The Facepainter Murders Read online

  "May I help you?"

  His accent suggested Indian or Pakistani to Pete.

  "Have you seen this guy here?" Pete asked, showing him the DMV picture of the dead man.

  The manager was eager to help, identifying the picture of the dead man as the occupant of unit six, upstairs from three. He checked in three, four days ago. The manager hadn't seen him since, so he said. The car in front of three, a late model Ford Taurus, was his rental. It was locked and empty. The motel room was empty too if you didn't count beer cans, pizza boxes and dirty clothes. No signs of a struggle but a bloody mess covered the pillow. What looked to be bone fragments and brains and blood spattered the wall beyond. The manager was at his elbow, gagging.

  "Get out if you're going to heave."

  The little man stumbled from the room, hit the railing, and threw up. Nice for anyone below, Pete thought.

  He spoke into his shoulder radio, calling for a forensics crew and backup. Now he knew why the guy was naked. Killed here and moved to Catherine's backyard.

  When Adam arrived, Pete stood alone in front of the rental car. The forensics team had nothing beyond the brains and blood to report, so far.

  "Have you searched the car yet?" Adam asked Pete.

  "It's next. They've done the handles and window, driver's side."

  "Pop the trunk."

  Blood smeared the carpet of the trunk; otherwise, it was empty.

  "He was carried in it a while after he died, boss."

  "Looking for a place to dump him. Ask around Catherine's neighborhood. Maybe someone saw the car. Did the motel owner notice anyone else here?"

  "No."

  "Tried the other units?"

  "Not yet."

  "I'm going back to the station if you need me. Where's Brad?"

  "He went to the library, but he should have finished there."

  At the library, Brad checked the high-end security system. Any disruption triggered the alarm and called the monitoring service. Either it wasn't turned on, or someone had the code.

  Nancy Webb was in her office when he knocked. Her face and voice said "not again".

  "Ms. Webb, who has the code for your security system?"

  "I do, as well as Madeline Fox, Ada Warren and the installer. Oh yes, and that teenager, Chrissy. Why Ada gave her the code, I will never understand. I have a strict rule about who does what around here and if she followed it, we wouldn't be in this trouble."

  A lot of talk for Nancy, Brad thought. Trying to blame the kid.

  "Do you have addresses for Ms. Fox and the name and address of the installer?"

  "Yes. What about Chrissy?"

  "I know where she lives."

  "I'm sure she didn't turn on the system."

  "Thanks for your time, Ms. Webb."

  When Adam walked through the door into the squad room, Brad slammed a phone into the receiver.

  "Take it easy on the equipment, Brad. What's up?"

  "I'm searching for the people who have access to the code at the library. The installer is out of business; Mrs. Fox is out of town; Mrs. Warren says herself and Chrissy, and Chrissy's dad hung up on me."

  "Let's go see him."

  All small towns have a fringe of poor, rundown properties, Adam supposed, sometimes inside town limits, sometimes not. Bassett's property was the shabbiest on the dirt road that led past his home. A battered sign, proclaiming BASSETT & Sons Body Shop, decorated a Quonset hut at the back. Derelict old cars, truck caps and engine parts littered the yard around the shop and the house. The cab of the semi Bassett drove filled the lane. Somewhere out behind the house a dog howled steadily.

  Bassett was Chrissy Chambers's stepfather, and they heard him before they saw him. The screen door burst open as they approached the house. A young girl hurled herself down the steps calling over her shoulder, "...and I'm never coming back."

  "Good riddance, bitch," came the answering roar as Chrissy careered into Adam.

  "Slow down, Chrissy. What's going on?"

  Her voice choked with sobs, she raged at Adam.

  "He's drunk again. Beating up my mom, again. I'm leaving. Mrs. Warren said I can come to her and I'm going. He won't let me have my clothes, and I paid for them. He won't pay for anything for me. All he cares about are 'his boys'."

  "I'll get your clothes, Chrissy and then I'll take you to Ada's," Adam said.

  "You're not coming in here, cop."

