Facade

By Shane Kinsey

A killer arrives in Avoca, Oklahoma, where he marks two murder scenes using skin from a dead man's thumb dipped in the victim's blood. He poses as a Texas Ranger and takes refuge in the home of a pastor-friend to get close to his next target. Subtleties in clues thrusts Detective Mike Canyon into a contest he refuses to lose: identify and nab the murderer or lose his wife Sunday at midnight. Officer Shannon Roe – who unbeknownst to Canyon is the killer's sister – receives a promotion and aids Canyon on a trail of kidnapping, poisoning, and ultimate clash with the killer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9781597052467

Book preview

One

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 watched as 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.

Two

Tuesday morning, the twelfth of May. Geoff Norkum sneaked through the neighborhood off Red Maple Lane until he arrived at the property next to Andrew and Barbara Windsor’s residence. He checked his watch—5:55. The distinct odor of fresh paint tipped him off to the white picket fence bordering the yard.

Two long strides and a leap put him within three feet of Windsor’s garage. Norkum slinked to the back of the house with the stealth of a Special Forces master. The wind lay silent. Leaves dangled on sleeping trees.

A maple tree off the back corner of the house provided what he needed. Norkum climbed the tree and dropped to the roof extension.

A second floor window stood open about two inches. Things like this wouldn’t be so easy if people modified their habits. He raised the window, touched open the shutters and skulked through. A hallway stretched twenty-five feet ahead of him. Norkum lowered the window and closed the shutters. Light leached between slats and dappled the hardwood floor.

The first doorway to his left led into a bedroom. He peeked around the door jam, expecting to see two young boys asleep in their beds. Twin beds. Empty.

He crouched inside the bedroom and peered into the darkness toward the other end of the hallway. If his friend’s information proved correct, the master bedroom led off the hall two doors beyond the stairway on the left.

He bounced his left leg in anticipation of his signal—six chimes from an antique grandfather clock.

Two minutes later the clock struck the hour. One. Adrenaline surged through his body.

Two. Muscles tensed.

Three and four. Norkum ran his left hand inside his sweatshirt pocket. The roughness of his weapon of choice felt at home in his palm, fingers laced on either side of the shaft. The section of deer antler would bamboozle the police when they tried to figure out what kind of weapon was used to inflict the injuries.

Five. He pulled the shank from his pocket.

Six. Time to act. At any moment Andrew would come out of his bedroom one last time.

A muffled ring interrupted his thoughts. Coming from the bedroom. Sounded like a cellular phone. The ringing stopped. He heard a man’s voice.

Hello...No, I’ve been up for about...Good. I’ll be there.

Ten seconds later, the bedroom door opened and a man danced out into the hallway, head back, mouth open. The guy’s footwork surpassed by far the audible off-pitch tone emitted from his vocal cords.

Nice distraction.

Norkum lunged forward, grabbed the man and plunged a shaft into his chest. Blood spurted after each thrust. The man flailed his arms and feet, bent forward and gained his footing. He grabbed Norkum, whipped around and hurled the attacker against the wall. Norkum smiled as he pushed to his feet.

The man stumbled and fell against the railing. Energy and blood drained from him with every heartbeat. Finally, he ceded to the life-threatening force acting against his body. He dropped, struck the floor with a thud, jerked a couple of times and stilled.

Norkum bent over the body and grimaced when he recognized the twenty-four-year-old tennis pro. You— he said through gritted teeth, wagging his head. What are you doing here, Johnny-boy?

He raced to the master bedroom and looked around. No one in there. He pummeled the mattress with his fist. They were supposed to be here.

A wave of light swept across the French doors set in the rear wall. He swirled his head side-to-side, and rushed down the hall to the same window he had entered.

Light gleamed off the officer’s badge as Shannon Roe rounded the corner of the house.

The flashlight beam swept side to side, reflected off something on the first floor and lit one side of the Avoca officer’s face. Seeing her face reminded him of a time when flames of desire for her swelled inside him. He had seen her blossom into womanly curves at age fifteen. He was nineteen then.

He keyed on Shannon’s fluidity until she rounded the corner. Moments later the front steps creaked.

He reached the corner at the top of the stairs in time to see her faint shadow fall through the front windows. The front doorknob rattled. The shadow jerked from the floor on one side of the door and landed on the other when she moved from one side of the door to the other.

Norkum crouched at the top of the stairway. His viscera ached at the prospect of a reunion. He thought about her often. Wondered where she had moved and what she was doing. Now he knew. Even in the dim light she transmitted an aura of beauty worthy of any man’s fancy. Though she would not recognize him now, he felt certain she would not arrest him if she caught him there.

