Slaughter

“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.” Qui

“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 Qui

“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.”

Qui

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?” Qui

Vinson shook his head. “Sorry, Lieutenant.”

“It’s Captain.”

“Sure.”

Qui

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

“Like a mustache or beard?” Vinson asked.

“Or anything else,” Qui

“Not as I can recall, Cap’n.”

Cap’n.

Was Vinson messing with him? Qui

“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?” Qui

“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, Qui

Warfield did a little touching up. Then he stood and finished with a flourish. Qui

“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.

Qui

“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, Qui

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.

Qui

“Any luck?” Qui

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,” Qui

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,” Qui

“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. Qui

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. Qui

“This isn’t a mug shot,” Qui

“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?” Qui

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

Qui

“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 Qui

“We got something?” Pearl asked.

“Maybe,” Qui

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,” Qui

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.”