Painted Skins

by Matt Hilton

‘It sounds a lot of people,’ Tess agreed, ‘but isn’t when you ask yourself how many of them are active foster parents. I’m guessing that Maine Child and Family Services has only a small but invaluable resource they can pull on when placing children.’

  ‘F’sure. Kids in need of care probably rotate through the same families time and again.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Tess, because his thoughts were heading the same direction as hers. ‘Children in the system will possibly pass each other along the way, with some of them making lasting connections even when they’re later separated. They probably bump into each other on any number of occasions over the years.’

  ‘You’re suggesting that Bruin – or even Daryl Trojak as he was called then – has known Jasmine since she was a little kid, and did form some kind of attachment with her. One that was later exploited by both him and Cal Hopewell?’

  ‘Jasmine was deemed troubled back then, a wild child: don’t you maybe think she had a damn good reason for rebelling if she was being continually abused?’

  ‘It’s quite an accusation to throw at him,’ Po cautioned her. ‘It’s proven that Hopewell’s a goddamn beast, but without proof we can’t say that about Bruin.’

  ‘He’s desperate to find her before anyone else does,’ Tess replied. ‘That tells me he’s equally desperate to shut her up. We have to ask ourselves why?’

  ‘When Hopewell assaulted Jasmine, you’re suggesting that Bruin was also there?’

  Tess shrugged. They’d no way of knowing.

  ‘When it threatened the boy’s future, the Hopewells paid off Margaret Norris to dissuade Jasmine from reporting her abuse,’ Po reminded her. ‘I don’t recall hearing Bruin making a similar pay off.’

  ‘You’re on to something there, Po,’ she told him and pecked him on the cheek.

  Tess put aside the papers. Po adjusted in the seat, laying one hand protectively on her thigh, and she nuzzled into his side. He lifted his arm and slung it around her shoulder and they sat together.

  ‘You should be getting back,’ Tess finally said, reluctant to be separated now they’d finally earned a few minutes of comfort. ‘You can’t leave Pinky alone all night. Not when he’s your guest.’

  ‘You ain’t coming back with me tonight?’

  ‘I’ll be fine here.’

  ‘Not if Hopewell comes back.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s going to happen. Not with the police searching for him. He’s probably gone to ground, or even left the state by now. He’d be mad not to.’

  ‘I think he’s already proven that madness is his main commodity. I’m not comfortable leaving you alone.’

  ‘I’ll keep the doors locked, your number on quick dial, and my granddaddy’s gun under my pillow.’ She leaned in for a kiss and he met her. Slowly they extricated, and Tess said, ‘If you stay here I’ll never get any sleep, and I’m almost dead on my feet. Even if we leave now and head back to yours, it’ll be hours before we get to bed. I need an early start, Po, so it’s best if I do that here.’

  ‘You aren’t convincing me,’ he replied, but gave her a knowing grin. ‘I know your head’s buzzing with possibilities and you have work to do, and I’m being an inconsiderate inconvenience.’

  ‘That’s what I love about you, Po. Always so understanding and supportive.’

  ‘I’m a goddamn soft-assed fool, you mean?’

  ‘They’re admirable traits in some quarters,’ she told him.

  He stood reluctantly.

  ‘First hint of trouble you call me,’ he warned her. ‘Keep your gun under your pillow, I’ll have my cell under mine.’

  Taking the remains of the pizza, he went to the door and Tess saw him off with a lingering kiss. He went down the steps and into the Mustang and the engine growled to life. Tess stood in the open doorway, hugging herself, and waited as he backed out on to the road where they shared a goodnight wave.

  Sleep beckoned her.

  Yet it was hours away, despite what she’d told Po.

  He was correct when he’d said her mind was buzzing. She was confident she was on to something with the connection she’d made between Bruin and Hopewell, but it didn’t help her find the missing third piece of the puzzle.

  She went to her work station and brought up the police report she’d found earlier. Back then the details had been sketchy, but more had been added.

  A tentative identification of the murdered woman had been made, naming her as Carrie Mae Borger, one of the girls from Tess’s list, and who’d gone missing only a few days before Jasmine.

