Facade Chapter 1
The department secretary stood in the hallway outside Mike Canyon’s office. “The crime lab’s on the phone for you.” Canyon noticed her eyes shift down his face. She remained silent as he touched his lips with a paper towel and came away with a spot of blood.
“Transfer it to me.”
“I’ve checked the print from the mirror,” the caller told Canyon, who slumped in the chair behind his desk. “The substance is blood and it’s consistent with James Kent’s blood type.”
“That was my guess. I figured the killer did it to taunt us.”
“Yeah, well, we have an I.D.”
Canyon bolted upright in his chair. “Who?” He readied his pen to jot the crime lab’s findings on his desk blotter.
“The print belongs to Ned Pasquanelli.”
“Doesn’t fit.”
“You know him?”
“Yeah.”
“Then you probably know he’s dead.”
Canyon let the pen roll from between his fingers. “I’m not in the mood for jokes, Ian.”
“No joke, Mike. Pasquanelli was found dead six weeks ago.”
“So you’re telling me you’ve identified a dead man’s fingerprint from my crime scene and he’s been dead for however many weeks. Are you positive the print’s his? There has to be some mistake.”
“I’ve run it through AFIS. Compared it to Pasquanelli’s fingerprint cards. One set was sent over from the ME’s office. There’s no doubt about it. The print is Pasquanelli’s and he was not alive on the date of Kent’s murder.”
Canyon stared blankly out the window, dropped the phone into its cradle. No doubt. Ian sounded convinced. The news was not what he wanted to hear. He had to find Ned Pasquanelli, dead or alive.
The secretary interrupted his trance. “Detective?”
“What?” he said, startled at the broken silence.
She lowered her head. Her left hand clutched a box the size of a brick. “This was on your car.”
Canyon looked at the box, at her. “Who found it?”
“Shannon. She said it was on the hood so she went over to check it out. Thought maybe you’d set it there and forgot or something.”
Why her? he thought, half hearing what the secretary said after “Shannon,” his focus now split between the former Miss Teen Stillwater and the package on the desk.
“...Anyway, you have it now. I’ve got to get home.”
Canyon examined the box for anything that might indicate the sender’s identity. Finding nothing, he slit open the top with a scissor’s blade. A seatbelt buckle met his gaze.
He pulled on a pair of surgical gloves from a box he kept in the bottom drawer of his desk. He removed the buckle and set it aside. He picked up the paper and read the note printed in red ink.
I imagined something and worked on it until I made it a reality. The ease of it shocked me.
At six last Wednesday I strolled invited into the schoolteacher’s house, killed him and left a souvenir for you on the mirror.
I guess you’re wondering why I’m sharing this with you. Here’s why: family values. I believe in keeping family close. Their survival depends on it.
Honesty works better than anything I know. Think truth. It’s the only way you’ll find me amidst a trio of deceit.
Look at your watch if you don’t believe me. Check the time. Two minutes slow, isn’t it?
Some people are worth saving, Detective. Don’t be late.
‘Til then, Rumpelstiltskin plays hide and seek.
For Canyon, Monday grayed two hours before the horizon tucked the sun into bed for the night.
He looked at his watch and compared it to the time on his cell phone--a two minute difference. How did the writer know? How could anyone know outside immediate family? The watch stayed on his wrist except when he showered or slept.
He read the note a second time.
Okay, the writer divulged that he killed James Kent. Admitted to leaving the bloody thumbprint on the mirror. That much Canyon understood.
The family-values thing perturbed him.
The part about survival could be a threat.
Does this trio refer to people or something else? Deceit broadens the scope and could possibly mislead him into making wrong choices.
A third read failed to clear its meaning for him any more than had the first two. Somehow, he had to make sense of this.
Forearms on knees, Canyon stretched the paper taut between his hands.
He studied each word, line by line, connected the first two paragraphs. Had Kent known the killer? Did he retreat from the doorway and allow a friend or acquaintance access, or had a predator-stranger finagled their way into the schoolteacher’s home?
The remainder of the letter stressed three things Canyon cherished: family, truth, and time.
Canyon poised, hunched over the letter, for twenty minutes. Every muscle tensed until his body ached.
The words danced on the sheet, mocking him with sarcasm similar to what he imagined might have been uttered by Lucifer’s warriors the moment God kicked them out of Heaven. The same reason he believed one of them years ago morphed into human form, claimed to be his father and treated his mother as an inferior organism.
