Until Dark (4 page)

“Where did you park, Mrs. Sims?”

“Why, Agent Stark, I parked right out in front of Evans’s, just like I always do. Mr. Evans had the package all ready for me and he was apologizing all over the place that he didn’t have anyone working that night who could deliver the prescription—usually has that Parsons boy driving for him, but he was down with the flu and Mr. Evans doesn’t close up at night till nine, which is way too late because we are in bed by nine every night, don’t ’cha know?”

Mrs. Sims paused to take a breath and Adam seized the opportunity to continue his interrogation.

“The pharmacy is right next to Fanning’s?”

“Yes. It sits right there in the middle of the block. There’s a dress shop on the other side, then Davis’s Market.”

“The police report says you walked past Ms. Garvey that night.”

“It wasn’t exactly
past
her. My car was parked at the curb, maybe two cars down from where she stood with that man, and she turned and waved to me when she saw me.”

“So you didn’t walk by where she was standing, facing her?”

“No, I was more to her side, on the left.”

“And did the man turn when she did?”

“No.” She paused, then said, “Well, not completely. He turned just a little to the side.”

“So you only saw his profile.”

“Yes. That’s right.”

“Was he wearing a hat?” Kendra’s hands reached for her sketch pad and pencil though her eyes never left Mrs. Sims’s face. “Glasses?”

“No hat, but he did have dark glasses. They covered his eyes all the way down to part of his cheeks. And he seemed to have a lot of hair. It sort of poufed out in the front.” The woman held her hands near her forehead to demonstrate.

“Like curls, maybe?” Kendra’s right hand moved across the paper.

“Maybe.”

“What was the first thing you noticed about his profile, Mrs. Sims?”

“That he looked like my brother, Andrew.” A hand flew to her mouth. “No, no, not that he
looked
like Andrew, but there was something about the way his nose . . .” Her fingers fluttered about her own nose while she searched for words. “It sort of tipped at the end.”

“Turned up a little?” Kendra asked. “Or a lot?”

“Just a bit, there at the end.”

“Like this?” Kendra showed her what she had drawn.

“My, you are fast,” Mrs. Sims said admiringly as she studied the sketch. “Maybe a tad longer . . . yes, yes, like that.”

“Do you remember what he was wearing?”

“A jacket of some sort, maybe. Oh, truly, I don’t remember. I was unlocking my car, you see, and I was in a hurry to get back home, so I didn’t really pay him much mind. I’m sorry. I wish I could help.”

“You have helped. You’ve helped a great deal. Thank you for coming in, Mrs. Sims. We appreciate your time.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t pay closer attention.” Mrs. Sims rose as Adam helped her with her chair. “Kathleen Garvey’s grandmother was a dear, dear friend of mine. If I had known . . .”

“There was no way that you could have.” Kendra stood and took the woman’s hands. “There was no reason for you to think that this man was going to harm her.”

“Yes, well.” The woman took a tissue from her worn leather purse and blew her nose. “I hope you find him, Agent Stark. I hope the FBI finds him and shoots him, that’s what I hope.”

“We’ll do our best to find him, Mrs. Sims.” Adam walked her to the door and opened it, as he had for the Spinellis. His hand on her elbow was a gentle touch, his voice low as he walked her into the hallway.

“Okay, so you want to tell me what that artist was thinking when he sketched that face?” Adam said when he returned to the room.

“Beats me.” Kendra shook her head. “Max admitted he couldn’t see the man, and Mrs. Sims only saw him from the side from a couple of car lengths away.”

“Then how did anyone manage to come up with a full frontal sketch?” Adam folded his arms across his chest.

“That would appear to be the question for the day.” Kendra tucked her drawing into the folder. “Perhaps a chat with Chief Ford will enlighten us.”

Chatting with Chief Ford brought little to the table, except to confirm that the artist, who had taken several art classes at the local college, had brought several books with him. Adam had determined that there were witnesses in the third and most recent case, and Kendra was hopeful that interviews with them would add to her own sketch, maybe complete it. As it was, she left the Deal police station fearing that the drawing that had been circulated throughout the media would, in the end, prove to look nothing like the object of their search. Assuming, of course, that law enforcement caught him.