  There was no sense of satisfaction discovering her hypothesis was probably correct, quite the opposite. Learning that a predator was snatching and murdering women made her feel sick to the stomach, but she was also hit by a second sensation she couldn’t deny. It was a tremor of excitement. After following their cold trails, she was finally on to something important that could lead her to Jasmine, and quite possibly to Lucy Colman and Elsa Moore. She only hoped she wasn’t too late to help them, before they ended up like Carrie, in shallow graves with their tongues cut out.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Sleep crept up on Tess in the pre-dawn hours, but it was troubled by dreams that jerked her awake, her pulse thumping, and panic tightening her chest. She could not recall the details, only that she was imprisoned in a dark, desolate place, from where she could not escape: she could hear passers-by walking high above her, unheeding of her plight though she screamed for help. After each abrupt awakening she lay in bed, the covers pulled up to her chin as she waited. She was unsure what she expected, but it wasn’t something pleasant. She had a feeling of being watched, as if some evil presence hovered in her peripheral vision, but when she glanced to catch it straight on it would shift away, remaining always out of reach. She’d drift back asleep, still seeking the malevolent entity and slide directly into that horrible place from where she couldn’t escape again.

  She was finally woken at 7.48 a.m. by the insistent ringing of her cellphone. She expected it to be Po, eager to check on her, but it was Emma Clancy, to whom Tess had pinged a text message in the wee small hours. As she fumbled to slide the answer button she disconnected the call instead. She struggled from under her damp bed covers and placed her bare feet on the floor, sitting a moment, head swimming. Still slightly fuddled by her uncomfortable night, she tried to bring up the missed call log to return the call, but Emma beat her to it. Tess almost dropped the phone when it rang loudly.

  ‘Hi, Emma! Sorry, I cut you off …’

  ‘Did I wake you?’

  ‘No, no, I was up, I …’ Tess rubbed her hand over her mouth. Her tongue was glued to her palate. ‘Sorry. I’ll start again: you can probably tell I’m a little disorganized this morning.’

  ‘Haven’t you had any sleep?’ Emma asked without a hint of accusation.

  ‘A few hours. Been working.’ She stood, a little unsteady on her feet, in the damp T-shirt and boxers she’d gone to bed in.

  ‘I got your text, but I’m sorry, I only checked my phone a few minutes ago. I hope you haven’t been waiting for me to call back all night.’

  ‘No. I expected you’d be asleep. Now’s good, Emma. Thanks for getting back to me.’ Tess had found her way out of the bedroom and into the bathroom. She desperately needed to relieve herself, but not while she was on the phone to her employer. She turned on the cold faucet and filled a glass.

  ‘You said to call you urgently,’ Emma pointed out.

  ‘Yes. But I meant at your convenience.’ Tess quickly took a mouthful of water and swilled out her mouth. She held the phone aside as she spat into the sink. Her mouth tasted foul, and she was so relieved she hadn’t given into temptation and eaten any of the pizza Po had gorged on.

  ‘Are you OK, Tess?’ Emma asked.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine.’ She slugged more water, and her tongue was more manageable. ‘You asked me to find more proof that there’s a serial predator …’

  ‘Carrie Mae Borger,’ Emma stated to Tess’s surpr
ise. ‘Yes. She was one of the women you listed as a possible abductee. After we spoke, I did a bit digging of my own, and I placed her name – and the others you mentioned – on a watch list. I saw the police report of her discovery.’

  ‘Is it enough to get the FBI in on the case?’

  ‘We have to be cautious of extrapolation. One murder doesn’t indicate a serial killer. The connection you made between those missing women is interesting, but it’s also convenient. The tattoos, the scars, the athletic builds, they’re interesting coincidences, but there are probably dozens of other markers we’re missing that differentiate those women too.’

  ‘I know what you’re saying,’ Tess admitted. ‘There’s a danger in forming recognizable patterns in the randomness of chaos. It’s a human trait, where we look for something familiar in the mundane. But you know I’m on to something, Emma, otherwise it wouldn’t have piqued your interest enough to check for yourself.’

  ‘I didn’t say that I doubted you, only that the FBI are less likely to take you seriously.’

