Sketch
an excerpt

Sketch

Chapter One

Sergeant Underwood’s welcoming smile turned into a grim line as he spoke to the fire inspector. No one could hear their conversation through the glass walls, but they all knew by Underwood’s expression the fire inspector confirmed what everyone in the precinct suspected. Arson. Two fires in as many weeks, started by a cop-hating arsonist. Last week Roger Dardin drove home for lunch, pulled the squad car alongside his house, and found his porch on fire. This afternoon, Whitey Foster’s garage was burnt to the ground. No coincidence.
A palpable hush spread through the squad room as the fire inspector left the precinct.
Sergeant Underwood came out of his office, wearing a glare that spoke volumes, but still no match to the decibels in his voice. “Everyone’s priority just changed. Catching this bastard is job number one. I don’t care about the drug ring in Trenton or the John Doe we found floatin’ in the river this morning.”
Irene casually moved her arm to hide the sketch of the John Doe she’d been toying with; trying to form structured bones out of the bloated face captured in the photograph.
“Whitey’s girls okay, Serge?” Rege asked.
“Family’s fine.” Underwood nodded. “Barrett, I want you, Ringgold and Jones out talkin’ to neighbors. Asshole’s starting fires in the middle of the afternoon, someone had to see something. Solomon and Beatty… hit the stores. Look for anyone buying an unusual amount of bleach.”
“Bleach bombs are what he’s using?”
“’He’ or ‘they’,” Serge said.
“Think there’s more than one?”
Underwood’s scowl widened. “I don’t know, Pete! That’s what I want you all to find out.”
Pete’s face reddened.
Mania replaced the hush in the room. Everyone started moving and talking at once. Phones rang. Sirens blared.
“Irene.” Serge ordered. “I want this bastard’s face on paper, but until we find a witness, give that profiler in Newark a call. Get us a feel for who we’re looking for.“
“No problem, Serge. ” There was no way she was about to say otherwise after watching Pete’s slapdown. She fought the urge to look at her watch, and picked up the phone.
It came as no surprise the profiler had gone home for the day.
The room emptied as the squad members hustled out the door, as much to cover their assignments as to get away from Underwood’s wrath.
Underwood didn’t shake easy, and Irene suspected his commanding performance was his way of stifling their panic. These fires were personal; a threat to themselves, their families, and their possessions. Including Whitey Foster’s pride and joy: a 1948 Chevy Fleetmaster he’d kept pampered in his garage. Gone.
“Hey, Irene,” Red Sloan greeted. “Underwood said for you take a look at these.”
Irene took the photographs out of his hand. “Dardin’s porch?”
Red nodded. “What’s left of it.”
Irene studied the pictures. Not much but ashes. “What am I supposed to be looking for?”
He shrugged. “Guess Serge thinks your artist eye might see something we can’t.”
“I draw faces. I’m not Columbo.”
Red laughed. “Thought you were too young to ever have watched Columbo.”
Irene smiled. “Repeats.” She flipped through the photographs.
“Whoa.” Red pointed to her hand. “Where’d the rock come from? You get engaged?”
Irene’s smile brightened. “Last night.”
“Ah, Irene, that’s great news,” Red gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Bet your folks are happy.”
Irene stole a glance at the emerald-cut diamond. “Guess they will be. They don’t know yet. Todd and I were going to go over and tell them tonight. Dad’s grilling.” She did look at her watch then. “Probably won’t make it in time now.”
Red laughed. “Yeah, knowing your dad, the grill’s already lit and the steaks sizzling. How’s he doing anyway?”
Call and ask him, Irene thought. “He’s good.” She tried to smile. “Keeping busy. Been making wooden bird houses.”
“Yeah? “
“He’s been thinking of resurrecting the old bowling league,” Irene said, hopeful. “You, Guido, Abe and everybody.”
Red shook his head. “Wish I had the time.”
Disappointment smothered her. Since her dad retired from the force two years ago, he rarely heard from Red or the other old-timers he’d once considered his best friends. She’d been with her dad one day when he ran into Abe, and had seen the hurt in her dad’s face when Abe didn’t pick up on the banter they’d once enjoyed.
“Tell him I asked about him,” Red said. “And tell Todd he’s a lucky man.”
