The Murder Artist Read online

  And when I pick it up, it feels weird. It’s not made out of paper, but some kind of animal’s skin. Which spooks me, somehow.

  Was this always here? I don’t think so. I would have noticed it.

  But maybe not, I think, setting the little figure back on the dresser. After all, did I notice the boys’ obsession with knights? No. And Liz was always taking them to workshops… of every kind imaginable. Although… there’s no way Kevin or Sean made this thing. Their mother, maybe.

  The thought of Liz hits me like wind shear.

  Ohmigod. I’ve gotta call her…

  CHAPTER 7

  She gets in late the next morning, stumbling out of the secure area at National Airport, her good looks strained by tears. After a stiff embrace, I take her elbow, pivot her to the left, and introduce her to Christiansen.

  Christiansen is here as a courtesy, to – as Shoffler put it – “help escort Mrs. Callahan to your house.”

  I told the detective to forget it when he first put forward this idea, but Shoffler talked me around, noting that uniformed policemen can really help get you through a media crowd. “A guy in uniform can be all business; hell, he can even be rude to reporters – and it just looks like he’s doing his job. The squad car, the uniform – they’ll help.”

  “Oh,” Liz says, her eyes widening at the sight of the policeman. She throws me a wild glance, and I know what she’s thinking – even though it makes no sense, even though I would be the one to tell her. She thinks Christiansen is here in some official capacity, to deliver bad news.

  “Ma’am,” he mutters, tilting forward in a kind of bow.

  She waits, frozen, and when it becomes clear that Christiansen is not going to say anything else, she collapses into me, her face hot and damp against my shoulder. “Oh, Alex,” she says. “Alex?”

  I’m more or less holding her up as the crowd streams around us. We just stand there, Liz weeping against my shoulder. I’m not sure what to do. But then she steps back, bats at her face to dry her tears, and starts off toward the baggage claim area, moving so fast I almost have to run to keep up. We stand together, watching the suitcases tumble down the chute toward the conveyor belt.

  I open my mouth to say something, but it falls closed of its own weight. What can I say? How was your flight? Sorry I lost our sons?

  The telephone call to tell her what had happened was a nightmare, but this – this is so much worse. Instead of Liz arriving to the reunion I’ve been imagining, the jumping and excited boys and their beaming please-come-back-to-me-I’ve-changed father, this is how the love of my life reenters my world. She stands not twelve inches from me, enclosed within a force field of grief and anger. Of course she was scrupulous on the telephone, as I struggled to explain what happened. She did everything she could to reassure me it wasn’t my fault, that I shouldn’t think that way, that she doesn’t blame me, of course she doesn’t blame me.

  But of course it’s a lie. How can she not blame me? It’s impossible.

  “What happened to your face?” she asks in a neutral tone. “You look-”

  “The search,” I tell her with a shrug. “The woods.”

  “That’s mine,” she says, in a tight little voice. Her hand jerks up and points toward a green suitcase. The gesture is almost mechanical, as if she’s a wind-up toy.

  I don’t recognize the suitcase. The sight of it – bright lime green with leather trim – makes me sad on a number of levels. It’s one more thing acquired during our separation – the blouse she’s wearing, the boys’ new backpacks, and so on – and this accumulation of objects seems to emphasize the divergence of our lives. And then there’s the stylish, buoyant look of the suitcase, which speaks of an alternate reality, Liz off for a jaunt to someplace chic.

  Instead of here with me in this nightmare.

  “It has wheels,” she says, once I’ve fought through the throng and wrestled the suitcase off the belt. I carry it anyway, and if hefting its weight is not exactly a pleasure, it offers – like meeting the plane – a respite from my sense of uselessness.