  Bassett stood on the doorstep, cradling a shotgun.

  "What you want to wave that around for, Gord? The kid needs her clothes. Where's her mother?"

  "You never mind about her mother."

  "If I don't see her, I'm going to assume she's hurt and come in there."

  A pale, gaunt woman appeared behind Bassett as he lowered the shotgun. Even at a distance, Adam could see a developing bruise on her right cheek and the bruises on her wrists.

  "Do you want to come with me, Mrs. Bassett?"

  "No, I'll stay here. I'll be all right. I'll get Chrissy's clothes."

  She reappeared moments later carrying a black plastic garbage bag. She edged past her husband and stumbled down the steps to Brad.

  "Bassett, if she shows up at an Emergency Room, or worse, I'll be back for you."

  "We'll take Chrissy to Ada's and talk to her there," he said as he swung into the passenger side.

  "How ya doing, Chrissy?"

  "I'm okay."

  The fragrance of chicken soup met them at Ada's door. Ada took one look, enveloped Chrissy in her arms and led her into the kitchen. Adam and Brad followed. Soon the trembling girl, wrapped in one of Ada's was sitting at the pine table, hunched over a bowl of soup.

  "I can't eat, Mrs. Warren," she said as she put the spoon down.

  "Try a little, to help take away the shock."

  Chrissy took a tentative sip and another. Adam watched until he saw her color return along with her appetite and then filled Ada in on what happened.

  "I have the code, and I gave it to Chrissy so she could lock up. Chrissy, did you give that code to anyone?" Ada said.

  "No. I kept it in my agenda, in my backpack. I never talked about it or gave it to anyone."

  "Did anyone in your family know?"

  "I guess he did, because he picked me up when I closed up, but I didn't tell him where it was."

  Chrissy's bravado slipped, and tears ran down her cheeks.

  "Do you think anyone in your family could have gone through your backpack?"

  "Yes," she mumbled, her head buried in Mrs. Warren's shoulder.

  "Isn't this enough for now?" Ada asked, looking at Adam.

  "Sure. If she remembers anything specific, call me. Don't let her go out and don't let that guy in here."

  As they drove to the station, Adam told Brad to check Bassett's record and to compare his prints to any they found on the security system or the boxes in Brownsville.

  Chapter Seven

  The next day was cold, with a faint promise of snow. Anne walked the few blocks to the Episcopal Church. The white clapboard building, set back in a graveyard, looked as though it could have used an anonymous donor or two. A sign at the front announced its minister as David Dodds and the church as All Souls.

  A white-painted, badly-used door at the back of the church bore a small sign: Church Office. Thin described the man behind the desk, Anne thought. Thin body, thin moustache, even his tiny, capped teeth were set in a narrow jaw.

  A deep, irritated voice asked, "Yes?"

  "I'm looking for Mr. Dodds."

  "I am Pastor Dodds."

  Anne wondered what irritated him? An arduous passage in a sermon, perhaps.

  "I'm Dr. Anne McPhail," she said in her formal, at-the-office, voice. "I wonder if you have any parish record books. I'm doing some genealogical research."

  "I don't have time to help you."

  He dropped his gaze and leafed through papers on his desk.

  "I don't need any help but access to your books. I'm helping the police with an inves
tigation—the theft at the library?"

  Her voice trailed off, as he paused long enough to look up at her again.

  "Fine, fine. The records are in the back."

  He pointed to a door to the right of his desk.

  The tiny windowless room, unventilated in any way, reeked of must and fungus. The registers stood on end on a white painted shelf.

  Anne jumped as the minister came up behind her and said, "Perhaps you'd like to work at my desk. I'll be out for a while, and it's dark in here."

  Anne supposed she misjudged the man. Not the first time that happened. She made up her mind about people too fast and often regretted her first opinion.

  "Thank you. I would."