  Tess sighed.

  Emma forestalled any further disappointment. ‘I’ve sent over copies of the missing-persons reports of the other women to the lead detective on the investigative team at Belchertown PD. What Detective Ratcliffe does with them is open to conjecture, but I will follow up with a call once I’m in my office. There’s no evidence to show that Jasmine Reed was anywhere near Massachusetts when she disappeared, don’t forget.’

  ‘Even if I’m wrong about her, I’m still confident that the other girls are in danger. Lucy and Elsa were both last seen in the area.’

  ‘And I’ll make that clear when I speak with the detective. In the meantime, there’s not a lot we can do.’

  ‘I’ve still some ideas,’ Tess replied, but if she were pressed for details she’d be hard pushed to come up with something convincing.

  ‘Good. Keep digging. I’ll do what I can from my end.’

  Tess thought about telling Emma about the tentative connection she’d made between Daryl Bruin and Calvin Hopewell. But Emma had just warned her against extrapolating without solid proof. Maybe she was forming a pattern in her mind that had no basis in truth. Until she knew better, it would be best to keep her suspicions to herself concerning Bruin at the very least.

  ‘Any news on Calvin Hopewell?’ she asked instead.

  ‘Nothing,’ Emma replied.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Once I’ve spoken with Detective Ratcliffe I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Thanks, Emma,’ Tess said, but Clancy had already ended the call.

  Back in her bedroom, Tess straightened her bed covers, then as an afterthought dug under the pillow alongside hers. As she’d promised to Po she’d kept her grandfather’s Service Six close to hand. She was only relieved that during the nightmares she hadn’t given in to fear, grabbed for the gun and started blasting the shadows. She set the gun on the cabinet alongside her cellphone and returned to the bathroom where she gratefully relieved herself, then brushed her teeth vigorously. Showered, and her hair dried, and dressed in fresh clothing, she felt much better than during her talk with Emma. She was thinking more clearly too.

  She returned to her work station, hitting a key to waken the screen on her iMac. This time she altered her search parameters, searching sex-offender records, and included the tags ‘Tattoos’ and ‘Scars’.

  Most of what was returned was unhelpful, the rest a complete waste of time. She changed her search to check for unsolved sexual assaults and sexually motivated murders in Massachusetts, but the list was far too long to pick anything pertinent from as it included everything on record, so she pinpointed the search to focus on the area radiating twenty miles from the I-90 and I-91 interchange near Springfield.

  The list still made for depressing reading, and was far too random to be of any help. She searched the same region for registered sex offenders and the list was more manageable. She filtered out those in prison or a state institute, were aged and frail, and the deceased, and the list held only five individuals, three from Springfield, one from neighbouring Holyoke, and one whose last known address was on a trailer park outside Amherst.

  She formed a rogues’ gallery of their mugshots, staring at each in turn, as if she could read something of their depravity behind their flat expressions and soulless gazes. In varying degrees, every one of them had committed crimes against women, but time and again her attention was drawn back to the guy from the trailer park, and she could say why: of the five he was the only one who, as a sexually-frustrated teenager, had held his victims prisoner – shockingly his own sister and an aunt – dominating them sexually and physically for a period of days in his Josef Fritzl-style basement dungeon before the alarm was raised by a neighbour and he was brought to justice. All five were abhorrent individuals, any of them capable of reoffending, but there was one major point that set him apart. He was the only one tattooed, and scarred.

  She fetched her cellphone from her bedroom and called Po.

  ‘On my way to yours,’ he told her as soon as he answered.

  ‘Is Pinky with you?’

  ‘Right here, Sweet Cheeks,’ Pinky answered. ‘I hope you’ve only good things to say about me ’cause Nicolas has his volume turned to the max.’

  ‘Good,’ she answered. ‘Are you guys up for a road trip?’

  ‘Where are we going?’ Po asked.

  ‘Springfield,’ Tess announced.

  ‘Where the Simpsons live?’ Pinky said excitedly.

  ‘Springfield, Massachusetts.’

  ‘What’s in Springfield?’ Po asked.

