I pulled back to study her face. “Thanks. I . . . didn’t know you prayed.”
She shrugged. “I didn’t until we started going to church. But in our Sunday school class, they talk a lot about telling God your problems. You know, like letting Him kind of get you through the day.”
My lovely girl. So open with her emotions. I brushed her cheek with my knuckles. “Does it help?”
“Yeah.” She looked at me askance. “Don’t you pray? I mean, now that we go to church and all.”
I felt a twinge of discomfort. “Sure I do.”
So what if it wasn’t very often?
Kelly leaned her head against my shoulder. “You should go talk to Erin’s dad and tell him you’re okay. Erin could tell he was concerned, you know? And she doesn’t want him to like feel bad or anything.”
How ironic, this circle of protection. I worried about Kelly; she worried about Erin, who worried about Dave. Who worried about me.
Me.
I could hardly take hold of that thought. Surely only Dave’s strong faith in God made him so caring, after everything that had happened last year. I wondered if that niggling part of me would ever believe that he didn’t blame me.
“Okay. I promise I will. But first I’ve got to make a phone call in the office. I’m trying to get hold of this last person I need to interview.”
Her fears allayed, Kelly scampered off to Erin’s house. I walked to the stairway that led downstairs and opened the door. The computerized cries of dying men and machine guns plagued my ears. My son was playing a video game. Killing people for fun.
With a shiver deep enough to surprise me, I turned toward the office to call Bland’s ex-wife, Susan Effington.
From the files Sergeant Delft gave me, I knew quite a bit about Susan. She’d married the man for whom she’d left Bill Bland within three months of Bland’s disappearance. Gary Effington was an insurance broker who’d been transferred from Redding to Washington State shortly after the Tarell/Dessinger murders. He and Susan lived in the suburbs of Seattle and had two children. Susan’s first child with Bland, a boy named Nick, made the third in total. Nick was now twenty-one years old and about to graduate from college. Gary Effington was the only dad he had ever known, and Nick had not been told his biological father’s sordid tale. Delft informed me that both he and American Fugitive had contacted Susan regarding the show. She was willing to be interviewed only if her identity was completely concealed, and she did not want the show to include her current name or her son’s name.
At the time of the murder investigation, Susan provided the detectives with photos of her husband, none of them high quality, and one picture of Bland’s father, whom Bill was said to favor. I was grateful for that one photo of the senior Mr. Bland, as both he and his wife were now deceased.
I settled at my desk, pen and paper before me, my questions jotted and ready. I’d pulled out Bland’s driver’s license picture so I could look at him while Susan and I talked. If she was home.
Fortunately, I soon learned, it was raining in Seattle, which had kept Susan and her family home on this Sunday afternoon instead of going on a planned outing. When I explained to her that time on my assignment had suddenly become urgent, she agreed to talk.
I wanted to put her at ease from the beginning, distance her from any guilt she may feel. “I know that you were as surprised as anyone about what your ex-husband did.”
“More like shocked about the murders, yes.” Susan’s voice had a chilly, thin ring to it. “But I will tell you the truth—not about the stealing.”
“No?”
“About three months before the murders, we had a major fight. I’d already moved out, and he came over to see Nick. I wanted him to leave, but he insisted on staying. We started arguing. And he shouted these words that would haunt me later: ‘All this money you’re costing me—you have no idea! You wouldn’t believe what you’ve made me do!’ I didn’t think much about this at the time. But once I heard about all the money missing, I remembered those words.” She paused. “Still never would I have thought . . . I just couldn’t believe it.”
My brain flashed the scene as Susan told me the details of Bill Bland standing in her kitchen, shoulders hunched, yelling. I stared at his picture, envisioning the redness of his face, his lips pulled back.
“Edwin Tarell told me that most of the time Bill’s anger was one of cold control. He only saw Bill lose it a couple of times.”
“That’s true. I’d never seen Bill raise his voice until we started having trouble.”
Started having trouble. I couldn’t help but wince at her way of putting it. As much as I didn’t like Bland, he had a right to be upset about their marriage falling apart. After all, she’d walked out on him for someone else. Like Vic had done to me. Worse, Susan had taken Bland’s only child away.
“Susan, can you tell me about any facial expressions or habits he had?”
“He had this thing with his chin, where he’d kind of jerk it up.”
“I’ve heard about that. Any others?”
“I . . . don’t think so.”
“Okay.” I checked my list of questions. “What were his eating habits like?”
“He liked sugar. Loved cookies and cakes. He must have had a fairly high metabolism, though, because he wasn’t overweight. Just his face was a little pudgy-looking. But that was the way his dad looked too.”
“There were strong similarities between them, right?”
“Yes, a lot. And they ate the same. Bill often said he got his sweet tooth from his father.”
“It looks like his dad was heavier than Bill.”
“A little heavier, but not much.”
I made note of that. “By the way, Bill’s eyes.Was he nearsighted or farsighted?”
“Uh, near.”
“How strong were his lenses? Or, let me ask it another way. Did his eyes look substantially bigger when he wasn’t wearing glasses?”
