Robin Burcell - Face of a Killer

Sydney called Dixon to let him know what she’d found, called Rainie to check up on Topper, finished up at the morgue, then drove back to the city to get started on the forensic drawing of her Jane Doe. Staring at a corpse, or even photos of a corpse, often riddled with stab wounds, bullet holes, or any number of untold injuries, was not easily forgotten. Each time she found herself in this position, she wondered why she’d chosen a profession that forced her to look at death and destruction, especially when she found herself working with victims-like the one she was sketching now, victims of crimes so horrific that death must have seemed a relief. Doubt always crept in at times like these. What made her think she was good enough or even qualified? What if she failed in her attempt at an accurate drawing? What if no one was able to identify the woman? Who would speak for her if no one knew her?

She knew the answer. Quite simply because her father’s death had defined her. Just not in the way her stepfather had thought. True, she’d been unable to help her father, couldn’t stop fate from taking his life, but there were others out there she could help. An advocate for the dead. That was why she had chosen this path all along, honed her artistic skills, willed herself to look at victims so mutilated that the public was not allowed to view them. In a perfect world she’d be painting landscapes. In her world she drew dead people, and so she sketched away, losing track of time until Scotty called.

“I thought you might be home by now.”

“I’m working a priority case. Picked up a sketch that might be related to the rape the other night.”

“About your father…”

She leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes. “Scotty…”

“If you can’t talk to me, who can you talk to?” 98 Robin Burcell

“Can you get me a copy of McKnight’s suicide note?” “I already told you.”

“Do that. Then we’ll talk.”

“I thought I could stop by-”

“Get me that note, Scotty.”

She hung up, glanced down at her sketch, thinking that sometimes dealing with the dead was much easier. She put Scotty and her father from her mind for a few short minutes, finished up the hair, figured she had a good likeness of her Jane Doe, then put away her things. Copies of the sketch in hand, she dropped everything off with Dixon, who was working late, and wanted it for release to the press.

That done, she drove home, desperate to clear her mind as she took Topper for a walk. She started at the sound of every car that drove past, though Topper seemed unfazed. When they were safely home, she tried dabbing a bit of paint on her unfinished canvas, but soon found that her favorite pastime did little to ease her thoughts, and her gaze kept straying to the envelope McKnight had mailed to her. She doubted she’d find anything different; there wasn’t that much in there to see. What was it Scotty used to tell her? Have a beer. Loosen up. Maybe she needed to finally take a piece of advice from her ex, especially when it came to delving into one’s father’s alleged illegal doings. “Hey, Top,” she said to the dog. “Doesn’t your daddy keep a shitload of high-end beer in his fridge?”

Topper wagged his tail.

“That’s what I thought. Desperate times call for desperate measures.” She raided Arturo’s refrigerator, walking out with a six-pack of Sierra Nevada, while Topper raided a basket of dog toys, walking out with something that squeaked. Back at her place, she popped the first beer open, didn’t even look at the envelope until she’d finished her second. Finally she dumped out the contents of the envelope, stared at the writing, knowing in her heart it belonged to her father. For Cisco’s Kid. Send the money to this address. But what that meant was anyone’s guess. The note might hint at blackmail, was cryptic at best, and the two men who could explain it were both dead.

Of course, that left the matter of McKnight’s suicide, and why-if her father was blackmailing him-would McKnight be apologizing for something he did to her father? She needed to know what the hell was in that suicide note, and it bothered her that Scotty, the king of the greased wheels, couldn’t get it for her. A lot of other things bothered her, like the fact she was sitting here, drinking alone. And if that wasn’t reason to open another beer, she didn’t know what was. About two sips in, Topper ran to the door and started growling. “Were you that fuzzy-looking a half hour ago?” she said, getting up. She lost her balance, fell back onto the couch. “Damn, I’m a lightweight.” She got up, peeked out the window, saw the empty stairs, the still driveway below. “There’s no one there, Toppie.”

Topper growled again, and this time she heard a car door slamming shut. The dog seemed to have an innate sense about what cars didn’t belong in this neighborhood, and she’d had too many beers to override his good sense.

Her Glock sat on the counter next to her purse, and she walked over, slid it from its holster, then shut off the light. “Topper,” she whispered. “Quiet.” She returned to the door, tried to listen past her quickening pulse. The sound of someone talking, an accent she couldn’t decipher, saying, “Be careful. Don’t kill-” Another car door closing. Topper pressed his nose to the threshold, his growl low, vibrating. She told herself it was nothing, just a couple of guys. She tightened her grip on her Glock, looked out the peephole.

And saw the silhouette of a man walking toward the steps.

Topper’s sharp bark scared the crap out of her. Her heart raced. It was a good second or two before she realized that Topper started whining to get out. And a second or two after that before the mysterious figure walking up her steps materialized into her neighbor Arturo.

She flicked on the porch light, opened the door, and Topper bounded out.

“Hey, baby!” Arturo lowered his suitcase onto the porch to greet his dog.

Sydney slid her pistol behind her, shoved it between her waistband and the small of her back, then stepped from behind the door, smiling as best she could under the circumstances. “Have a good trip?”

He looked up at her. “Yeah… Oh my God. You’ve been drinking.”

“Why is it no one thinks I drink?”

“Because you don’t. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just didn’t expect you back this late.”

“Change of plans. Hope the great white ghost wasn’t too much trouble?”

“Never,” she said, as a taxicab took off. Score one for Topper. It was a strange car, it didn’t belong, and the accent she heard was probably the driver’s. “Guess I didn’t expect you in a cab.”

“Suitcases are hell on a motorcycle. They’re hell in a taxi when you nearly whack your hand off trying to get it out of the trunk.”

“Well, dump it, come over and join me for a beer. It’s yours, and I can use the company.”

He dropped his suitcase inside his door, then walked in.

Sydney brought him a beer from the fridge, saw he’d picked up the old photo of her father. “Your dad, right?” “Yeah,” she said, grateful he didn’t seem interested in the other two papers left on the tabletop. Not that they’d mean anything to him. Hell, they didn’t mean anything to her, yet. She handed him his beer; he took it, nodded at the photo.

“You never mentioned he was a D-boy.”

“A what boy?”

“Delta Force. The dark soldiers,” he added at her look of incomprehension. “Come on, Syd. You had to have known.

Long hair, hockey helmets, the guy in front flashing the letter D

…”

“Those are hockey helmets?”

“You never saw Black Hawk Down? God, my little brother dragged me to see that at least fifteen times. His big dream.