  Hunting through the registers, Anne found volumes from the late 1700s and another from the late 1840s. Time passed, and Anne's nose, sensitive always, started to warn of impending allergic attack. As she sneezed and dripped, she found, written in a tiny, crabbed hand, the baptismal record for Charity, infant daughter of Thomas Hall and Amy Ridout Hall, born August 9, 1794, and baptized Nov. 10, 1794. Where was Samuel?

  Assuming he was older, Anne turned the stained and fragmented pages back. By now her eyes were red, and her nose ran. These pages are dying, she thought. Soon there will be no records left.

  Many records from the 1790s were lost or illegible, but she found Samuel, born May 15, 1790, baptized May 30.

  Now that she had Charity and Samuel, all she needed was evidence Thomas married in this church.

  But nothing. No Thomas in 1847 or 1848 or 1849. If he married Rebecca Simpson, he hadn't done it here.

  Simpson, she thought. Simpson was an Ulster name, or Scottish. She wondered if there was a Presbyterian Church in Culver's Mills. She replaced the books and was washing her hands in the tiny washroom when the minister returned.

  "I suppose they are a little dusty," he said.

  "They'll be gone soon."

  "What?"

  "Paper and leather deteriorate. Your storeroom is the worst possible place for any old book. Couldn't you ask an archive or even the Catholic Church to hold them for you? St. Mary's has a climate-controlled room with lots of space."

  "Certainly not. What are you thinking?"

  "I'm thinking that unless you get them into a better environment, they'll be gone."

  Anne picked up her briefcase and put out her hand. "Thank you for letting me see them."

  "You think they're that bad?"

  "Yes. I'm so sorry to have to tell you this," she said a little more gently. "Speak to the priest. He's very helpful."

  "I will, and I'll take the matter up with my board. Is there anything more I can do for you?"

  "Could you tell me if there's a Presbyterian Church here?"

  "Yes. The Auld Kirk, on Reston Street, but I don't know if they kept their registers."

  "If they're Scots Presbyterian, they did."

  She shook the minister's hand and walked to the Auld Kirk.

  She was lucky in her hunt. By the time she finished at the church she had all the information she had needed. She completed the genealogy, and old Trevelyan was right. He was a direct descendant of the original owner or rather inheritor of the painting. Whether or not that meant he had any right to it and the rest of property, Anne didn't know. If each person who had owned the house, bought it in good faith, it would be hard to sort out. A case for the courts, she supposed. On the other hand, if the painting were hidden in that house all this time perhaps it would be different. Not her problem, Anne thought. She would drive out to his place and tell him.

  Before going, she recorded it all on her computer and copied it to a jump drive. She didn't want to lose all the information after so much work.

  She thought about Trevelyan on the way to the house. Sometimes the elderly did develop obsessions like this with a property. It poisoned a life. Trevelyan didn't need it, from what Adam said about the place in the country. She finished the drive through the sugarbush at Trevelyan's mailbox. Odd, she thought, the gates of the property were open. Adam mentioned the security here.

  A black truck, formidable in the narrow space, partially blocked the end of the lane near the house. Anne parked beside it. When she got out, she saw a crumpled form between the house and the truck.

  She knew before she got to him that it was Trevelyan, still in his plaid shirt and suspenders. He lay face down; dirt filled his nose. She cleared that away, felt for a pulse and pressed her fingers into the pale skin of his forearm. The long seconds before the blood returned, the weak pulse that fluttered at his wrist, and his clammy gray skin suggested an ominously low blood pressure. Blood oozed around a gaping hole in the back of his shirt.

  She took her cell from her pocket and jammed it back in. No bars, no service. She hoped there was a phone in the house as she ran into the front room. Nothing. Maybe in the kitchen. A black, old-fashioned dial-phone hung on the wall. Anne's voice was shaking as she dialed 911.

  "What service?"

  "Police and ambulance. A man's been shot. He's dying."

  "Where are you?"

  "The Trevelyan property on Sugar Bush Road. I don't know the number."

  "Stay on the phone."

  "I can't. I have to go back to him. Hurry."