The officer turned, dragged the shadow by the legs across the window sill.

Norkum eased down the stairway to watch and wait for her departure. Thirty seconds later the police cruiser’s engine thrummed and the car pulled away from the curb.

He climbed the stairs, pulled a brown bottle from his pocket and removed a section of preserved skin. He recapped the bottle, slipped the skin over his thumb and swiped a daub of John Windsor’s blood.

Norkum slid down the banister, hopped off and glanced around the adjoining rooms. All quiet. A grandfather clock stood in the corner of the living room next to the staircase. He stepped over and set the minute hand on twelve.

No one was out on Red Maple Lane as far as he could see in either direction. Light illumined window treatments in two houses across the street.

He slipped out the front door and squatted at the front window on the left side of the door. Skin kissed the window glass and pulled away. Its loops and swirls left behind its uniqueness. He propped his forearm on his thigh and admired the impression. Chills tickled his spine. His new calling card marked the window pane.

He snickered. The print would have the police scratching their heads. He yearned to insult them more than if he slapped their faces in public. What a trick that would be. He believed in the plan. The police would never suspect him. He was sure of it. His dream, intended as a nightmare to any who dared oppose him, became reality. This separated him from the norm. Assured fear and dread in others. The ruse thrilled him.

He vaulted over the rail at the end of the porch and studied the house across the street. Light in a front room spilled onto the yard and street when a silhouette parted the drapes.

Norkum pulled the hood of his shirt over his head and slinked behind the garage, unsure if the person had seen him.

He paused long enough to watch a man step out onto the porch and kiss the woman standing inside the front door. The man waved to the woman. The door closed. The light went out. The man backed a Dodge pickup into the street, faced the road and drove away.

He imagined the woman’s welcome upon the man’s return. The scene burned in his mind. For years love eluded him. When he thought he’d found it, he married Consuela. She cheated on him within two years. He ached to know love, true love. It made him think about his latest girlfriend. The softness of her skin and the way her heart throbbed against his chest when he held her sent him into ecstasy.

First steps to attaining the life he desired came when he changed his appearance and moved back to Oklahoma. According to his best friend, the town of Avoca was the place to live and raise a family.

If Freeman could acquire a girl friend and a position where he’d be well thought of, so could he. Why not? He was as handsome as any of those models on magazine covers and in TV commercials.

Besides, he already had his eye on the loan officer at the bank.

He considered his latest handiwork an emotional victory. It made him proud, without boastfulness, of course. A lesson he learned long ago. No, he would never speak of it, to anyone. His actions spoke for him like a thunderous and unrelenting flash flood.

With one glance at his Timex Indiglo, he realized the sun was minutes from the horizon. He prowled around corners, among boxwoods and variegated shrubs. He stepped lightly to keep from leaving shoe impressions.

Laughter caught his attention. He paused between houses and eyed a second story window. He felt sure he was well-hidden in the shadows.

A boy peered out from the green, two-story Traditional. The lad looked to be about nine. He held something near his face.

This will have to be dealt with, Norkum thought. One way or the other there will be no witnesses. Not this time.

What happened in Stillwater reminded him of how a seemingly trivial event could result in serious consequences. This time things would be different. A new name, status quo, and a fail-safe plan added up to one thing: success.

Norkum rushed across the back yard and hid behind an old barn. Once again he slid his left hand inside his shirt’s slotted pocket. He removed a brown antique medicine bottle from his right-side shirt pocket, and stroked it with his thumb. The skin inside floated in formaldehyde. I will take good care of you.

Fifteen minutes later, he stepped down into the dug-out cellar under his friend’s home. He flipped on a lamp and put his prized items on a square, fold-up table. After cleaning them, he secured them in a fire safe hidden in the wall behind a Ten Commandments movie poster.

Rest now, my friends, he said in a quiet tone. We’ll rid ourselves of Avoca’s impurities with the perfect set-up.

Norkum straightened the poster, a gift from his father, and smirked in defiance. Better to break the law than be broken by the law.

He climbed the stairs to the guest bedroom, peeled off his shirt, and performed a regimen of calisthenics and light weight-lifting. Pumped and sweaty, he flexed his muscles in front of a mirror. He admired his thirty-six-year-old body. He grabbed his shirt and wiped sweat from his face and chest. He tossed the shirt aside and checked the time.

Three minutes before seven.

