Lane reached into his pocket and pulled out his ID, holding it up.
The woman slouched into her seat, her shoulders fell, and she mouthed a curse.
Lane walked up to the driver’s door of the silver Mercedes. He stood on the other side of the glass, waiting a full thirty seconds before an electric motor whirred and the window rolled halfway down. The subtle scent of perfume mixed with leather. Lane saw skin tightly stretched over cheekbones and sunken eyes. I was off by thirty years. She’s at least sixty-five.
“I’m late for a hair appointment,” the woman said.
“How well do you know the Randalls?” Lane asked.
“I did know them.” The woman nodded in the direction of the house.
Word games. I’m tired of this already. “Name?” He waited before he said, “Please.”
“Do I need a lawyer?” The woman sat up straighter, attempting to look down on the detective.
Lane shrugged. Calling a lawyer will make you even later for your appointment. Stop wasting my time by establishing a pecking order.
“Megan Newsome.”
Lane got the distinct impression she thought the name should ring a bell with him, and it did. The Newsomes were regulars at his father’s church. I saw your face at my father’s funeral. He decided to wait for an answer to his initial question about the Randalls.
Megan sighed. “I didn’t know them well. We travelled in different social circles. Met them at a charity event once and at the theatre last summer.”
“Did you see anything unusual last night?”
Megan shook her head. “Not a thing. Are we finished?”
“For now.” He stepped back, turned, and walked toward Nigel, who was tapping the face of his phone. “Get the plate?”
Nigel nodded. “Why? Did she lie to you?”
“I think so.” Lane walked up the sidewalk and then the steps. Reaching the front door, he turning the knob and stepped inside. His nose was assaulted with the stench of blood, piss, bleach, and shit. Nigel closed the door behind them.
As he looked around the room, Lane spotted Dr. Colin Weaver, or Fibre, as Lane referred to him, head of the Forensic Crime Scene Unit. The doctor had the face and physique of a Michelangelo male on a Sistine ceiling, and the social skills of a shag carpet. Let’s hear what Fibre has to say. Lane was one of the few who knew Fibre was the father of triplets. They lived with him and the extremely fertile PhD who’d seduced him and co-parented in the other half of Weaver’s duplex. And he’s amazing with his kids. Lane recalled seeing Fibre animated and smiling in the company of a trio of toddlers in the mall.
Weaver looked over his shoulder. He stood at the entrance to the living room. Lane noted the nine-foot ceiling was spattered with blood and brain matter.
“Hello, Detective,” Weaver said.
“Can we take a look?” Lane asked.
Weaver nodded as he pulled back the hood on his white bunny suit. His blond hair stuck to his scalp. “Take a look if you like. Be careful, we’re still working the scene.” He used his right hand to wave them closer.
Lane and Nigel stepped under the curved opening in the wall. The corpses sat facing each other. Robert Randall was dressed in a black tuxedo. Elizabeth Randall wore a leather coat, a white blouse, and red pants. The back of Robert’s head was visible, his chin on his chest. The exit wound was a pulpy mess of blood, bone, and tissue.
“It appears Mrs. Randall was shot in the mouth after witnessing the execution of her husband,” Fibre said.
A chocolate-coloured Labrador retriever was crucified on a wall of birdseye maple, its sightless eyes staring at its masters.
It’s all staged. The crucifixion of the family pet. The pair killed facing each other. The blood spatter on the ceiling. Whoever did this wants us to think it’s art. Lane looked at the floor, seeing three round indentations in the carpet. And the killer recorded it.
Lane heard rapid breathing beside him and turned. Nigel’s eyes were wide, staring at the scene.
His eyes aren’t focused. Lane knew Nigel was reliving the horror of another scene.
Nigel’s hands began to shake. He looked at them as if they belonged to someone else.
Lane looked back at Weaver. “Thank you. We’ve seen enough.”
Lane grabbed Nigel at the elbow, got him turned around, opened the front door, and guided him down the front steps. He watched the cloud of frosty air puffing out of Nigel’s open mouth. He’s hyperventilating.
They made it to the Chev.
Lane opened the passenger door, got Nigel to climb inside, closed his door, and walked around the front of the car. He got in behind the wheel, closing his own door, and started the engine. Then he pulled the glove off of Nigel’s left hand and handed it to him. “Breathe into your glove.”
Nigel nodded, wide-eyed, placing the glove over his mouth. He exhaled. The fingers of the glove filled with air, imitating an open hand. Nigel inhaled. The fingers formed a fist.
Lane waited, watching Nigel’s eyes as they began to focus. Nigel blinked, continuing to breathe into the glove.
What do I say to him?
Nigel closed his eyes and his chin dropped.
“You worked with Netsky?”
Nigel nodded.
“What was that like?”
Nigel took the glove away from his mouth. “He talked. I was supposed to listen.”
“Then?”
“Netsky didn’t like it when I asked questions.”
Lane waited.
“He figured out I was smarter than he was. It pissed him off.” Nigel put his hands over the dash where hot air was blasting onto the windshield. “Of course I didn’t help the situation much. You know me. I understand that telling an unpleasant truth will piss people off, and I should keep my mouth shut. Then I say it anyway.” He turned to smile at Lane.
“I need to ask this because we’re partners.”
“You want to know what happened in there?” Nigel asked.
Lane nodded.
“My father staged my mother’s body. He had her sitting in a chair. Her eyes were wide open. Her head rested on her chin. The room had been cleaned with bleach. Some of the furniture had been turned over. He left the front door unlocked and said my mother must have done that. He made it appear as if an intruder had killed her. Then he went to work as if nothing had happened. Seeing the tableau in there brought it all back. Opening the door. Walking inside. Seeing the body of my mother. The stink of bleach.” Nigel looked out of the window.
“You want off this case?”
“Are you fucking kidding? I want to hunt these assholes down!”
“How do you know it’s more than one?” Lane asked.
“I assumed it would take two to subdue and record.”
“Let’s get to work, then. We need to review the files of the initial crime. Fibre will call us as soon as he has his preliminary findings.” Lane shifted into drive, checking for traffic.
“How come you call him Fibre instead of Weaver or Colin?” Nigel asked.
“I don’t know where the nickname came from. It’s taken a few years, but I’ve come to understand he’s more complicated than that.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“This is my case!” Fred Netsky stood across from Lane and looked sideways at Nigel. Fred was six four, weighed over two fifty, and was a year or two over forty. His hair was dyed black, styled and gelled to make him look younger.
Nigel opened his mouth, shutting it when Lane lifted his eyebrows.
“Hey, Freddy! Got your annuals seeded yet?” Lori wore her broad smile, new blue shoes, a blue pinstriped pantsuit, and glossy clear-coated nails.