Slaughter - Lutz John (читать книги без txt) 📗

“Nothing. I don’t recall exactly, though. He did have hair long on the sides, so maybe it was covered.”

“Show us.”

Vinson did some crude sketching, then Warfield neatened it up.

“Somebody said he was wearing a baseball cap.” Quinn said.

“Might have been, but I don’t recall it. He was just some little guy in a hurry to get downstairs, trying to get on the elevator.”

Warfield played with the keyboard, mouse, and stylus. The shape on Vinson’s monitor changed slightly. Then he gave the subject longer hair on the sides, and a pointed cauliflower ear, and it underwent a definite alteration.

“That it?” Warfield asked Vinson.

“We’re getting there. The hair on the sides was still a little longer, like wings.”

The digital image on Warfield’s computer changed again. The face on the monitor was looking more familiar. Still, there should be a definite click of recognition. That hadn’t happened yet.

Vinson was getting a better idea of how this was going to work. It was going to be a grueling job. Already his back was getting sore from sitting leaning forward in concentration.

“I do feel like there are things swimming just beyond my thoughts, but I can’t get to them,” Vinson said, looking at Quinn.

“That’s okay. Memory’s like that.”

“What about his nose?” Warfield asked Vinson.

“Long and pointed.” No hesitation there.

“Like Pinocchio’s?”

“Good Lord, no. The guy wasn’t a freak.”

Quinn thought, Not on the outside.

Warfield sketched in a smaller nose. “That it?”

“Not quite. There was a little hump in his nose. Know what I mean?”

Warfield brandished his stylus. “Like so?”

“No. Not quite that big.”

Warfield made minor adjustments.

“No, no, no, better, better, too much—that’s it! Now, can you make the eyes closer together?”

“Sure.” Warfield accommodated. He seemed to be having fun now.

“Perfecto!” Vinson said.

“Eye color?” Quinn asked.

Vinson shook his head. “Sorry, Lieutenant.”

“It’s Captain.”

“Sure.”

Quinn smiled. Civilian, actually.

“Did he have any facial hair?” Warfield asked.

“Like a mustache or beard?” Vinson asked.

“Or anything else,” Quinn said.

“Not as I can recall, Cap’n.”

Cap’n.

Was Vinson messing with him? Quinn stared at the man, detecting no irony. So Vinson wasn’t another Harold.

“Tattoos, warts, scars, anything noticeable?” Warfield asked Vinson.

“He had a chin with a line in it.”

“Vertical?”

“Up and down.”

“Cleft chin?” Helen asked.

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“What was he wearing?” Quinn asked.

“Like I said a couple dozen times, he mighta had on some sort of work outfit. Green, gray, blue. One of those colors that changes a little according to what color room they’re in.”

“What color are the forty-third-floor walls and carpet?”

“By the elevators?”

“Yes.”

“Tell you the truth, I’d be guessing,” Vinson said.

That, Quinn thought, probably was the truth.

Warfield did a little touching up. Then he stood and finished with a flourish. Quinn thought he might kick his chair away like a rock star to share and express his enthusiasm, but he merely stepped back.

“Not a spittin’ image,” Vinson said, “but I don’t think anybody could do it better. It captures the essence.”

“You an art critic?” Harold asked seriously.

Quinn knew it was one of those seemingly unrelated questions that Harold sometimes asked, and sometimes led somewhere the other detectives hadn’t known existed. Harold’s World.

“In my spare time,” Vinson said.

It turned out that Vinson had a blog, Splatter Chatter, that specialized in cubism and the impressionist masters. He gave everyone his card, on which was his blog’s web address and a tiny portrait of van Gogh with his ear bandaged.

All of this, Quinn thought, was apropos of nothing.

Maybe.

27

A slightly hungover Lido arrived the next morning at Q&A and situated himself at the main computer. He had the air of a man who was at home and alone—his world, his house, his investigation.

Quinn walked over and Lido acknowledged his presence with a languid wave. Two of the computer’s monitors were flashing head shots of males, one of which might be a match with the digital likeness of the suspect. It could happen any moment, suddenly. Or not at all. It was asking a lot of facial recognition software to match a photograph with a police artist’s sketch.

“Any luck?” Quinn asked.

Lido shot him a glance. “Not so far. It would be nice if we had a photo to match with a photo. Or, better yet, fingerprints.”

“In a dreamworld,” Quinn said.

Lido said, “Isn’t that where we are?”

“Sounds like a question that could lead to one of those existentialist arguments heard in dorm rooms around the world.”

“Dorm rooms, did you say?”

“Around the world,” Quinn affirmed.

“I been there,” Lido said, “and it’s not so great.”

The shrill first ten notes of “One Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall” suddenly sounded from the computer

The frenetic movement on the monitor adjacent to the one that displayed only the artist’s and witness’s still, digital image of the suspect suddenly became motionless. It was as if that entire wall had ceased swaying.

Lido leaned forward. Quinn stepped forward. Attentions were riveted on the monitor.

Lido went to a split screen. The sketch of the suspect was next to a black-and-white newspaper photo of a scrawny teenage boy. Quinn wouldn’t say the sketch and photo were like a young and older image of the same person. Still, there was a strong resemblance. Even the cleft chins.

“This isn’t a mug shot,” Quinn said. “That’s what I was expecting.”

“If we had that,” Lido said, “we’d probably also have fingerprints we might match.”

Both men stared hard at the photos.

“What’s that behind him?” Lido asked, motioning toward the near image.

“Where the height chart should be?” Quinn moved closer. “Looks like a stairway. Inside somewhere, judging by the light and shadow.”

“No, that. It looks like a double exposure, or a shot taken with a cheap camera in incredibly bad light.”

Quinn saw what he meant. On the broad landing before the stairs, several people showed as shadowy forms in the background. A woman in a long dress. Two men, one of whom had his arm around the shoulders of the other. One of them was wearing a white shirt and dark tie. The upper body of another man, without a tie, was visible descending the steps. They were like ghosts.

“Could be the inside of a public building,” Lido said.

“Courthouse?”

“That would be nice. If our gremlin was messed up with the law, there should be an ID and photo of him somewhere. An account of the case—if there was a case.”

“I’ll narrow the parameters,” Lido said.

“What will that do?”

“We’ll be looking for a bigger needle in a smaller haystack.”

Pearl and Helen entered the office, letting in warm air with the hiss of the street door. Both women slowed down when they saw Quinn and Lido in the rear of the office, at Lido’s computer setup.

“We got something?” Pearl asked.

“Maybe,” Quinn said.

Helen moved closer, then bent at the waist to get a clearer view.

“Tell you the truth,” she said, “they don’t look all that much alike. I know Mr. Sketch, but who’s the other guy?”

“Maybe the Gremlin.”

“No, I mean who is he?”

“We were hoping he’d be a match with Mr. Sketch,” Quinn said.

Pearl said, “Good luck with that.”

“If we get him ID’d we might find a long sheet on him.”

“If the images match closely enough,” Pearl said.

Helen had moved very close to one of the monitors. “Can you zoom in on the other guy?”

“Other guy?”

“The one most obviously not Mr. Sketch.”