He set up a laptop on a desk next to the front window. The system Freeman had set up at his home and at Eureka Church provided access to networks in six states. Norkum opened the targeted site, typed and faxed a note to Detective Canyon at the Avoca Police Department.

A smiley-faced approval flashed on the screen indicating the message had been delivered. A similar grin curled Norkum’s lips as he turned and stared at the detective’s residence on the adjoining street.

Three

Shards of anger sliced through Mike Canyon when he read the fax.

Remember me? After this week, your family will.

He crunched the slip of paper in his left hand and glared at the mayor, picturing him as the author. He pushed away from his desk and shot to his feet. One more minute in the mayor’s presence might cost him his job.

Canyon grabbed his Stetson and peered down at the man he deemed a nematode. There was no way he was going to let a first-term politician tell him how to run an investigation. If the mayor had a problem with treating criminals as criminals, he should get a job with the Public Defender’s office and leave this job to those out to uncover truth.

The mayor’s tan oxfords clicked at Canyon’s heels until they reached the front door. Find this killer or else.

Canyon whirled around and planted both feet on the concrete walk in front of the Avoca Police Department. He slapped the Stetson on his head. Then stay out of my way. The former linebacker felt like bowling over the city’s quarterback the same way he once sacked Nebraska’s. One more excessive force comment from the man and he might do it.

Canyon slammed the door to his ’68 Camaro and drove to Algoma Park where he sought solace on an old picnic bench.

He smoothed the crinkled paper, massaged his forehead while he studied the message. Normally faxes have sender information printed on either the top or bottom of the page. Not this one. Strange. He rubbed his tongue against the roof of his mouth. The aftertaste of coffee had created a film on his taste buds.

He wadded the paper and slung it at a nearby trash container. The wad struck the rim and bounced off. Someone out there was making this personal. He could handle being the target. Loathed people for involving his family or threatening them.

Canyon leaned back and stared at the changing sky. The sky transposed one color over another until particles of light etched their way through cumulous clouds.

Nature’s peaceful allure thrived in the park. A pair of yellow warblers trilled their sweet-sweet-sweet melody. A robin pranced in the grass. Squirrels embarked in a chase up and down one of the towering trees.

Absorbed in the serenity, the ring from his cellular phone jarred him to reality. He loped to the restored Camaro and pulled open the door. He tossed his hat on the seat and unplugged his cell phone from its charger.

The screen displayed Lynn on the caller ID. A warm sense of love washed over him.

He answered and heard, Have you read the note?

An icy jolt shot through his heart. Did he have Lynn? Canyon slumped against the car. He pulled the phone from his ear, locked his eyes on it, and drew a deep breath. Every heartbeat pounded his chest.

He put the phone back to his ear.

At a loss for words, Detective?

What do you want?

To see how good you are. Recognize the number?

Canyon scoured everything around him. A man and a woman walked their dogs off the far end of the parking area. He balled his free hand into a fist and squeezed. His forearm muscles flexed rock hard. He jerked open the door and peeled out toward home.

You so much as touch her—

The caller responded with mirth. That’s a hoot. You’re too Christian for that, Detective.

You heard me! Not one finger! What do you want from me?

A challenge. I want to see if the rumors are true.

You’ll lose.

I don’t think so. Do you have a guardian angel?

I—

You’d better hope so.

Are you threatening me? You sorry—

Now, now, Detective. Like a friend of mine says, ‘Let’s not be judgmental.’ See what you can’t see.

Ghastly laughter filled Canyon’s ear.

Click.

Dread gripped his heart. All he could think about was Lynn.

Canyon prayed for clear intersections as he zoomed toward home. The Camaro yawed around corners. It bounced through uneven intersections. In one turn, the car banged the rear corner of an Explorer parked at the curb. No time to stop now. He called dispatch to report the incident, fought the wheel as an oncoming Avalanche swerved onto the shoulder to avoid him.

Guardian angel. Did he need one? Why would he?

The car slid to a stop in the driveway. Canyon threw open the door. Darted inside. He sprinted to the master bedroom, the fingers of his right hand squeezing his .40 caliber Glock.

Lynn lay in the bed, covered to her ears with their green and tan print comforter, still as death. Her cell phone was on the nightstand next to a half-full glass of water.

He held his breath and holstered the gun. He pulled the comforter slowly from his soul mate’s face. Fear squeezed his heart for what he might find, six days away from their 25th anniversary.

Lynn stirred, lids half covering turquoise eyes. "What are you doing here, sweetheart? Is it time