Had another transformed?
He needed something cold on his throat. He opened the small refrigerator he kept in one corner of the office and whipped out a bottle of water. He turned to the window as he sipped, the days ahead shaped by the evening’s oddities, wondering about the outcome and how it might affect him, his family, and Avoca.
The dead man’s fingerprint offered a challenge he’d not faced in over twenty years in law enforcement. The note and seatbelt buckle magnetized him into the deviant’s game.
Canyon chugged the remaining water, telephoned the hospital and asked for his wife’s extension. Thirty seconds later she picked up the line.
“Are you getting off on time?I need you to come by and get me at the station on your way home. I’ve got to take the car to Littleton’s in the morning....Where’s your car?See you in twenty.”
Canyon photocopied the note, secured the original and seatbelt buckle in separate paper bags and locked them in the evidence locker. He stuck the copy in his hip pocket and lifted his cowboy hat from the tree in the corner on his way out the door.
The Crown Victoria assigned to him stood in the space where he had parked it three hours earlier. He checked the exterior for any sign of tampering. Finding none, he opened all four doors and examined the interior. Everything looked normal. Buckles for the restraints were intact at all positions.
Lynn wheeled the restored 1968 Camero into the parking lot as Canyon shut the rear door on the driver’s side. The yellow paint glistened.
“How’s this for promptness, cowboy?” she said, leaning to see him through the open passenger window.
Canyon wiped trickles of sweat from his face. “Better than anything around this place.” He opened the passenger door.
Lynn motioned him around the car. “Uh uh. You drive.”
Canyon watchedas she glided around to where he stood and held the door while she positioned herself in the seat. He closed the door and hurried to the driver’s seat. Vibes from Lynn drifted over and settled on him two-thirds of the way into their ten minute trip. The wife part of her stare drew his head to face her.
“Anything much happen in the ER today?”
She grinned. “Why did you change the subject?”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“Quibble, quibble. You’re mulling something. Something happened today, didn’t it? Tell me.”
He propped his elbow on the door and rested his head on his fist. “Some things on my murder case haven’t come together like I’d hoped.”
“That’s not it.”
“Yes it is. It’s all work-related stuff.”
He thought about the blood; third time in two weeks. The copy of the note in his back pocket reminded him of priorities. Some people are worth saving...Don’t be late. He knew the issue was not about “The Job.” This situation involved family.
“Transfer it to me.”
“I’ve checked the print from the mirror,” the caller told Canyon, who slumped in the chair behind his desk. “The substance is blood and it’s consistent with James Kent’s blood type.”
“That was my guess. I figured the killer did it to taunt us.”
“Yeah, well, we have an I.D.”
Canyon bolted upright in his chair. “Who?” He readied his pen to jot the crime lab’s findings on his desk blotter.
“The print belongs to Ned Pasquanelli.”
“Doesn’t fit.”
“You know him?”
“Yeah.”
“Then you probably know he’s dead.”
Canyon let the pen roll from between his fingers. “I’m not in the mood for jokes, Ian.”
“No joke, Mike. Pasquanelli was found dead six weeks ago.”
“So you’re telling me you’ve identified a dead man’s fingerprint from my crime scene and he’s been dead for however many weeks. Are you positive the print’s his? There has to be some mistake.”
“I’ve run it through AFIS. Compared it to Pasquanelli’s fingerprint cards. One set was sent over from the ME’s office. There’s no doubt about it. The print is Pasquanelli’s and he was not alive on the date of Kent’s murder.”
Canyon stared blankly out the window, dropped the phone into its cradle. No doubt. Ian sounded convinced. The news was not what he wanted to hear. He had to find Ned Pasquanelli, dead or alive.
The secretary interrupted his trance. “Detective?”
“What?” he said, startled at the broken silence.
She lowered her head. Her left hand clutched a box the size of a brick. “This was on your car.”
Canyon looked at the box, at her. “Who found it?”
“Shannon. She said it was on the hood so she went over to check it out. Thought maybe you’d set it there and forgot or something.”
Why her? he thought, half hearing what the secretary said after “Shannon,” his focus now split between the former Miss Teen Stillwater and the package on the desk.
“...Anyway, you have it now. I’ve got to get home.”
Canyon examined the box for anything that might indicate the sender’s identity. Finding nothing, he slit open the top with a scissor’s blade. A seatbelt buckle met his gaze.