  Already, it’s clear that as the machinery of disaster gains momentum, I am more and more peripheral to the effort. I’ve given my account of what happened a half dozen times now, tracked down the best and most recent photographs of the boys and given consent for the broadcast and distribution of their images. I’ve supplied detailed descriptions of their clothing. I’ve called all the neighbors to see if anyone spotted anything at the house – a car, the boys, lights, anything. (Yasmin Siegel confessed that she’d fallen asleep watching The Sopranos.) I’ve given consents: the phone may be tapped, phone records accessed, computer examined by experts, house searched.

  In fact, I’m irritated that they haven’t searched the house yet. I don’t understand what’s taking so long, as I complained to Shoffler over the phone right before I left for the airport. “Kevin was here,” I told the detective. “He called from this telephone. He didn’t get here on his own, that’s for sure – which means that the kidnapper was here. You should be crawling all over this place.”

  Shoffler told me to relax. When there were jurisdictional issues – they had to liaise with D.C. Metro – it took a little while to get the wheels rolling.

  I’ve surrendered my cell phone to a so-called communications technician dispatched by Shoffler. A woman named Natalie – the two of us went through the call lists, so I could identify the numbers, both of incoming and outgoing calls. I recognized all of the numbers. Krista, my assistant at the station. Liz. Cass Carter, whose son is in Kev and Sean’s car pool to St. Albans day camp. Dave Whitestone, my producer. My folks. And so on. Natalie affixed an evidence number to my Nokia and gave me a receipt for it. She also provided a clone – a phone with the same number – in case a repeat call comes in from Kevin or Sean. Or from someone with a ransom demand.

  I also talked to a kind woman named Shelley at the Center for Missing and Exploited Children, scanned a photo of the boys into the computer so that the organization might begin its national poster campaign. Another woman – Shelley’s superior – is supposed to call later to discuss other options and to offer advice.

  Now I’m reduced to staying out of the way. I want to scour the earth for Kevin and Sean, but instead I’m immobilized.

  We glide along on the moving sidewalk toward the parking garage. Behind me, Christiansen jingles the keys in his pocket. In front of me stands Liz, rigid with the effort of suppressing her terror.

  When Christiansen turns the corner onto Ordway, Liz gasps. The little knot of reporters that began gathering early this morning has ballooned into a crowd. Two communications vans jam the alley on either side of the street, another sits in the Hokinsons’ driveway, wedged up against their red Explorer. There are light towers, cables snaking across the lawns and sidewalks, camera and sound crews. A couple of well-dressed figures stand solitary within little established zones of space, prepping light and sound equipment for the stand-ups they’ll do later. Neighbors stand in their doorways, too, gaping at the sudden occupation of the block. As the crowd catches sight of the squad car, there’s a rush for position.

  “Oh, shit,” Christiansen says. “Pardon my French, ma’am.”

  From Liz, a little moan.

  I feel a jangle of dread, a weird sense of exposure. I’ve been part of scenes like this plenty of times, one more reporter in the press conference crush, or in a mob waiting to waylay some key figure in a story. With cable and satellite and the increase in venues for news, the size of these media mobs is getting out of hand. A couple of years back, I was part of the team covering the D.C. sniper case for the station, one of the more than nine-hundred badged for the press conferences held by the Rockville police chief.

  I think – too late – that I should have warned Liz. And it’s probably going to get worse. The story is going to be the top of the news, front page, lead story. The fact that I’m in the business, that I appear on TV, that my face is familiar to some, that I am (as Liz and I
used to joke) “a third-string celebrity,” will just stoke what is going to be a firestorm of coverage.

  Liz cringes against me as the crowd begins to engulf the car. I know it would be a mistake – because a person shielded from the camera is automatically guilty of something – but it’s all I can do to keep from throwing my jacket over Liz’s head to protect her. She’s weeping against me, really losing it.

  “It’s all right,” I murmur. She takes deep shuddering breaths, trying to compose herself.

  It’s not working. Her hands are balled up into fists and she screws her knuckles into her eyes. “Just get us into the house,” I tell Christiansen.

  “How?” The tips of the officer’s ears glow bright red.

