“There were two Fresno victims,” I said. “Was only one incised geometrically?”
Fusco nodded. “Maybe Burke had to hurry away from the other kill.”
“Or maybe,” said Milo, “both victims weren’t his.”
“Read the file and decide for yourself.” Fusco drew his glass nearer, touched the corner of his sandwich.
“Anything more you want to say?”
“Just that you probably didn’t find much trace evidence, if any. Burke loves to clean up. And killing Mate would represent a special achievement for him: synthesis of his two previous modes: bloody knife work and pseudo-euthanasia. The papers said Mate was hooked up to his own machine. That true?”
“Pseudo-euthanasia?”
“It’s never real,” said Fusco with sudden heat. “All that talk about right to die, putting people out of their misery. Until we can crawl into a dying person’s head and read their thoughts, it’ll never be real.” Forced smile, more of a snarl, really: “When I heard about the painting, I knew I had to be more assertive with you. Burke loves to draw. His house in Rochester was full of art books and sketch pads.”
“How good is he?” I said.
“Better than average. I took some photos. It’s all in there. But don’t hold me to any specific guess, look at the overall picture. I’ve done hundreds of profiles, most of the time I miss something.”
“What you’ve done with Burke goes beyond profiling,” I said.
He stared at me. “Meaning what?”
“Sounds as if you’ve made him your project.”
“Part of my current job description is depth research on cold cases.” To Milo: “You’d know something about that.”
Milo uncoiled the string and opened the file. Inside were three black folders, labeled I, II, and III. He removed the first, opened it to a page containing five photocopied head shots.
In the upper left: a color school photo of ten-year-old T-shirted Grant Huie Rushton. Button nose, blond crew cut, Norman Rockwell cute, except this kid hadn’t smiled for the camera. Had looked away from it, set his mouth in a horizontal line that should’ve been merely noncommittal, but wasn’t.
Anger. Cool anger, backed by… wariness? Emotional unsteadiness? Furtive, wounded eyes. Norman Rockwell meets Diane Arbus. Or was I interpreting because of what Fusco had told me?
Next: a high-school graduation shot. At eighteen, Grant Rushton looked more relaxed. Pleasant-looking young man wearing a plaid shirt, face broadened by puberty, the features symmetrical, tending a bit toward pug. Clear complexion but for sprinkles of pimples in the folds between nostril and cheek. Strong, square chin, mouth shut tight but uplifted at the corners. Teenage Grant’s hair was several shades darker but still fair, worn to his shoulders with thick bangs. This time, he confronted the lens, full-face—confident—more than that: brash. By then, Fusco claimed, Rushton had murdered and gotten away with it.
Below the childhood shots was Huey Mitchell’s bearded face on a Great Lakes Security badge. The beard was thick, spade-shaped, a mink brown that contrasted with Mitchell’s dirty-blond head hair. Running from atop the cheekbones to his first shirt button in an uninterrupted swath broken only by a mouth slit, it rendered any comparison to the other photos useless. Mitchell wore his hair even longer, drawn back tight into a ponytail that dangled over his right shoulder.
The pale eyes narrower, harder. My flash impression would have been blue-collar resentment. Vital statistics: five-ten, one eighty, blond hair, blue eyes.
The bottom row featured two pictures of Michael Burke, MD. In the first, taken from a New York driver’s license, the beard remained, this time clipped and bar-bered to an inch of dark pelt that served the now powerful-looking head well. So did Burke’s haircut— razor-layered, blow-dried, worn just above the ears. By his early thirties, Burke’s face had begun to reveal the advent of middle age: thinner hair, wrinkles around the mouth, puffiness under the eyes. Overall, a pleasant-looking man, wholly unremarkable.
This time the stats said five-nine, one sixty-five.
“He shrank an inch and lost fifteen pounds?” I said.
“Or lied about it to Motor Vehicles,” said Fusco. “Doesn’t everyone?”
“People reduce their weight, but they don’t generally claim to be shorter.”
“Michael isn’t people,” said Fusco. “You’ll also notice that the license says brown eyes. His true color’s green-blue. Obviously, Burke jerked them around—either because he was hiding something or just having fun. On his Unitas I.D., he’s back to blue.”