Robin Burcell - Face of a Killer

“With my luck, it’s probably Scotty.”

Topper gave a sharp bark, then resumed his growling.

“Where were you when I met the guy? Hmm?” She gave a tug on the leash. “Let’s go see what he wants.”

They started up the hill, but as they neared, the car’s engine revved, its high beams came on, blinding her. The screech of tires on the wet pavement echoed off the houses.

And the car headed straight toward them.

Sydney’s heart slammed in her chest as she yanked Topper’s leash, forcing him from the curb and away from danger. She fell back, knocking over a garbage can, and Topper barked as the car sped past them down the hill, then turned the corner, tires screaming across the wet pavement. A car started up at the bottom of the hill, took off, but she paid it little attention.

The cold air smelled of rain and wet wood, and she sat there a moment before assessing the damage, nothing more than scraped hands and a soaked bottom from the puddle she’d landed in. Topper came up, shoved his wet nose into her face, and she stood. “You okay?”

He wagged his tail.

She glanced down the hill, her senses on high alert as she tried to figure out what had just happened. Clearly it wasn’t Scotty, which begged the question, who was it? And were they really trying to run her down, or was it her imagination that she was being targeted at all? Shaken, she brushed the dirt from her hands, then noticed one of the juvenile delinquent next-door neighbors standing in front of his house, his face lit by the glow of a cigarette as he inhaled. The explanation for it all hit her. No doubt one of his drag-racing buddies showing off, maybe even the one she’d had to evict from her driveway earlier. She marched up the hill to confront the kid.

He eyed her, apparently unconcerned.

“That one of your friends who just left?”

“I don’t keep time cards on my friends, see who’s leaving when.”

“You didn’t see the car that just sped down the hill?” “Like I just walked out here,” he said, then tossed the cigarette into the wet gutter. It landed with a hiss, and Topper lunged toward it to investigate.

Sydney pulled the dog back, then looked at the boy, noted his glassy eyes, the heavy lids. “Tell your friends to slow down, would you?”

“Yeah, whatever.” She walked away. Just as she started up the steps, she heard him call out, “Why don’t you check one of those satellites you guys use to spy on people, see who it was?”

“Because they don’t work nearly as well as the devices we implant in your brains.”

“Yeah…” He gave a hesitant laugh, turned around, went back into the house.

Sydney waited until she heard the door close behind him, then looked up and down the street. The neighborhood was blissfully quiet, though, and finally she and Topper trudged up the steps. Once inside, the door locked behind them, she sat, tried to relax, and finally opened the envelope, looked again at the contents, the letter in her father’s writing. Except for the reference to her father’s boat, it still meant nothing. And what of the photo? She could almost understand if it showed the men doing something, but they were merely standing there in front of some nondescript army building, and there was nothing in the background that told her anything. She shoved the photo back into the envelope, and it occurred to her that what she really needed after a day like this was a good stiff drink. Several of them. But even if she had something decent in the house, drinking wasn’t an option, since she needed to be in court in the morning. There 70 Robin Burcell was, however, one thing she could do that would calm her, and her gaze fell on the easel in her kitchen, on the jet black canvas.

She stared into depths of the black background, then picked out her paints. Normally this helped soothe her soul, but as she painted the colors onto the canvas in long sharp strokes, colors of burnt sienna, bright orange, yellow ocher, all on that sea of black, she was anything but comforted. Taking a step back, she eyed the sharp points of color, trying to figure out what they were.

As usual, she painted by instinct, letting the brush do the work, trying not to think, telling herself that nothing mattered, not Wheeler, not Gnoble, not Scotty’s accusations about her father’s character or her mother’s vague comments regarding the same. None of it mattered. But the more she stared at the black background, the more she was struck by the thought that there was something missing from the canvas. What that might be, she had no idea, and when it became apparent that she’d lost all sense of creativity, she cleaned her brushes, put away her paints, and readied herself for bed. Just as she crossed from the bathroom to her bedroom, she glanced down the hall to the front of her apartment. Her gaze caught on the painting, lit by the porch light shining in from the kitchen window. It reminded her of something, and bothered her greatly. Teeth, she figured-long, sharp, pointed teeth-and she thought of the rape victim Tara and the bite mark she’d reported. But then Tara had been stabbed, and Sydney wondered if she’d been painting long sword blades or knife blades.

But she knew it was neither of these things. It was something more disturbing, something she didn’t want to face, couldn’t face, and though it would’ve been far easier to simply close her bedroom door so that she couldn’t see down the hall, she walked all the way into the kitchen and turned the easel so that she couldn’t see the painting.

Even that didn’t ease her thoughts. Topper curled on the floor beside the bed, and she was tempted to invite the dog to sleep on the mattress next to her, unsure if it was because in the back of her mind, she knew a simple painting shouldn’t evoke such emotions. Or perhaps it was a separate thought swirling in the forefront of her mind. One that told her that the car speeding down her street looked nothing like those driven by her juvenile delinquent neighbors.

Shortly after ten the next morning, fueled by more cups of coffee than Sydney cared to count, she was present in court, glad for the distraction of testifying, because for a few short minutes she might be able to forget that she’d ever spoken to Scotty about her father, or visited San Quentin yesterday.

What little enthusiasm she had for the court case waned along with her caffeine level, and soon she was wishing she’d had time to run an extra mile this morning to eliminate the fog in her brain. Since this was a bank robbery, the case was being tried in the federal court by an assistant U.S. attorney. Although AUSAs were simply the federal version of the deputy district attorneys she’d worked with as a cop, things tended to be handled more formally in the federal courts, and Sydney needed to mind her Ps and Qs.

She sat as directed, facing the AUSA, who asked her to identify herself and her occupation for the record.

“Sydney Fitzpatrick. Special agent, FBI.”

“Special Agent Fitzpatrick, how long have you worked for the FBI?”

“Four years.”

“And do you have prior law enforcement experience?” “I was a police officer for eight years in Sacramento.”

“Thank you. And on the day of February first, were you assigned to any special duties?”

“Yes, sir. I was part of a detail assigned to covertly follow Mr. Gerard Hagley.”

“Is he in the courtroom today?”

“At the defendant’s table.”

The judge, a gray-haired woman, said, “Let the record show that the witness has identified Mr. Hagley.”

The prosecutor stood and walked toward her, buttoning his gray suit coat. “Can you tell us, Agent Fitzpatrick, how it came that you were following Mr. Hagley?”