Irene watched him as he walked away. It’ll happen to you soon enough, she thought. Red had about three years left before he retired. He, too, would be cut out of the conversations cops thrived on. No comparing leads. No more angles about how best to catch the bad guy. No more camaraderie or a thermos of coffee shared at a stake-out. Red, too, would be sitting at home making wooden bird houses.
Irene grabbed her pencil and sketch pad. Her dad’s face was rounded, much like her own. But where his chin squared, hers pointed, giving her face a heart shape. She drew her dad’s hairline, the low forehead. They’d both been blessed with thick dark curls. Though his was gray now, it had retained its rich texture. She’d inherited his dark green eyes, too, but that was where their resemblance ended. The rest of Irene’s face-- the full lips, straight nose, and short legs--came from her mother.
She used the tip of her finger to shade in her father’s eyebrows, and erased a section of his nose. She’d made the nostrils a bit too wide—more like her brother’s than her dad’s. She’d noticed in the past few months how much Hugh was starting to resemble their mother as he aged. Irene had been a change-of-life baby and Hugh eighteen years her senior.
“Irene!” Serge rushed out of his office. “We got a witness coming in. Kid says he saw the whole thing.”
“How old of a kid?” Irene asked. In her three years working for Trenton P.D, she’d found kids under ten to be better at describing a perpetrator than adults.
“Not sure. Fourteen, maybe.” Serge nodded toward the door. “Wouldn’t you say?”
Irene watched as Lieutenant Kramer led the boy in the door. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets. Dark hair cascaded down over his forehead into his eyes.
“Draw fast,” Serge whispered. “Maybe we still have time to get the sketch on tonight’s news.”
“Hi,” Irene greeted. “Have a seat.”
He sat down, diverted his gaze to the floor and rubbed his nose. Irene stifled a smile. He was a teenager for sure…with all the self-consciousness that that implied. “Name’s Irene Slavick. You?”
“Rupert.” His mouth twisted in a grimace, leaving no doubt he hated the name. “Lafferty.”
“They say you saw the guy who started the fire.”
“Yeah. Close up.”
She looked at the hair hanging in his eyes, and she wondered how accurately he could have seen anyone through it. “Can you describe him?”
“He was under six feet tall. Not fat, but not…”
“I meant his face. Did you get a good look at his face?”
“Yeah, man,” he said, excited now. “I was this close to him.” He held his hands out around two feet. “ Sparks were flying around his face.”
“You actually saw him starting the fire?”
“I just said. Sparks burnt his face.”
“Where?”
“Right under his eyes. Like red tears.”
Irene grabbed the sketch pad. “Was his face narrow or round?” She flipped the page.
Rupert pointed to the pad. “Oh, someone else saw him? Cool.”
“What?” Irene shook her head.
“That’s him right there,” he said and reached for the sketch pad.
No, Irene nearly laughed. That’s my dad.
He tapped on the page, his fingers hitting the bridge of her father’s nose. “That’s him. He’s the one who started the fire.”
Irene’s mouth dried and her vision blurred as she stared at the sketch.

Chapter Two

Irene continued to stare at the sketch long after Rupert Lafferty shuffled out the door.
Her father, Phillip Slavick, an arsonist?
She shook her head. It was a ridiculous thought. He’d been a patrolman for twenty-eight years; had worn his badge with pride. He likely spent the afternoon sanding wood pieces, not tossing a bleach bomb on a fellow-policeman’s home.
Irene swallowed. Fellow policeman. Hadn’t she just been thinking how hurt her father was at being left out of the loop? Was he hurt enough to…?
No! The shock of Rupert Lafferty tapping on her father’s nose was just getting to her. All she had to do was call her parent’s home and confirm her father had been home all day, and her hideous thoughts would be banished.
Tired, she rubbed her eyes. That was it. She was tired. After Todd proposed last night they’d stayed awake half the night, clutching hands in the dark as they planned their lives.
With a tentative reach, she picked up the phone and dialed.
“Yello.”
“Mom,” Irene said. “Looks like I’m not going to make it over tonight?”
“Todd tied up at work?”
“No.” Irene’s voice shook. “I am.”