“One thing I’m sure of,” Kendra told Adam as they walked to his car, “is that wherever he is, he’s laughing his ass off. And he’s probably feeling pretty cocky right about now.”

“You mean because he knows he’ll never be identified from that sketch?”

“The drawing shows the man from the front, which of course means that you don’t see that he has a little ski jump at the tip of his nose. Even if other witnesses had seen him from the front, why was there no sketch done from the side? I just don’t understand what this artist thought he was doing, throwing stuff like that to the newspapers. Not that I think he intentionally released a bad sketch, or that he intended to mislead anyone. But for my money, those damned visual aids serve no purpose except to confuse the witness.”

“Maybe sometimes . . .”

“I don’t use them. Ever. Look, the witness is the only one who knows what he or she saw. His or her memory is evidence. You don’t tamper with evidence.” She swung her bag over her shoulder, her brow furrowed. “Once you’ve spread out a bunch of mug shots or catalogs filled with facial features in front of a witness, you’ve already created a certain amount of confusion in his or her mind. After looking at hundreds of pairs of eyes, do you really think a person can then accurately describe the shape, the color, the set of the eyes they actually
saw
?”

They had reached the car and Adam had opened the trunk, setting her briefcase alongside his own.

“Would you mind if I put the top down?” he asked as he removed the jacket of his obligatory dark suit.

Kendra shook her head. “It’ll feel good, maybe help clear my head a little.”

“I apologize,” she said as she got into the car. “As you can probably tell, this kind of carelessness always sets me off.”

“Ummm. I seem to recall that,” he said as he started the engine. “I seem to recall another case, in Virginia, a few years back.”

“Oh, don’t even remind me,” she said through gritted teeth. “That was the most blatant case of . . . I don’t even know what to call it. Ineptitude?”

“You were pretty hot, as I remember.”

“You know what made me angriest about that sketch? It wasn’t necessary to have done it. There was a witness who clearly saw the suspect’s face.
Clearly
saw it, as clearly as I can see you. So why use visual aids, when the best visual is right there? The witness’s memory.”

“Sometimes the emotions of the witness play into it.”

“That’s exactly why it’s important not to flood the person’s mind with too many images. The more acute the trauma, the more the witness might sometimes want to forget what he or she has seen. By giving the witness so many different features to look at, you’ve created a situation where you are offering an alternative, one that he or she may grab on to, to replace one image with another.”

“You mean create a face that’s inaccurate so the witness doesn’t have to ‘see’ the real suspect again.”

“I don’t think anyone consciously does that, but yes, I think that’s exactly what happens. It’s a means of banishing the bad memory and replacing it with something that isn’t quite real, and therefore less threatening.”

“Which I guess explains why there are so many composites floating around that ultimately are found to look so little like the criminal.”

“That’s my theory.” She leaned back in the seat as Adam accelerated. “I don’t mean to imply that there’s no one out there who does this the right way. There’s a woman on the West Coast who has literally written the book on this subject and has raised the art of compositing to a whole new level. And there are plenty of fine artists who insist on doing their own interviewing and who do not use mug shots and who are really careful about what they do. I’m sure that the person who drew that sketch of the man you’re looking for didn’t set out to do a bad job. But he made mistakes, and his mistakes may have cost the investigation. And may end up costing another young woman her life if he gets the urge to kill again soon.”

They rode in silence, both of them knowing that it really wasn’t a matter of if, but when.

Finally, Kendra spoke up.

“And that is why I think we need to speak with the witnesses from this third murder before anyone else can shove photographs or sketches under their noses, ask them leading questions, and otherwise distort their memories of what they really saw.”

“I’ve already called our agents on the scene and instructed them not to let anyone get to the witnesses until we have an opportunity to speak with them.”

“What time are we expected?”

“I told the chief we’d be there between three and four,” Adam said as he picked up Route 30 and headed east. “Which means we’ll have time to stop and grab a late lunch. Breakfast was a long, long time ago, and once we hit Walnut Crossing, we’ll be tied up for hours.”

“We passed a couple of fast-food restaurants on the way out of Deal.”

Adam looked at her as if she’d sprouted fangs.

“You don’t still eat that stuff, do you?”