  “Walk fast, no eye contact, don’t talk to anybody. Say ‘excuse me.’ Nothing else.”

  And that’s what we do. I follow Christiansen as if he’s a blocker on a punt return, yanking Liz left, then right into the momentary gaps the police officer creates. We somehow get through the blizzard of flashes, the mechanized chatter of camera shutters, the cacophony of shouted questions and comments.

  “Excuse me!”

  “Can you comment-?”

  “Excuse me.”

  “That’s the mother; she looks-”

  “Excuse me.”

  “… know if there are any suspects?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Callahan, can you tell our…?”

  “… parents of the boys have been separated…”

  “Excuse me.”

  “… possible the twins were trying to run away?”

  “Fuck,” Christiansen says, once we’re inside the door. He’s panting for breath, his ears on fire.

  Making it inside and closing the door on the madness feels like a victory, but the sense of triumph lasts only a few seconds. Liz looks up at me, her eyes wet and out of focus. “Alex,” she starts, but then she just stands there, swaying.

  “Liz-”

  “Alex!” she shrieks. She pummels my chest with her fists. “Where are they? You have to find them!”

  CHAPTER 8

  We sit in the kitchen. “So there’s no news…” she starts, and then her voice fades out.

  “I’ll call Shoffler – the detective. I told him we’d check in after we got back from the airport.” I head for the phone. She doesn’t take her eyes off me.

  But Shoffler is in conference. I leave a message, then make Liz some tea. She sits like a rag doll, slumped and loose-limbed. I wonder if I should get her to a doctor.

  “Did you call your parents?” she asks in a listless voice.

  “They’re on their way.”

  “My mom sort of… broke down,” Liz says. “She’s in the hospital.”

  “Oh, Liz…”

  “She’s all right, just – you know, she’s sedated.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I begged my dad to stay with her, but he’s coming. I couldn’t stop him.” She draws a sharp intake of breath.

  She stirs the sugar into her tea for so long, I finally put my hand over hers.

  “Oh,” she says, without inflection.

  Despite the crowd outside, it’s so quiet I can hear the white noise of the appliances: the hum of the refrigerator, the whine of the air conditioner. It feels almost as if we’re hiding.

  She rests her elbows on the table, holds her face in her hands.

  “We’ll find them,” I hear myself say. She draws a deep, jittery breath, lifts her face up toward me.

  “We will,” I tell her, my voice fervent. “Liz, we’ll find them.”

  She searches my face, but whatever she sees doesn’t reassure her. Her face compresses into a red knot of torment. She lowers her head to the table, rests it on her crossed arms, and begins to sob. Inconsolable.

  Liz is in the shower when the call comes from Claire Carosella.

  “I’m returning your call,” the efficient voice says. “I’m with the Center for Missing and Exploited Children. I think my colleague mentioned…”

  “Right. She did mention that you’d call.”

  “At the Center,” she begins, “we realize parents don’t know what to do when this sort of thing happens, so… someone like me usually calls to offer advice.”

  “Right,” I say, not knowing where this woman is going. Advice?

  “First things first,” she says. “The media. I’m sure they’re already camped on your doorstep.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, they’ll drive you crazy,” she says, “but really, they’re your biggest ally. As soon as possible, you and your wife should go on the air and plead for the children’s return.”

  “My wife – she’s really…”

  “I’m sure she’s a mess. Believe me, I know…” A pause. “But you’ve absolutely got to do it. It humanizes you as victims, both to the viewing public and to the abductor. Lots of these guys watch, you know. Sometimes, they even get involved in the search for the victim.”

  “Polly Klaas,” I say, mentioning the name of a girl abducted from her bedroom in California and later found murdered. A man prominent in the effort to find the little girl, a guy who’d printed and distributed thousands of circulars and was appointed by the girl’s grateful father to run a foundation dedicated to the search for her, had turned out to be a registered sex offender with a history involving young girls.