  Anne ran back to the old man, tearing off her coat to cover him, and, using a towel that she grabbed in the kitchen, put pressure on the wound. His pulse was a faint thrill under her fingers, becoming more irregular as his respirations changed to feeble gasps. He's going, she thought. They won't be in time.

  Who did this? Where was the owner of the truck in the lane? Was he still here?

  Too late, she heard footsteps behind her, looked back, then nothing.

  Chapter Eight

  The paramedics worked quickly—intravenous lines in, the woman strapped to a backboard, both patients hooked to monitors. They intubated the man, bagged him and gave him drugs. A second ambulance arrived; the first left with the woman.

  Adam arrived with the next cruiser.

  "How is he?"

  "Touch and go. We're taking him now."

  "Where?"

  "Culver's."

  "His name is James Trevelyan. He's about seventy, and he has a bad chest, asthma or something."

  "Thanks, Lieutenant."

  "Who's the woman?"

  "Don't know. The car's over there."

  Adam whispered, "Oh, no."

  "Pardon, Lieutenant."

  "Her name's Anne McPhail. She's a doctor, about forty. Good health."

  Adam's face was white as he stood, turning his hat over and over in his hands. His inner thoughts were mostly profane and guilt-ridden.

  "How bad was she?"

  "The other crew had her."

  The ambulance left as the Sheriff's van arrived. Sheriff Bill Perkins' burly figure emerged. A longtime friend of Adam's, he pumped Adam's hand.

  "What's the story?"

  "You know about the murder in Culver's, and the theft from the art gallery?"

  "Yeah?"

  "The man who lives here, James Trevelyan, claims he's the rightful heir of two of the pictures. The woman is Anne McPhail—you remember—the Canadian doctor who helped us last year in the Russian case. She did some research for Trevelyan. I asked her to. Goddamit, why didn't she call me before she came out here?"

  "Would you have told her not to come?"

  "Probably not. No, I didn't think there was any risk in what she was doing."

  They turned to the scene. One of the men bagged a shotgun. A patch of blonde hair mixed with blood adhered to the stock.

  Adam searched the ransacked farmhouse for the old man's information on his family. He found most of it amongst the papers strewn across the floor and dining room table, even the will. Nothing about the painting. What the hell was so valuable they shot Trevelyan? Shot with his own gun judging from the empty hooks above the mantle.

  Adam left the scene to Perkins and drove back to town and the hospital. A two-story, red-brick structure built a
round an atrium replaced the Victorian mansion plus additions that served the town up until two years before. Pete met him outside the door to Anne's second-floor room.

  "Anne's not here. They took her down for an MRI."

  "How is she?"

  "They say okay, doing as well as can be expected. You know how they talk."

  "What about Trevelyan?"

  "Not so good. He's in surgery. The doc said his chest is bad. Did you find anything at the scene?"

  "Not so far."

  Adam turned when the elevator doors open. Anne's eyes were closed, but she didn't have any tubes, he saw with relief, except for the one in the nose most trauma patients had and an intravenous.

  "Can I come in?"

  "Sure," the nurse replied, "for a few minutes."

  "Adam?"

  "Yes. Wait until you're in your bed."

  Adam looked a question at the nurse.

  "She's okay. No fractures and no hemorrhage. A concussion, the doctor said. She'll drift in and out for a while, though."

  "Can I talk to her?"

  "For a little while. She's still pretty much out of it."

  "Okay."

  Adam sat by the bed and took Anne's hand, still and white on the blanket.

  "Anne?"

  "Mmm. Adam."

  "Are you awake?"

  "A little. What happened to me?"

  "Someone hit you."

  "Hit me."

  Then she remembered.

  "Trevelyan, is he dead?"

  "No, in surgery. Did you see anyone?"

  "No."

  "Why did you go there?"

  "Finished. Wanted to tell him he was right."

  Anne forced the words out past her dry lips.

  "Did you take your results to him?"

  "Yes, in my car."

  "Okay, you rest. We'll talk later."

  When Adam came out of Anne's room, he faced the long counter of the nurse's station. He spoke to the red-headed charge nurse.