“You mean, salty fries, fried chicken . . .”

“And here I thought you’d mended your ways.” Adam shook his head. “After that homemade soup you served me last night, I figured you’d had an epiphany.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but the soup was made by my friend, Selena. Lola’s owner and organic from the ground up, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

“Maybe you could learn a thing or two from her.”

“Oh, right. How could I forget?” She grinned at him across the console. “Mr. Let-nothing-impure-pass-my-lips.”

“Exactly.” He nodded, amused in spite of himself. “That stuff you eat will kill you. Seriously. Fat. Sodium. High cholesterol. And God knows what kind of meat those fast-food places really use.”

“Oh, but those three eggs you had this morning were okay, right? And all that butter you put on your toast?”

“There’s nothing wrong with eggs. And butter won’t hurt you. Margarine, on the other hand, is pure yellow death.” Adam changed lanes to pass the car in front of them. “I’m surprised that a smart woman like you doesn’t keep up with this stuff. That you prefer to remain unenlightened.”

“You mean I don’t subscribe to all those alternative health journals that you used to read.”

“Still do. And may I add that I believe I’m a better person—a
healthier
person—for it.”

“I guess you keep in shape lugging around all those vitamin bottles that I saw you stashing in your briefcase after breakfast this morning.”

“Absolutely.” He glanced in the rearview mirror, then pulled back into the right lane. “There’s a restaurant up here that looks like it might do. There on the right. Let’s give it a try.”

“But it’s part of a chain.” She feigned horror. “Who knows where they get their meat from?”

“If it worries you, order a salad.” He smiled. “Foreign as the concept might be to make a meal out of a bowl of greens with no chemical aftertaste.”

Kendra recalled the last restaurant meal she’d had with Adam. It had been two nights before her mother’s death.

“I think I’ll have a BLT—heavy on the bacon, heavy on the mayo—and a diet cola.”

“Ugh,” he muttered something under his breath—Kendra thought she heard the words
pig fat
and
unnatural
—as he parked the car close enough to the front door that he could keep an eye on it. “I’d hate to see what your arteries look like.”

“Smoking or non?” The hostess met them at the door with a smile.

“Non,” Adam replied, then hesitated. Turning to Kendra, he asked, tongue-in-cheek, “Unless you want to sit in smoking?”

Kendra rolled her eyes at him. “I may eat junk food, but I draw the line at cigarettes.”

“Nonsmoking,” he nodded to the waitress, who gestured for them to follow her.

They slid into a booth that faced the front of the restaurant, where Adam could happily keep an eye on his car.

“Why did you ask if I wanted to sit in smoking?” Kendra asked after they had made their selections and ordered. “You know I don’t smoke.”

“That’s funny,” Adam replied, “I could have sworn I smelled pipe smoke last night.”

“Where?” She leaned back to permit the waitress to pour their water.

“In the study. But it’s okay, you don’t have to hide the fact that you smoke . . . or that you entertain men who do.”

“I don’t smoke. And I haven’t had a man in my house since . . . well, I guess since I moved back. Unless you count Oliver Webb, who’s seventy-something, or Father Tim, whose interest in me is strictly as a supporter of his homeless shelter.”

“Why the smell of tobacco, then?” Adam did his best to mask his relief that there’d been no entertaining in the study other than himself.

“My dad smoked a pipe.”

“Your dad?” His eyebrows raised. “But I thought your dad has been dead for . . .”

“Seventeen years.”

“Are you saying that your father has . . . stayed on in the house?”

“No, no,” she laughed. “It’s not a ghost. But for some reason, every once in a while, you get a whiff of tobacco in that room. Sometimes I can’t tell if I really smell it or if it’s just a memory. A trace of him. I find it comforting.”

He nodded thoughtfully. If believing that a bit of her father had stayed within the house gave her comfort, what was the harm? He knew what it was like to bury a much loved parent, and as she’d already buried everyone she’d loved, Adam figured she was entitled to this bit of fancy.

“A trace of your dad’s scent left behind. A memory of sorts.”

“Yes, that’s what I think. Now,” she brushed the subject aside and picked up a triangle of her club sandwich, “how do you think this guy is getting around as easily as he is?”