  “Well, yes,” Claire Carosella says, “that’s one example, but-”

  “It wasn’t him,” I interrupt, remembering the details. “It turned out to be a different guy.”

  “You’ve been doing your homework.”

  “Yeah.”

  My homework. In a couple of hours online, I’ve already learned more about abducted children than I ever want to know. Including the somber fact that most of them – more than half – are dead within three hours of their disappearance.

  “Isn’t there a chance these guys get off on the media coverage? The grieving parents, all that?”

  A sigh. “Yes. That’s one of the negatives.” Another weary sigh. “But on balance, Alex, going on the air is way more plus than minus. Believe me, the tips, the calls to the hotline, volunteers, you name it – all these things get a big bounce after parental pleas.”

  “Hunh.”

  “The thing is, it can really help the investigation. And these guys – sometimes they just can’t resist calling in. In which case they might say something that gives the police a lead. It’s like pyromaniacs coming to watch the fire. They want to be a part of it.”

  “Okay,” I tell her. “We’ll do it.”

  “And just, you know… speak from the heart. Don’t try to write out a speech and read it. It’s better if you… if you just do it. The more emotional, the better.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Some parents choose to do it in a studio, but that means granting an exclusive – that’s up to you. It can be somewhat less intimidating, and the lighting will be better… but… naturally it irritates the other reporters.”

  “Hunh.”

  “And it can come across as too… composed. I think just outside the house works best. Incidentally, do mention them by name – that’s important. ‘Kevin and Sean.’ Not ‘my sons’ or ‘my children.’”

  “Right. Okay.”

  Her final advice is unsettling. “I feel I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention this,” she says, and then hesitates.

  “Yes?”

  “Some families hire public relations advisers,” she tells me. “It’s become quite common with victims groups, you know… the various disease associations, relatives of airline crash victims, that kind of thing. It’s kind of segued over from that sector.”

  “You mean…”

  “I know it sounds strange, but I’m told it can be a huge plus to have someone to interface with the media, and I am talking about a professional firm, Alex, not a friend. They can also help to maximize your exposure. I mean if the case drags on – they can help keep it in the news.”

  “I don’t thi
nk…”

  “Look, as I said, I’m only mentioning it because it’s something to consider. It’s how the Smart family kept Elizabeth’s case front and center for so long. Even when everybody thought she was dead. Anyway, if you decide to go that way, I can give you a list of firms.”

  I thank her, but when I hang up, I feel as if I’ve stepped through a looking glass. My children are missing and they want me to do stand-ups and get a PR rep?

  Shoffler calls to tell us that there’s no news from the search parties, but that the switchboard is swamped with volunteers. The plan is to broaden the search.

  “Great,” I say, “that’s great.” If my voice lacks enthusiasm, it’s because when I try to remember an instance of one of these big efforts actually locating the target of the search, I can’t think of a single one.

  “We’re canvassing people who work at the festival, looking for anyone who saw your boys yesterday. So far, we’re not getting very far.”

  “Oh?” This from Liz on the extension in the family room. “That’s strange. Everybody notices the boys.”

  It’s true. Identical twins hold a universal fascination. Now that they can tell time, the boys sometimes bet on how long they can be out in public before someone asks the inevitable question: “Are you twins?” Sean went through a stretch last year when he liked to answer no. He thought his deadpan denial hugely amusing, but it irritated people. We were all glad when he got tired of the game.

  “Probably just haven’t talked to the right folks yet,” Shoffler says. “Anyway, there is something we’ve learned.” He hesitates just long enough to unnerve me. I feel it in my chest, a little whir of anxiety.

  “What?” Liz demands, with a note of panic in her voice. “What is it?”

  “We ran the fair employees through a bunch of databases,” Shoffler says. “Computer kicked out one thing of interest – although right off I want to tell you I don’t think this is going anywhere.”

  “What?” Liz says in a tight little voice.