“Well, some, I guess. But not that much. Oh, I should probably say that I think he’d still be wearing glasses today. Instead of contacts, I mean.”
An important point. “Why?”
“He’d tried contacts, but he never liked them. His eyes were too sensitive. He’d only tried hard contacts and today everyone wears soft, so maybe . . . But I don’t think so.”
“Because you think his eyes would still be too sensitive?”
“Because I think he’d still be Bill. He wasn’t someone to change unless forced to. He was very set in his ways to be so young. I would tease him sometimes about being as narrow-minded as an old man.”
I gazed across the room, turning her words over in my mind. This information fit with everything else I’d heard.
“Susan, I need to know more about Bill’s personality. From what I could see on his photo, I detected a sense of arrogance. Would you agree with that? Also, both Sergeant Delft and Edwin Tarell have said that Bill always needed to be in control. And that when he felt that control slipping away, he would completely change. Can you tell me more about all this?”
“I’ll try. It’s very hard to explain.” She sighed.“Okay. First, you have to understand three important things. One, it’s true that Bill wanted to be in control. Two, he was an intricate planner. Three, as you sensed, he was arrogant. Now these things sometimes worked against each other. For example, sometimes his arrogance superseded his ability to control. He owned all these mystery novels, have you heard that? They were all perfectly alphabetized. He was so finicky about it—that’s part of the control issue. But as he read a novel, he’d always lose his place. He refused to ‘mar’ the book by turning down a corner of a page, and he never used a bookmark because he insisted he was smart enough to remember where he was reading. Then of course, he wouldn’t remember. He’d do this over and over again. I even went out and bought him a special bookmark. He never used it.
“Here’s another example of how these three traits came into play. For my birthday after Nick was born, Bill
planned a great surprise party. He hatched this incredible scheme that involved me getting a phone call, and then this and that happening, until I was forced to end up at this restaurant, where my family and friends were waiting. Everything went off to perfection, and Bill was very pleased with himself. He had remembered to line up a babysitter for Nick. But he had to talk to her quickly, and he forgot one little detail: with my being called to the party, who was going to pick up Nick from day care and get him home? The babysitter was too young to drive. So there she was, waiting at our house for someone to bring the baby; meanwhile, day care was calling my office, wondering why I was so late. When Bill realized he’d messed up on this, his arrogance couldn’t handle it. He became furious and ended up blaming me.”
I was writing as fast as I could. “Do you think that arrogant look in Bill’s expression would be more obvious today?”
“After not being caught for twenty years?” Cynicism coated Susan’s words. “Yes. I believe that whatever bad traits he had in the past will now only be magnified. He’ll be more arrogant, more controlling. Perhaps somehow that will lead to his downfall. No doubt today he’s overlooking the fact that the reason he’s had to hide all these years is because he made some major mistakes. Understand that to Bill’s mind, he is always right. And he’s always smarter. That kind of thinking ultimately led to the death of two people. To Bill, he simply did what he had to do.”
Did what he had to do.
The changeling soul of Bill Bland was forming before me, the parts of him joining together like muddied water droplets. Water always did seek the lowest level.
I bent over my notes, scribbling, concentration forced upon the words themselves, not the meaning—or the threat it might pose to me. “Okay. Thank you for all that explanation. Now—besides arrogant, could you list other words to describe Bill? Name everything you can think of.”
I heard her slow intake of breath. “Where to begin? I suppose with meticulous. Also he was set in his ways. Sorry, that’s more than one word.”
“Doesn’t matter, you’re doing great.” My pen poised over the paper.
“Humorless. Exacting. Precise.” She chuckled. “Oh, wow, this is getting easier. Controlling. Mystery buff. Introvert. Fairly intelligent. Tight. Oh, was he tight with money.”
I perused his photo, thinking of wrinkles that would have appeared in two decades. “Was he stressed much of the time? Did he frown a lot?”
“He didn’t used to. You see, he was also very logical. He reined in his emotions—except for when he lost it. So most of the time his face looked expressionless, because he wouldn’t want it any other way. Because then he would seem out of control, which wasn’t an option with him, do you understand?”
Like Mark Hoffman. An intelligent, white-collar criminal who had everything under control. Until he snapped.
“Yes. But you said he ‘didn’t used to.’”
“That’s because when we separated, he had a harder time controlling his emotions. He started to frown more. And he’d get sort of narrow-eyed. That was a new expression for him.”
Crucial points. I looked at Bland’s picture again, imagining lines across the forehead, around the eyes.
“How about the sun? Did Bill stay outside much and get tan?”
Susan laughed. “Hardly. He was white even in the summer. Definitely an indoor man.”
“All right. And finally, just to be sure. Have you discovered any photos that you didn’t know you had? Pictures of Bill or his parents?”
“No, I’m sorry. I wish I hadn’t thrown them away. But of course, that was long ago, after he’d disappeared, and I was so . . . ashamed.”
Because people would know her as the woman married to a murderer? Or because she realized that her leaving Bland had been the catalyst for his downfall?
I couldn’t help but wonder: what if Susan hadn’t walked out on him? Maybe Bland never would have stolen the money . . . never would have killed . . .
