Jason’s curiosity got the better of him. “How did Simpson come under suspicion in the first place? Wasn’t he a cop?”
“Ex-cop. Ex-state trooper. He was hunting buddies with Pink. His wife was a distant cousin to Pink.”
“Simpson’s wife was related to Pink?”
“A third cousin or something.”
“And how was it that Simpson was cleared of suspicion?”
“He had an alibi for all the murders.”
“All of them? That’s suspicious right there.”
Boxner nodded grimly. “Yep.”
“What was Simpson’s alibi?” Jason groaned as the realization struck him. “Are you kidding me? His wife alibied him?”
Boxner’s smile was dour. “The light goes on,” he said.
Chapter Eighteen
Dr. Jeremy Kyser lived in a renovated nineteenth century stone farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. The two-story structure sat in a green field surrounded by four acres of neatly trimmed grass. And only grass. Not a tree or a shrub or so much as a wild flower was in sight. A pristine black Porsche was parked in the drive behind the house.
“There’s a guy with bucks,” Boxner commented. “You have to be rich to be able to afford this much nothing.”
They got out of the cruiser and walked up to the front door. Boxner buzzed the doorbell and then thumped on the door.
Jason took a step back to examine the front of the house. The curtains were open, but there was not another sign of life. Not a sound came from inside the house. No dog, no TV, no radio.
“Maybe they’re out,” Boxner said.
“There’s a car parked out back.”
Boxner rapped on the door again. Jason was turning to go scope out the back of the house when the front door suddenly, soundlessly swung open.
“May I help you, Officer?” the man in the doorway inquired.
“Dr. Kyser?”
“Yes. That’s right.” Kyser looked from Boxner to Jason. He was tall—very tall—and rawboned. Despite the warmth of the day he wore jeans and a sweater, but maybe the sweater was due to an air conditioner working overtime. Frigid air wafted out of the house as though a secret door to Antarctica had just popped open.
“I’m Officer Boxner with Kingsfield PD. This is Special Agent West with the FBI. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“FBI?” Kyser stared at Jason.
Jason held up his ID, staring back. Kyser was not a handsome guy. If anything, he seemed to be rocking the mad-scientist look. His salt-and-pepper hair frizzed out around a long, gaunt face dominated by heavy-lidded eyes with dark circles.
“May we come in, Dr. Kyser?” Jason asked.
After a moment, Kyser stepped back. Boxner and Jason entered the house and, still not speaking, Kyser led them down a dark hallway to a large living room.
“Do you live here on your own, sir?” Jason asked.
“Yes. I live alone. I work from home.”
At first glance the room was ordinary enough. A long rectangle lined with walnut bookcases and crowded with antique furniture. The bookcases were crammed with old books. Red and orange objets d’art packed the tops of the shelves like an overstocked grocery store.
“Why would the FBI have questions for me?” Kyser asked. He frowned, cracked his knuckles.
Jason kept an eye on those large, bony hands. “We w—”
“Happy Halloween!” Boxner interrupted. He was staring up at the shelves, and following his astonished gaze, Jason realized the spherical autumn-colored objects filling every conceivable inch of flat space were carved jack-o’-lanterns. Not real ones. Wooden ones in all shapes and sizes.
Kyser said stiffly, “I’m not interested in Halloween. I’m interested in jack-o’-lanterns.”
That was putting it mildly. This was closer to compulsion than interest. Besides which…
These jack-o’-lanterns were not the typical smiling or scary Halloween fare. Their expressions were tortured, menacing, sinister, agonized—and all too lifelike. Jason liked to think he was capable of evaluating art without interpreting it through the subjective lens of his own background and biases, but the word that formed in his mind was…troubling.
He said, “You mean you’re interested in jack-o’-lanterns as an art form? Or their significance in folktales and mythology?”
Kyser’s black eyes refocused on Jason’s face. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“I’m Special Agent West. This is Officer Boxner with the Kingsfield Police Department. Dr. Kyser, we wanted to ask you about some netsuke-style carvings you did several years ago for the Ort & Rossington Primitive Art Gallery in New York.”
Kyser’s gaze seemed to sharpen. “You’re familiar with the art of netsuke?”
“I wouldn’t say familiar. I know maybe the rudiments.”
Kyser’s eyes finally moved from Jason’s. He glanced at the towering army of wooden jack-o’-lanterns. “I’ve moved on from miniature sculptures, as you can see.”
“Can you tell us about those early sculptures?” Jason asked. “The mermaids?”
“What is there to tell? I no longer work with the Ort & Rossington.”
Jason said, “You sold several of those miniature sculptures to the owner of a Worcester County gift shop as well. Can you tell us about your relationship with George Simpson?”
“Who?” Kyser looked confused.
“The owner of the gift shop.”
“No. I don’t know any Simpson. I sold those miniatures to several gift stores. Only one shop was in Worcester County, and that was owned by a woman. I forget her name. It wasn’t Simpson. I suppose I could look it up if it really matters.”
“That would be helpful.”
Kyser’s frown deepened. “That would be inconvenient.”
“But helpful,” Jason repeated.
“Very well.”
Boxner said, “You’re in contact with Martin Pink, aren’t you? You’re one of the only two people approved to phone him up in prison.”
Kyser cracked his knuckles again. “I was writing a book on Pink,” he said. “I’ve written several books on the topic of aberrant psychology and crime. I’ve interviewed any number of convicted killers in their place of incarceration—as I’m sure you’re aware, Officers.”
“You were writing a book?” Jason asked. “Does that mean the book is finished?”
“No. I decided Pink was not a suitable subject for my work. Can we get to the point of your visit? I’m very busy.” He started to pop his knuckles, caught Jason’s glance, and stopped himself.
Jason said, “Regarding those miniature carvings—”
Kyser burst out, “Agent West, I’m not a fool! It’s obvious that someone—presumably you—has finally made the connection between me and the carvings that Pink planted on the bodies of his victims. Ask me what it is you wish to know. I have nothing to hide.”
“You have nothing to hide?” Boxner said. “How about the fact that you never came forward to admit you were the one who carved those mermaids?”
“As far as I’m aware,” Kyser said, “no effort to find the creator of the mermaids was ever mounted. No such search was advertised in the press. And why would it be of interest or importance? I had nothing to do with those murders, was not aware that my work was used in such an obscene way by Pink until I interviewed him years later.”
“You could have come forward then,” Jason said. He was considering the use of the word creator. It struck him as off. Kennedy would probably have some theories on that.
“No. That would have solved nothing. I would have lost Pink’s trust, which I needed for my book. And it would have directed unwelcome publicity and attention my way. Only a fool or a madman would willingly put himself in that spotlight.”
Boxner said, “That wasn’t your call. You should have—”