twenty-four.”
“Then she has a slim chance.” I held up the photo of the little girl. “Could you send me a copy of this?”
“Take that one. Just bring it back.”
I tucked the framed image into my purse, then picked up a teddy bear from the floor and hugged it. “She was terrified.”
“I’m sure she was, but how—”
“She wet the bed, but she’s not a bed wetter or she’d be sleeping on a waterproof mattress liner.” I held up the bear. “May I?”
Chief Kus’s right eye narrowed. “If you feel you need it.”
I smiled at him. “For Beatrice. She’ll want to have something familiar to hold when we find her.” I turned to the puppet. “Do you . . . does anyone know if this is her toy?”
Kus looked at the puppet. “I’ll ask around. Why?”
“Well, um, she collects teddy bears and it just seems out of place. Can it be fingerprinted?”
Kus raised his eyebrows at me. “Everything that could hold a fingerprint has already been checked.”
“In that case, can I take it with me too?”
The chief nodded, but his eyes clearly expressed his doubts about my professionalism.
Portrait of Vengeance Page 2