~~~
“What the hell is all this about?”
Sinclair was pissed. He stormed up and down the hall outside Medford’s office while Jasper sat on a bench, letting shame pull his face to the floor. “In all my years with the FBI, I’ve never seen anything like this. We drove three hours for what, to look at some scrawny man blanch at the sight of a piece of art? And what is he doing in there now? This is a waste of time. You told me he would be able to help us, Chief Jasper. But if this turns out like I think it’s going to turn out, I’ll have your badge faster than it will take you to shit your chicken wings. I can’t believe a podunk hick like you got to be the chief of a metropolitan police force.”
Usually, Jasper was content to let people talk until they were done. But he knew that Sinclair would rant for hours and not lose a breath. “Sit down,” Jasper said.
“Sit down? That’s all you can say?” Sinclair’s voice echoed down the hall. A couple of students walking toward them looked at the two officers apprehensively, then turned around and walked away. “Maybe you don’t understand our situation, Chief –“
“Ed, if you call me that one more time, I’m going to do the FBI a favor and pull your vocal cords out through your neck.”
Sinclair stopped, shocked. “What did you –“
“You heard me,” Jasper said. “I’ve been a generous guy and let you bitch like a rookie for too long, and it’s going to stop. We are here because you insisted on coming here, and because you fucked up an FBI raid. It’s your ass on the line, not mine. Now, there ain’t no one here but us two. Things are about to get a lot more quiet, because you’re gonna sit on that bench and keep your mouth shut.”
Sinclair snarled, then gave up and sat down on the bench beside him.
“I had things under control,” Sinclair said. “We’ve used the same procedure countless times before.”
“Didn’t work this time, did it?”
“No,” Sinclair said, defeated. “You’re right. My ass is on the line. I’m sorry my guys screwed up. They thought that guy was armed and shot him before they knew what was going on. But you were taking too long, Ted. The mayor wanted to see some results. He’s friends with my boss at the branch office, so I got sent out with that weak claim of interstate jurisdiction.”
“The mayor isn’t a fan of the way I solve cases,” Jasper said. “He says I use too many of my old small-town methods.”
“You can’t blame him for wanting quick results, with the resources you have at your disposal now. He wanted to be able to calm the public.”
“Seems to me that catching the guy and finding out if he has anymore kids hidden away would have calmed the public just fine. But that’s just one of my small-town methods, I guess.”
“Is that what this art professor is to you, Chief? Another small-town method? What is he going to tell us that we don’t already know? When are you going to let me know why the hell we are here?”
If it was only that easy, Jasper thought. What Medford did was too unreal to explain. But Sinclair’s apology had softened Jasper up. Maybe it was time to share some details.
“Pat and I started out as college roommates, but got to be good friends, even though we were as different as ham and beans. He was an artist, and I studied criminal justice. But even though we were so different, we were tight. You know that old phrase about opposites attracting? That was us. Politics, music, food, everything.
“Years ago, he invited me to the party where they celebrated the publication of his first art history book. It was a fancy affair, everyone all decked out to the nines. And there I am, my cowboy boots and plaid shirt, lookin’ every bit the redneck cop that I am. These snooty, artsy types looked at me like I was an alien until Pat came over and introduced me, said I was his best friend in the world. After that, they all fawned over me, telling me what a genius Pat was at art history. They said Pat could pull stuff out of thin air, just by looking at a picture, but he would see stuff that no one else had seen before. Keep in mind that a whole mess of experts had been looking at the same pictures for years before Pat got a peek at ‘em. They said it was like he could see beyond the canvas.”
Sinclair cracked his knuckles and looked at the floor. At least he was listening, Jasper thought.
“We graduate and go our separate ways, but we keep in touch,” Jasper said. “Years go by, and then I start working down in West Plains as a detective for the Howell County Sheriff’s Department. One time, I worked a bad murder suicide – guy killed his wife and three kids before shooting himself. The scene was one of the worst I’d seen. Blood and body parts everywhere. Guy had made a mess of things before he slit his own wrists. It was so bad that the house was eventually demolished.
“He was a teacher at the high school, so a lot of people knew him. He seemed normal enough, but when we found the basement, we found out he had some demons inside. He painted bizarre, nightmarish pictures full of blood, ghouls and corpses. There were about twenty paintings, and they were all abstracts, except for this certain one. It still had some of the same demons and corpses, but it had 17 gravestones that were immaculately detailed. It looked like they didn’t fit. He also painted a picture of himself smiling, like he was at peace. It was the worst thing I’d ever seen, but I couldn’t stop looking at it. It was like it had a hidden message, like it was trying to tell me something. But I didn’t know how to read it.
“So I called my old college buddy,” he said, leaning his head toward Medford’s office. “I thought of him when I was lookin’ at the nightmare picture in that guy’s basement. I told myself, ‘Pat would be able to figure this out.’ So I flew him down and had him look at it.”
“So, he looked at it and told you that the guy killed 17 people?” Sinclair said. “I could have told you that.”
“No, that much was obvious,” Jasper said. “Pat told me where all 17 of ‘em were buried. He told me who they were, including their names and jobs. He told me how they were killed and why. Medford told me things for a solid half hour, and every damn thing he told me checked out.”
“Did he tell you how he could deduce all that stuff?”
“Nope. All I know is what I saw. Other than that, I –“
They heard a loud thud come from the office.
