John Case - The Murder Artist

An image of Kevin and Sean at the fairgrounds, laughing at a comic juggler, swims up in my mind. I shake my head, as if this motion might dispel the picture. As the hours go on, I can no longer think of the boys without a panicked rush of loss. It’s like falling off a cliff, over and over again.

The one bit of real news Shoffler offers is that the candle-selling pedophile has been cleared of suspicion. “Although the fair, of course, has closed him down. So he’s not going to be selling any magic wands to any little kids for a while. But as for abducting your boys, he can account for every minute of the time in question.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Liz says, pressing her hands against her thighs.

“I thought if an alibi was too rock solid, that was suspicious,” Jack puts in. “In and of itself.”

Shoffler exhales. He doesn’t dismiss Jack’s comment, but responds patiently, as he has to every question asked. In ten minutes, he’s managed to charm and reassure Liz and my mother and to impress Jack and my father. He has a knack for listening that would put most reporters to shame.

“Too good an alibi?” he says. “Well, there’s really no such thing, Jack. I know what you mean, but in this case, we have a whole boatload of witnesses as to this guy’s whereabouts.”

“And what was he doing?” my father asks. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

Shoffler pats at the explosion of hair on the side of his head, manages a weary smile. “He wasn’t at the fair all day. He spent the entire afternoon from one to six at” – he opens his notebook, pages through – “the Bayside Motel in Annapolis, where he was participating in a defensive driving course.” He looks up at them. “After that, he went to” – again he consults his notebook – “a support group potluck for persons who’ve recently lost a parent – his mother died three weeks ago. This potluck was also in Annapolis. Trinity Episcopal Church.” Shoffler closes his notebook.

“So this guy – he’s out of the picture,” Jack says.

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s good,” Liz says again, throwing a glance at me. “Isn’t it?”

“Definitely,” Shoffler says. “It eliminates a possibility, and that’s always positive. Means resources can be focused elsewhere. So-” He rubs his hands together. “You folks have any more questions?”

“There’s been no ransom call,” my dad says with a worried glance my way. “Isn’t that, I mean – why do you think that is?”

“Well, it’s early days,” Shoffler tells him, “but I don’t expect you’re going to get one.”

“ No? But, but – why not?” Jack demands.

Shoffler screws up his face, sighs. “First off, if you’re after money, why take two kids? It’s not like it’s a bake sale, if you see what I mean.”

“I’m not sure that I do,” Jack says.

Shoffler shrugs. “Two kids’d be twice the trouble, but they wouldn’t get you twice the payoff. Desperate parents – my opinion is they’d pony up just as much for one child as for two. And then” – he hesitates, but in the end doesn’t tiptoe around it – “fact is, there’s plenty of rich folk in the world. Somebody with a profit motive? I think they’d go for parents with… ah… greater resources than Alex and Liz here. Unless” – he looks inquiringly from Jack to my father to my mother – “the boys’ grandparents…?”

“I’m a high school principal,” Jack says. Uncharacteristically, he follows this statement with a nervous laugh. His relative lack of means is the only subject known to make Jack defensive. “Maybe Bob here is one of those secret millionaires next door.” He laughs again, and looks at my father.

“No,” my father says. “I’m not saying we” – he looks at my mother – “couldn’t come up with a good piece of change if we liquidated everything. Which we would do, of course, but it would take time. But-” He shakes his head, conceding Shoffler’s point.

“Well,” Shoffler says, “you see what I mean.” His hands float up into the air and then come back down on his thighs with a slap.

“What about a nonmonetary reason?” my father asks.

Shoffler frowns. “Such as?”

“My son, the kind of stories he does-” A glance my way. “He makes enemies.”

Shoffler raises his eyebrows, looks at me. “That so?”

I get that rush in my chest, the adrenaline burn of alarm. I hadn’t thought of this. The idea that whoever took the boys did so because of me – it’s sickening. I tend to go for edgy pieces. Gangbanging, money laundering, arms trafficking. Stories like that. So maybe…

“My father’s right,” I tell Shoffler. “I didn’t think of it.”

“Well,” Shoffler says. “If you can come up with anybody who might take a grudge that far…”

“But why go after the kids? Why not me?”

“Just get with your files and see if anything jumps out at you. Make a little list for me. Can’t hurt.”

I promise to do that, after which Shoffler looks at each of us in turn. No one seems to have anything else to say.

Jack gives in to a mighty yawn. “Excuse me.” He stands up. “Well, thank you very much.”

“Would you like some iced tea?” my mother asks, also getting to her feet. “Or coffee?”

“Actually,” Shoffler says, “I know it’s late, but we’d like to conduct the search now.”

“The search?” Liz asks. “What search?”

“The search of the residence,” Shoffler says. He shoots a glance at me. “Your husband and I have talked about it. He thinks the kidnapper was here. In this house. That maybe we’ll find something. Anyway, it’s routine.”

“I don’t think he was here,” I correct Shoffler. “He was here.”

“Did you tell them about the dimes?” Liz says. “And that rabbit?”

“What’s this?” Shoffler asks.

When I explain, he nods, pulls out the notebook, makes a notation. “We’ll take those into evidence.”

“I don’t get it,” I tell Shoffler. “There’s no question Kevin was here. He called me from this number,” I say. “I turned over my telephone to you guys. You know that.”

Shoffler nods in a noncommittal way, hitches up his pants. “Right. And we’ve asked Verizon for the records.”

“What?”

“Just to backstop the log on your cell phone. Make sure the call from Kevin wasn’t forwarded, you know, from somewhere else.”

“But-”

Shoffler ignores me. “It’s late and we’d like to get started,” he says. “I’m guessing it will take a couple of hours. So you all – you’re welcome to – go for a drive or something.”

“A drive?” my mother says, in the same incredulous tone she might have used if the detective had said “a swim” or “a manicure.”

“Some folks find it upsetting,” Shoffler explains to her in his patient voice, “strangers going through their house. Their things.” He shrugs. “If you decide to stay, you’ll all have to remain in this room until we’re done with the rest of the house. Then we’ll finish up in here.” He makes a clicking sound, snapping his tongue away from the roof of his mouth. It seems unnaturally loud.

“Well, I don’t want to go for a drive, ” my mother says.

“I think we’ll stay put,” I say.

“Good enough,” Shoffler says. “In that case, we could cross something else off the list. Get everybody’s fingerprints.”

“What?” Jack says.

“Strictly routine, Mr. Taggart. We need the prints of the people who have been in the house, so we can exclude them. Eventually, we’ll have to print everyone else who’s been in here – housekeeper, babysitter, handyman – for the same reason.” He looks at his watch.