“Did Bill have any medical condition that would affect his aging? Something, for example, that may cause him to gain or lose weight, or lose his hair early?”
“Not that I know of. Bill was always healthy. I can’t even remember seeing him with a cold.”
Nothing in the case files had suggested a medical condition, either.
“Okay, Susan, almost done. Is there anything else you’d like to tell me? Something that you think would make a difference as to how Bill would look today?”
“You know, something tells me he won’t look all that different. If I saw him, I bet I’d know him in a heartbeat. Bill just wasn’t someone who would seek change. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s still working as an accountant. Unless he’s ended up in a bookstore, stocking the mystery section.”
Interesting thought. Perhaps I would need to draw two personas of Bland, one dressed as a white-collar employee, the other dressed more casually.
One final look at my listed questions told me I’d heard all I needed. I thanked Susan for her help, requesting that I be allowed to call her again if something else came to mind. She told me I could.
“Annie? Do you . . . think they’ll find him?”
Her voice edged with anxiety.
“Well, I’d say with the show they’ll have the best chance they’ve ever had.” I lay down my pen, forming my next question carefully. “Would it be better for you if he wasn’t found?”
She hesitated. “In a way. That is, of course he should be. But if he is, there’ll probably be news coverage. And I want to protect my son. I don’t want Nick to find out about his real father. What if some snoopy reporter tracks me down and calls the house? It will be awful. I told the American Fugitive people I’d cooperate with an interview. But I lie awake these nights, worrying what will happen.”
Her words tugged at my heart. I thought of my own children—how I’d wished I could protect them from the hurtful truth about their father when he walked out on us all. Susan’s situation was so much worse.
“How hard this must be for you. I can see why you may not have cooperated at all.”
“It was my citizen’s duty.” She made a little sound in her throat. “But as for my mother’s duty? I hope the show doesn’t work. There. I said it out loud. Gary and I both hope—”
“It’s okay, Susan. I really do understand. And I hope if Bill is caught, you’ll be left alone, completely. If I can do anything to help about that, I will.”
“Thank you. Very much.”
A moment later I hung up the phone and sat staring at my notes, trepidation ballooning in my chest. My interviews were complete. Now came my descent into Bill Bland’s mind. I would review the information I’d learned about him. List the important details. Read them again and again; let them wash over me, through me, until I could see him, feel him.
Reach out and touch him.
Monday, May 10 —Tuesday, May 11
Chapter 16
My drawing table and supplies were laid out and ready. Sunday night I’d busied myself with this task, putting off the review of my notes with much rationalizing. No point in starting in until I had a full day to devote to it. Besides, the kids were around and dinner needed preparing. And Kelly had made me promise I’d talk to Dave. Which, even without studying my notes, I did not find time to do.
It was now eight-thirty in the morning. Jenna had taken the kids to school and would return after shopping for groceries. We’d gotten a little scarce in the food department the last few days. Dave and I carpooled to school, and usually he drove in the mornings. But since Jenna had errands she wanted to finish early, she’d offered to take the girls and Stephen in. She did not want to leave me alone for long.
I sat in my office chair, tired eyes fixed on my work area across the room. I’d chosen a lightly tinted paper to draw on, one that appeared similar to Bland’s skin tone. The paper was eleven-inches-by-fourteen, the typical size I used in composites. I would do the drawing in color, starting with light lines in graphite pencil,
then layering on skin tones in pastels, and finally colored pencils. It would be in horizontal format, which would easily fill a television screen without being cropped and would include the neck and shoulders, so the head would not appear to float.
All the logistics were firmly in my head. All I had to do was . . . do it.
What if you don’t get it right? That question had haunted me most of the night. What if my drawing was way off-base, and Bland could not be found? How would I ever rest easily again, knowing he lurked out there somewhere? This man who had killed two people, who’d threatened me, could not be assumed predictable—now or later.
Please, God. Help me.
In the past year I’d studied age progressions and had done well in my classes. I knew facial features; goodness knows I’d drawn faces for a decade in the courtroom. I could almost hear Jenna’s no-nonsense voice: Annie, you can do this. Now buckle up and get to it.
With a deep breath, I opened my file of notes. To its right I placed a yellow pad, ready to list each detail as I reread the information. I needed to let myself sink into Bland’s story, become one with him. Then I could apply what I knew of his uniqueness to the scientific concepts of aging.
Above the yellow pad I placed Bland’s driver’s license photo. Bland’s eyes seemed to bore into mine. I pulled my gaze away.
Okay. First, I would tackle Sergeant Delft’s interview. I began reviewing my notes, writing down key words. Then I went on to my talk with Edwin Tarell, and finally to Susan. As I read and jotted, I forced my visual brain to stay on hold until I had all the words in front of me. Then I began to study them—these pieces that formed the abstract puzzle of Bill Bland:
low integrity—resorted to stealing when backed against the wall
cunning
managed to buy illegal gun
arrogant
plans elaborately, but makes stupid mistakes
quiet, mild mannered
murder-mystery buff
neatnik—alphabetized books by author and title
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