“What the hell was that,” Sinclair said, getting up.
“Everything’s OK,” Jasper said. “Just sit back down.”
“No, everything is not OK,” Sinclair said. “I’ve been sitting down, wasting time, listening to crazy stories long enough. If you want to sit out here and ignore a disturbing noise coming from the office of our long-shot expert, I’ll do some police work.” He opened the door and went in the office.
Jasper sighed. Sinclair was thick-headed, impatient and stubborn. How the hell did this guy make it as a fed? His approach to policework was rushed and incomplete. He made bad decisions that hurt cases and, now, might have left a few girls in danger. He thought about the girl in the picture and hoped that she wasn’t still chained to a floor somewhere. And he knew that Sinclair wasn’t going to like what he found in the office. Jasper had heard that thumping sound before, and knew what it meant.
Sinclair walked out of the office looking scared. His gun was drawn. “He’s gone,” Sinclair said, stunned. “The window is latched. There aren’t any closets or cabinets. He’s not under his desk.”
Jasper sighed. He had hoped Sinclair wouldn’t have to see this part. He followed Sinclair into the office. Sinclair moved to the office’s closet and started fingering around the door’s frame, like he was looking for a secret passage. Jasper knew he had to buy as much time as he could, to let Medford finish working. But that would be tricky, because Sinclair was panicked and irritated.
Jasper moved over to the window, pretending to check it. “He didn’t go through here. Latch is fastened tight, and he couldn’t have closed it from here.”
“But he didn’t leave through the door,” Sinclair said. “We were sitting right outsid
e. This doesn’t make any sense.”
“I agree,” Jasper said. “Why don’t you head downstairs, see if he’s in the lobby. I’ll wait for him to come back here.”
Sinclair stopped. “What’s going on, Chief?”
Jasper saw Sinclair staring at him and felt himself talking like a suspect under the third degree. He saw Sinclair’s hand tighten on his pistol. His stomach rolled.
“You know why we’re here, Ed. Now stop making things worse than they already are. We are going to get our answer soon – ”
“No, I don’t know why we’re here. You told me that we were going to have an art expert look at this picture for clues. But our so-called expert has pulled a Houdini, but you don’t look the least bit alarmed. We’re almost 200 miles away from where our investigation is. But with no expert, we have no leads, leaving us with nothing to do but drive back with our tails between our legs. It’s like you wanted me away from the scene.”
“You’re talking crazy,” Jasper said. “I know things look weird now, but an explanation is coming. Just be patient.”
“I’m done being patient, you redneck dumbass,” Sinclair said, reaching for a pair of handcuffs in his pocket. “I’m placing you under arrest for obstructing a federal investigation. But, I’ll give you one last chance to tell me what’s going on in Kansas City right now, before I call and find out for myself.”
So much for stalling, Jasper thought. What should I do, pull my piece or let him cuff me? Or should I talk him down? And where the hell was Pat?
“Calm down, Ed,” Jasper said. “Calm down. You’re not going to arrest me, because there’s nothing to arrest me for. Call up dispatch, call your superiors or whoever you want. You’ll find out that nothing is going on. We have teams on standby, waiting to act on the information we’re about to get. I know this seems hard to believe, but –“
“Raymore,” Medford said. He was sitting slack in his chair, breathing heavily. His hair was messed up and his clothes looked dirty. Thank God he’s back, he thought. “Raymore,” Medford said again. “There’s an old house in Raymore by the highway. It used to be a small funeral home. The girls are downstairs, if there are any left.”
Jasper tossed a mobile phone to Sinclair, who was stunned into silence by Medford’s sudden appearance.
“The distortion is from a camera,” Medford said. “He took their pictures with a wide-angle lens and painted his art using those photos for reference. That’s why her head looks so big.”
“Good work, Pat,” Jasper said, then looked at Sinclair, who was still holding the phone. “You going to call dispatch today, Ed?”
Sinclair snapped out of his daze. “This room was empty,” he said.
“Dispatch, Ed. Call it in, I’ll explain after we save some lives,” Jasper said, turning to Medford. “What else did you see?”
Medford’s eyes widened. “So cold,” he said. “So vicious. He enjoyed torturing his victims and breaking their wills. Ted, there were so many. Not just girls. He broke down men, too. Tough men. Gangsters. Hoods. Real roughnecks. All for the power. He would bruise them, torture them, break them, then take a picture of his work. He painted to relish the feeling of control he had over them. Sometimes he would paint those portraits right in front of them. God, what a monster. You said he’s dead?”
“Yes, Pat,” Jasper said, like he was comforting a child. “The feds shot him up good.”
“Thank God,” Medford said. “A monster like that … I had no idea a monster like that could exist.”
Sinclair held up the mobile phone. “We found a Raymore connection,” he said. “We have an address in Raymore where he had a delivery sent once. The SWAT team is en route.”
“Hear that, Pat?” Jasper said, looking at the wearied professor. “Cops are going to rescue some girls because of you. Thank you.”
Medford nodded his head, but then pointed to “Circle Limit IV.” “Can you…” he asked, barely able to get the words out.
“Of course,” Jasper said. He pulled the picture off the wall and put it on the easel in front of Medford. He took the picture of the girl, turning it away from Medford, and put it back in the case.
Medford, still slack in his chair, looked calmly at the angels and demons in the picture. Jasper wanted to apologize, but didn’t bother. Without saying a word, he walked out of the office.