“Terrific,” Tomasetti mutters.
I start down the sidewalk toward the house. The place had once been grand, but years of neglect have turned it into a big, ugly eyesore. The front yard is a collage of tall grass matted with orange and red leaves. From where I stand, I see a detached garage at the rear. I take the concrete steps to the wraparound front porch and cross to the door. I press the doorbell, then open the storm door and knock.
“Creepy fuckin’ place,” Glock comments.
“Creepy fuckin’ guy,” Tomasetti adds.
A minute passes, but no one answers. “You guys hit the neighbors,” I say. “I’m going to check the back.”
Tomasetti and Glock exchange looks.
“For God’s sake,” I snap, “I’m just going to check the garage to see if there’s a car inside.”
Nodding, Glock cuts across the yard to the neighboring house. Tomasetti gives me a look I can’t quite read, but heads in the opposite direction.
Leaves rustle at my feet as I cut through the grass toward the back of the house. I try to see in the window as I pass a small side porch, but the curtains are drawn. The place has the feel of a vacant house. No car parked out front. The leaves aren’t raked. Yard is a mess. The curtains are drawn. I walk through the neighbor’s yard along the privacy fence, which is too high for me to see over the top. Reaching the alley, I go left toward the garage.
The overhead door is closed, so I walk past it to the gate, push it open. The gate opens to the backyard. The first thing I notice is the knee-high grass and the cracked sidewalk that leads to the house. A broken clay pot lies on its side just off the porch. From where I stand, I can see a broken window that’s been repaired with duct tape and a garbage bag.
“James Payne?” My adrenaline zings as I start toward the door on the east side of the garage. “This is the police. I need to talk to you.”
The window is blacked out with some kind of paint. Someone went to extremes for privacy. That makes me nervous. From where I stand, I discern music coming from inside, a haunting tune from some nineties grunge band. I hit my mike. “There’s someone in the garage out back. Come on around.”
“On the way,” comes Glock’s voice.
Knowing Tomasetti and Glock are less than a minute away, I cross to the door and knock hard enough to hurt my knuckles. “Police! Open up!”
No one answers.
Annoyed, I try the knob. To my surprise, the door isn’t locked so I push it open. The music becomes deafening. I feel the bass rumble all the way to my stomach. I don’t know what to expect from Payne. But considering the violent nature of his past crime, I set my hand on my .38.
The smells of paint and burning candles assail me when I step inside. James Hackett Payne stands fifteen feet away with his back to me. It takes my shocked brain a second to realize he’s naked, mainly because nearly every inch of his well-muscled body is covered with intricate tattoos.
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 sweatpants. “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.