“You? Jeeze. What they got you doing there so late? I keep telling you, Irene, you’re wasting your talent working for the police department. Just like your father wasted his brain all those years. He’s a smart man, your dad. He could have had some highfalutin career if he wanted. Instead, he spent his days…”
Irene remained mute as her mother went on. It was a line of conversation Irene knew well. Myrna Slavick had never been content to be a cop’s wife, and she’d cried unabashed tears when Irene announced her plan to work in forensic arts.
“Doing what?” her mother had squeaked out between sobs. “Drawing a bunch of crooks?”
“No,” Irene had defended. “There’s a lot more to it than that. It’s a high-tech field. There’s facial rendering software. Facial reconstruction. Age enhancement technology. Bioprint coding.”
Three years and the award Irene received for her sketches that led to the capture of a group of car thieves hadn’t convinced her mother. In fact, in her mother’s mind, it proved her point. Irene drew a bunch of crooks.
Irene shrugged. More or less.
“Hugh’s the only smart one out of the bunch of you,” her mother said. “He’s putting his talent to the right place.”
Irene resisted the urge to snap about what a momma’s boy her architect brother was. “Are Hugh and Libby there?”
“Just Hugh and the boys came. Libby’s at aerobics or something. God, how skinny does the woman want to be?”
My mother, Irene thought, the constant critic.
“You and Dad go anywhere today?”
“Like where?” her mother asked.
“I don’t know,” Irene said. “Grocery shopping. Out to lunch…”
“Lunch?” Her mother guffawed. “Now, when have you ever known your dad to take me out to lunch?”
Never, Irene thought. “So you both stayed home all day?”
“Pretty much. Well, I did. Your dad was out and about.”
“Out and about, where?”
“Hell, Irene, I don’t know. Why you asking?”
“Just curious.”
“Don’t know. Hardware store, I guess. Came home in a state.”
Irene’s mouth dried. “What kind of state?”
“Oh, grumpin’ and cussin’ about traffic ‘cause of some house fire.”
Irene’s heart sped. “He see it?”
“Yeah, said something about how tall the flames were.”
“Tall?”
“’And glorious. Tall and glorious, he said.” Her mother laughed. “Like he’s some sort of poet.”
Irene clutched her stomach and gasped. “Oh my god.”
“What?” her mother asked. “You okay? You sound scared or something.”
Irene couldn’t speak. She wasn’t just scared. She was terrified.
“Irene?”
“I gotta go, Mom,” she managed.
“Okay, well, stop over this weekend. I’m sure your dad can be convinced to light the grill again.”
Irene’s arms weakened and she dropped the phone. Sweat spread across her forehead.
“He leave?”
Sergeant Underwood’s voice barely penetrated.
“He just went to the hardware store this afternoon,” Irene said. “That’s all.”
“The kid?”
Confusion clouded Irene’s thoughts. “What kid?”
“The witness!”
“Oh, yes,” Irene said.
“What’d you get?” he asked.
Irene stared at the drawing of her father.
“Show me the bastard’s face,” Underwood said.
“Right here,” Irene said. She gulped in air and handed him her sketch of John Doe.
He studied it. “Nice job. Were you able to get a hold of that profiler?”
She twisted her curls with a shaky finger. “No. I left her voice mail.”
“All right.” His eyes met hers, and she knew he’d caught the alarm in her voice. “You don’t look so good.”
“Tired,” she mumbled.
He nodded. “Go on home then. Get some rest.” He looked at the sketch again. “I’m going to call channel seven, see if they can still get this on.
“Wait! It’s not finished.” What if Rupert Lafferty watched the news? He’d know it wasn’t the sketch he’d seen.
“Not finished how?”
“I still have to do some work on the eyes. The kid described them as rounder. And I want to input some features in the graphics software.” She held out her hand, reaching for the sketch. “You don’t want the wrong face going out on the news.”
He ran his hand along his beard. “But…”
“Please,” Irene said. “Let me make things right. I’ll stay and…”
He shook his head and the weariness of a long day dulled his eyes. “No. You go on home. Finish it tomorrow.”
She took the sketch from his hand and exhaled in relief.
“It can run on the noon news,” he said.
Her heart skipped a beat. Fourteen hours. Fourteen hours to make things right.