He pulled on a pair of surgical gloves from a box he kept in the bottom drawer of his desk. He removed the buckle and set it aside. He picked up the paper and read the note printed in red ink.
I imagined something and worked on it until I made it a reality. The ease of it shocked me.
At six last Wednesday I strolled invited into the schoolteacher’s house, killed him and left a souvenir for you on the mirror.
I guess you’re wondering why I’m sharing this with you. Here’s why: family values. I believe in keeping family close. Their survival depends on it.
Honesty works better than anything I know. Think truth. It’s the only way you’ll find me amidst a trio of deceit.
Look at your watch if you don’t believe me. Check the time. Two minutes slow, isn’t it?
Some people are worth saving, Detective. Don’t be late.
‘Til then, Rumpelstiltskin plays hide and seek.
For Canyon, Monday grayed two hours before the horizon tucked the sun into bed for the night.
He looked at his watch and compared it to the time on his cell phone--a two minute difference. How did the writer know? How could anyone know outside immediate family? The watch stayed on his wrist except when he showered or slept.
He read the note a second time.
Okay, the writer divulged that he killed James Kent. Admitted to leaving the bloody thumbprint on the mirror. That much Canyon understood.
The family-values thing perturbed him.
The part about survival could be a threat.
Does this trio refer to people or something else? Deceit broadens the scope and could possibly mislead him into making wrong choices.
A third read failed to clear its meaning for him any more than had the first two. Somehow, he had to make sense of this.
Forearms on knees, Canyon stretched the paper taut between his hands.
He studied each word, line by line, connected the first two paragraphs. Had Kent known the killer? Did he retreat from the doorway and allow a friend or acquaintance access, or had a predator-stranger finagled their way into the schoolteacher’s home?
The remainder of the letter stressed three things Canyon cherished: family, truth, and time.
Canyon poised, hunched over the letter, for twenty minutes. Every muscle tensed until his body ached.
The words danced on the sheet, mocking him with sarcasm similar to what he imagined might have been uttered by Lucifer’s warriors the moment God kicked them out of Heaven. The same reason he believed one of them years ago morphed into human form, claimed to be his father and treated his mother as an inferior organism.
Had another transformed?
He needed something cold on his throat. He opened the small refrigerator he kept in one corner of the office and whipped out a bottle of water. He turned to the window as he sipped, the days ahead shaped by the evening’s oddities, wondering about the outcome and how it might affect him, his family, and Avoca.
The dead man’s fingerprint offered a challenge he’d not faced in over twenty years in law enforcement. The note and seatbelt buckle magnetized him into the deviant’s game.
Canyon chugged the remaining water, telephoned the hospital and asked for his wife’s extension. Thirty seconds later she picked up the line.
“Are you getting off on time?I need you to come by and get me at the station on your way home. I’ve got to take the car to Littleton’s in the morning....Where’s your car?See you in twenty.”
Canyon photocopied the note, secured the original and seatbelt buckle in separate paper bags and locked them in the evidence locker. He stuck the copy in his hip pocket and lifted his cowboy hat from the tree in the corner on his way out the door.
The Crown Victoria assigned to him stood in the space where he had parked it three hours earlier. He checked the exterior for any sign of tampering. Finding none, he opened all four doors and examined the interior. Everything looked normal. Buckles for the restraints were intact at all positions.
Lynn wheeled the restored 1968 Camero into the parking lot as Canyon shut the rear door on the driver’s side. The yellow paint glistened.
“How’s this for promptness, cowboy?” she said, leaning to see him through the open passenger window.
Canyon wiped trickles of sweat from his face. “Better than anything around this place.” He opened the passenger door.
Lynn motioned him around the car. “Uh uh. You drive.”
Canyon watchedas she glided around to where he stood and held the door while she positioned herself in the seat. He closed the door and hurried to the driver’s seat. Vibes from Lynn drifted over and settled on him two-thirds of the way into their ten minute trip. The wife part of her stare drew his head to face her.
“Anything much happen in the ER today?”
She grinned. “Why did you change the subject?”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“Quibble, quibble. You’re mulling something. Something happened today, didn’t it? Tell me.”
He propped his elbow on the door and rested his head on his fist. “Some things on my murder case haven’t come together like I’d hoped.”
“That’s not it.”
“Yes it is. It’s all work-related stuff.”
He thought about the blood; third time in two weeks. The copy of the note in his back pocket reminded him of priorities. Some people are worth saving...Don’t be late. He knew the issue was not about “The Job.” This situation involved family.