  ‘Only a jumping off point,’ she said.

  ‘How far is that, about two hundred miles?’ Po wondered.

  Tess had no clue.

  ‘I’ll have to fuel up,’ Po explained his reasoning behind the question. ‘Be with you soon.’

  He ended the call, and Tess went through her rooms, pulling a few necessary items together for the trip. She also bagged her iPad, and as an afterthought her grandfather’s revolver and the charger for her cell. The phone she pushed in her back pocket. While she waited for Po and Pinky to arrive she brewed coffee and ate a bowl of cereal at her kitchen counter. She dumped the empty bowl and spoon in her sink, and took her coffee with her to her living-room window overlooking the street. Down below she spotted Mrs Ridgeway arriving for work, but the woman was distracted and didn’t look up. Tess was thankful, she’d no wish to have to spend time explaining what had gone on yesterday afternoon, though she would have to do so at some point. She stepped back a pace so that she was out of sight, and peered instead along Cumberland Avenue in the direction she believed Po would arrive. There was a parked car on the opposite side, and a man sitting inside, but he was far enough away that she couldn’t make out his features, only that his head was angled so that he could watch her house. But she knew who it was.

  Without warning, the car reversed quickly and took a turn into the next available space, then swung around and sped off. It passed Po’s Mustang coming the other way.

  It was a shame John Trojak had sped off. Perhaps he wasn’t a total nuisance, she thought, because maybe he could help after all. Not in finding Jasmine Reed, but in confirming her suspicions regarding Bruin and Hopewell. He might do Bruin’s bidding with the eagerness of a puppy thrown a treat, but he’d no loyalty to Hopewell, and owed the man who’d almost crushed his skull with a tyre iron. Once informed of his attacker’s identity, he might have a different take on where his allegiances lay. Speaking with Trojak could wait, she decided, and bringing down his cousin. She hurried out to meet Po at the kerbside. He stepped out, and gave her a brief hug, before bending and levering down his seat so she could climb into the rear seat. She didn’t mind vacating her usual perch alongside him, because Pinky required the extra legroom afforded in the front. She tucked her knees up, seating herself sideways on the bench seat: she might as well make herself as comfortable as possible because it would be a few hours before they would r
each their destination.

  TWENTY-NINE

  John Trojak thought back to the first time he watched a kung fu movie, in the 1970s, and how cool Bruce Lee had looked sporting an array of bleeding cuts on his face during the final showdown with the steel-clawed bad guy, Mr Han. Trojak wore similar cuts now. They were anything but cool as he studied them in his rear-view mirror, but every bit as vivid as those carried by the Little Dragon. They were shameful, and unnecessary, and he rued the day he swore he’d never lift a hand to protect himself from Vero’s vicious attacks. She was unwell, to be pitied, not to be manhandled into submission. He’d raised her ire, unfortunately an easy thing to do lately, and she’d gone for his eyes with her fingernails, for no other reason than he’d attempted to explain that he’d a job to do. He’d managed to avert his face enough to save his vision, but her right hand had raked him from his left eye-socket to his chin. Her other hand clawed at the side of his head, nicking his ear, but most of those weeping wounds were under his hair and not as visible.

  Dabbing at them with a tissue, he’d almost missed when Tess Grey came to her window and spied directly at him. Flummoxed, he made a stupid mistake, ramming his car into reverse like that, and spinning away, when he’d been building his courage to go and speak with the private detective anyway. But his panicked escape had proved fortunate, because he’d almost run into Po Villere, and he knew once that lout was on the scene he’d have no way of engaging Tess in a frank and reasonable discussion. He needed her alone, without her posturing bodyguard looking for a reason for a fight. Trojak would happily oblige him on another occasion, and would gladly take out the frustration he felt at Vero on the Cajun’s face. But right now he didn’t need an enemy, he needed an ally, and fighting Po would only alienate his girlfriend.

  Last night Daryl crossed a line and Trojak wasn’t sure he could forgive him.

  ‘Who employs you, Johnny?’ Daryl had demanded. ‘Who signs your damn pay cheque? Who keeps Vero in all the fine things she demands? You? Are you responsible for all those things?’