She placed the John Doe sketch on her drawing board, and made a show out of smoothing the paper with her hand.
Once Sergeant Underwood disappeared into his office, she grabbed the sketch of her father, folded it in half and shoved it into her purse.
Her legs shook as she faked a casual air and sauntered out the door. Once in her car, the impact of the last hour washed over her, and she had to gasp for air. Oh, Daddy, she thought, What is going on?
She drove to her parent’s home and just the sight of the red-brick ranch with the gray awnings soothed her. She parked in the driveway and walked onto the patio. Her mother was there, scraping the grill clean.
“I didn’t think you were coming,” her mother said. “Everybody’s left already. I just got done putting all the food away.”
Irene wanted to rush to her mother and squeeze her tight. Instead, she stood still. “That’s okay. I’m not hungry.”
“You sure? I could heat you a plate in the microwave. And we had S’mores, too.” Her mom scraped at the grill slats. “Damn marshmallows are stuck all over.”
Irene managed a smile. “Isn’t that usually Dad’s job?”
Her mother nodded. “Yeah, but he’s not feeling so good.”
“What’s wrong?”
Her mother’s lips pursed in concern. “I don’t know. He’s been looking green around the gills for a couple days. Tell you the truth, I’m a little worried about him.”
Blood rushed to Irene’s head. “Why? What do you think’s wrong?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Yesterday it was his back he was whining about. Today it’s his neck. Tomorrow it’s liable to be his eye sockets. Probably all in his imagination. I’m telling you, he’s gone mental on me.” She laughed.
“Oh, no,” Irene cried.
“Jeeze, Irene, I was kidding.”
Irene shook her head. “Don’t joke about things like that.”
Her mother’s expression turned serious and she touched Irene’s cheek. “What’s wrong, baby? You look like you’re ready to cry.”
Irene swallowed. “Nothing. It’s been a long day. That’s all. Think I’ll just go in and tell Dad ‘hi’ and head home.”
“You can try, but I think he’s in bed already.”
“Really?” Irene looked in the sliding glass door. She was desperate to see him. “I’ll just run in and check.”
“Suit yourself,” her mother said. “Since you’re going in, could you take those serving spoons and put them in the dishwasher?”
All was quiet in the house. She walked down the hall to the bedrooms, and as she neared her old bedroom, she heard the murmur of the television on in her parent’s bedroom. Light shined through the crack of the door. She tapped on it. “Dad, you up?”
When no response came, she pushed on the door. He was fast asleep, the remote control still in his hand. His curls were squashed against the pillow. Like her own, she knew his curls would form an unruly nest come morning. Irene relaxed and smiled at her own foolishness. This was her dad--the man who had raised her. The man who bought her ice cream cones on Sundays, taught her to drive on the winding bends of a cemetery, and would walk her down the aisle on her wedding. He was no arsonist.
Rupert Lafferty had seen a man who resembled her father, and had jumped to conclusion when he saw the sketch. Tomorrow she would hand Sergeant Underwood the
Soothed by the reasonable explanation, Irene readied to leave. Tomorrow she would hand Sergeant Underwood the correct sketch.
She walked to the television to turn it off and was startled to see the sketch of John Doe flash across the screen.
Damnit. Underwood hadn’t waited as he said he would. He’d grabbed the sketch off her drawing table and had sent it to the media. Now they were going to look for the wrong man. Shit.
“Irene. When’d you get here?” Her father said sleepily from behind her.
She turned to him with a smile. “Dad.” Her mouth dropped open. “Oh my god, what happened to your face?”
He touched the marks under his eyes. “Oh, it’s nothing. Caught some wood chips.”
Irene’s hand flew to her mouth as she remembered Rupert’s words.
“I just said. Sparks burnt his face.”
“Where?”
“Right under his eyes. Like red tears.”
“It’s just some splinters, Irene. Nothing to be alarmed about.” He settled into the pillow and shut his eyes. “You mind snapping the light off on your way out?”
She raced out of the bedroom. Her mother was in the kitchen loading more dishes into the dishwasher.
Irene heard her father moan from the bedroom. “The light!”
She hadn’t snapped it off.
“Irene?” her mother called out as Irene rushed past her.
Without a word, she ran out the door to her car.

***