For a terrible moment I think the red covering his hands is blood. Then I spot the massive painting before him and realize it’s paint.
“James Hackett Payne?” I shout to be heard above the music.
He turns slowly, making no effort to cover his nudeness. I notice a dozen things about him simultaneously. He’s got peculiar eyes that remind me of Charles Manson, only the color is blue and so light they’re almost white. He’s either bald or shaves his head and there’s a tattoo of a wolf on his scalp. I wonder if he’s some weird offshoot of a skinhead. I see spatters of paint on his chest. He’s aroused; his member stands at half-staff and has a smear of red paint on it.
“Would you mind putting on your pants, sir? I need to talk to you.”
He stares at me with an intensity that makes the hairs on my arms rise. He doesn’t smile, but I see amusement in his eyes. “Of course.”
He gestures toward a pair of sweatpants draped over the back of a chair. I nod and step back. I don’t want this strange son of a bitch getting too close. I hit my lapel mike. “I’m 10-75.”
Never taking his eyes from mine, he crosses to the chair. “Had I known you were coming I would have dressed.”
“Had I known you were going to be naked, I would have called.”
Glock and Tomasetti enter the garage. I glance over to see both men’s eyes widen at the sight of Payne. They’re seasoned cops; it takes a lot to shock them. I almost smile when I realize Payne has succeeded.
One side of his mouth pulls into a half grin as he jams his legs into the sweat-pants. “My work arouses me,” he says matter-of-factly. “I prefer to paint . . . uncovered. It puts me closer to my art.”
I glance at the painting he’d been working on and another layer of shock goes through me. It’s a stark painting with violent streaks of red, black and yellow. I discern the image of an Amish woman in the throes of childbirth. Two Amish males kneel between her knees, devouring a horribly deformed newborn.
I make eye contact with Payne. “We need to ask you a few questions.”
He ties the drawstring waist. “Ask away.”
Frowning, Tomasetti crosses to the stereo on the workbench and turns it off. Silence fills the studio. Payne glares at him. Tomasetti stares back, maintains his poker face.
“Where were you Monday night?” I ask.
“Here. Working.”
“Can anyone substantiate that?”
He smirks. “God.”
I tamp down a rise of annoyance. “Do you know any members of the Plank family?”
A slow smile creeps across his face. “No.”
“You think something’s funny?”
“I just figured out what this is about.”
“What’s that?”
“I guess I’m a suspect.” He shrugs. “Am I?”
“You committed a hate crime against an Amish man ten years ago.”
Another smile. “So that automatically makes me a suspect in a mass murder?”
For the first time Glock pipes up. “You ate your vic’s ear, buddy. That’s fuckin’ off-the-chart strange.”
Those weird eyes dart from me to Glock and back to me. “I paid my dues for that.”
“So you know the Plank family?” I repeat. “Have you had any dealings with them?”
“I don’t deal with the Amish.” He lowers his voice. “Too much inbreeding. Half the kids are retards. All that bundling, I guess.”
That’s when I know that while this man might have paid his debt to society, the time he spent behind bars did nothing to cure the cancer of hatred that runs thick in his blood. Images of the Plank family flash in my mind. Mary’s journal filled with so many hopes and so much pain. I think of the children, so innocent and with so much life ahead, and I want to tear into Payne with my bare hands.
“If you lie to me about anything we talk about today,” I say, “I’m going to make you regret it.”
Amusement rises in his eyes. “That’s right. You’re the Amish cop. How extraordinary. I’ll bet you have a soft spot for them, don’t you?”
I ignore the jab. “What kind of vehicle do you drive?”
He doesn’t appear to hear the question. “I’ll bet your family tree doesn’t have many branches, either, does it?” An ugly emotion flashes in his eyes. “Did you leave the faith because you didn’t want to marry a cousin? Or did they kick you out for being a dyke?”
I know better than to let a loser like Payne push my buttons. I’m well aware of the array of problems inappropriate conduct on my part can bring down on an investigation. But I’m also a human being and my tolerance has been stretched to the limit.
I lunge, ram the heels of both hands into his chest and shove him hard. Caught off guard, Payne reels backward, arms flailing. His foot catches on a rubber mat, and he goes down on his backside.
“Amish cunt.” In a split second he’s back on his feet. I hear Tomasetti and Glock move in, but they’re not fast enough to stop me. I yank out my baton, snap it to its full length and swing. I aim at his left shoulder, but he ducks and the baton rakes a glancing blow across his back. Payne dances backward, snarling.
Two hands come down on my shoulders, fingers digging into my skin. “Kate, goddamnit.”
I barely hear Tomasetti’s voice over the wild beat of my heart. “Get off me!” Red crowds my vision, a rainbow of fury that spreads through me like a storm.
“Crazy bitch.” Payne’s lips peel back, revealing canine-like teeth.
I’m aware of Tomasetti dragging me backward. Payne starting toward me.
Glock steps between us, thrusts a finger at Payne. “Back off.”
Payne glares at Glock. “She assaulted me! She can’t do that! I’m a fuckin’ law-abiding citizen!”
At the door, Tomasetti stops dragging me. But he doesn’t release me. His fingers slide down to my biceps and he gives me a shake. “Pull yourself together,” he growls.
I can hear myself breathing hard. In the back of my mind, I know I screwed up. I acted like some hotheaded rookie. I broke one of the cardinal rules of police work and hit a suspect without cause. The anger pulsing inside me doesn’t give a damn.
Payne jams a finger at me. “You fuckin’ cops are all the same. A bunch of fascist pigs. I ought to sue you.”
Tomasetti sighs. “I didn’t see her do anything wrong.” He looks at Glock. “Did you?”
Glock shakes his head. “I saw Payne go after her.”
Payne’s face turns deep red. “I’m glad those Amish freaks are dead! Serves them right for being a bunch of hypocritical, incestuous bastards! How’s that, bitch?”
My vision tunnels on Payne’s face. I can almost feel my hands closing around his throat. My heart knocks so hard against my ribcage my chest hurts. I think of those dead kids, and I want to strangle him with my bare hands.
“Kate.” Tomasetti’s fingers squeeze my biceps. “Let it go.”
I thrust a finger at Payne. “Don’t leave town.”
“Or what? What are you going to do about it? Hit me? Your days as a cop are numbered, bitch.”
John pushes me toward the door. I dig in my heels, but he muscles me across the threshold and onto the sidewalk. “Cut it out,” he snaps.
“Get your hands off me.” I try to sound calm, but my voice shakes. “I mean it.”
Glock pauses in the doorway, looks at Payne, and points at the painting. “That shit you call art sucks, man.”
From inside, I hear Payne break into wild laughter.
No one speaks as John, Glock and I traverse the neighbor’s yard. We reach the Explorer, and I yank my keys from my pocket.
“Can’t take you anywhere, can we?” Tomasetti mutters.
“Can the lecture,” I say tightly.
“What the hell were you thinking?”
