Amaia nodded, inviting him to continue.
“Last week my son’s teacher put another of those notes at the bottom of an exercise he’d written. I’d seen her comments before, and I’d noticed the way other teachers write. But that note really annoyed me. I took a closer look and saw she didn’t close off her s’s or her a’s, and in fact she inverted the curves on her m’s and n’s. I do the same thing. The thing is, if an adult writes like that, it’s acceptable, just a quirky little peculiarity, but a kid gets told off for sloppy handwriting. She wrote something like, ‘Liam needs to improve his penmanship, because it’s hard for me to understand.’ I wrote a reply: ‘Excuse me, teacher, but I can’t decipher your handwriting.’”
Amaia laughed aloud. “How did she take it?”
“Oh, really well, actually; she thought it was funny. That afternoon when Liam got home from school, I saw she’d written back: ‘Touché, but Liam still needs to improve his penmanship.’”
Smiling, Amaia studied the scrawl shown on the monitor. She turned back to Bull and fired a shot across his bow. “How did you and Agent Dupree get to know one another?”
The detective was taken aback for a second or two but quickly regained his composure. “You were there yesterday morning when they introduced Bill and me.”
She smiled and clicked her tongue, tilting her head to one side to signal her disappointment at his evasiveness.
A ping from the computer announced an incoming email. It was a message from Tucker with attached files. Amaia glanced at Bull, who took the opportunity to get to his feet.
“I’ll let you work.”
“You didn’t answer my question!” she said sharply to his retreating back.
When the image came up on the screen, she understood why Agent Tucker had said Nelson’s headshot might not be of much use.
Brad Nelson matched Martin Lenx in terms of height, complexion, age, and hair and eye color, but his face was terribly scarred. She zoomed in for a closer look, knowing already that her facial recognition program would be of no use. The scars were from burns, third and maybe even fourth degree, undoubtedly from a fire. Thick scars ran from his forehead to his chin. His nose and left cheek were disfigured. He must have had several skin grafts. Suture marks had altered his hairline. She could tell that the scars were old, for they were dead white. Brad Nelson had been burned many years earlier. He wore wire-rimmed glasses so light they were almost invisible, and he was smiling. His zygomatic muscle had been injured, so she wouldn’t be able to read from the lines around the eyes whether that smile was real. Scar tissue to the right of his mouth pulled it slightly downward and distorted his smile. But in this headshot, he looked relaxed and confident, a man who loved his job.
She opened the other attachments. Tucker and Emerson hadn’t found a Nelson family portrait. The children’s pictures were taken from school yearbooks, and the wife’s picture was probably from her driver’s license. Despite the mediocre quality of the image, it was obvious that Sarah Nelson was good looking. She was meticulously made up, and her carefully brushed hair had a gentle wave. She smiled directly into the camera. Anyone who was that particular about her appearance at the DMV would surely take good care of herself all the time. Except for her obvious interest in grooming and makeup, she was the polar opposite of Martin Lenx’s spouse.
The two boys, Dylan and Jackson, resembled their mother. They were both handsome, with dark hair and large eyes. The older boy was grinning, the younger one had an earnest expression. The girl, Isabella, looked nothing like the rest of the family. Her hair was a curly chestnut mop with reddish highlights. Amaia wondered if Isabella’s features came from her father or somewhere further back in the family line. She duplicated the picture of the girl, planning to compare her features with those in the Lenx family portrait, even though she knew the program wasn’t designed to detect inherited characteristics. Lenx’s sons had had the chestnut hair of their mother, and the Lenx girl had had a rich, curly red mane fit for an Irish princess.
She compared the two girls. Isabella’s curls were more obvious and untamed, and the color was quite different from the flamingo tint flaunted by Martin Lenx’s daughter. They were teenagers of different eras, with as many differences as similarities. This was getting Amaia nowhere.
She positioned the photo of Brad Nelson on the screen next to the portrait of Martin Lenx. Would Lenx have deliberately disfigured himself in order to escape arrest? She thought he might have. Martin Lenx’s high opinion of himself wasn’t based on his looks but his conviction of his innate superiority and strong moral values. He would have considered physical appearance superficial, no hinderance to his striving for moral perfection.
In Galveston at ten o’clock in the evening, a cheerful feminine voice answered the phone. “Reed residence!” Music and chatter filled the background.
“Good evening, ma’am. Sorry to bother you so late. This is Agent Dupree of the FBI. I was hoping to speak with Captain Reed.”
“Oh. Just a second, I’ll let him know,” she replied, sounding slightly put out by the intrusion.
For a time, Dupree could hear only music and the lively chatter of a social gathering, but then a man came on the line. “This is Captain Reed.”
“Captain, this is Agent Dupree of the FBI. Your headquarters gave me your private number. I hope I’m not bothering you—sounds like I’m interrupting a party—but it’s extremely important.”
“We’re celebrating my wife’s birthday. But never mind that, I know it’s important.” The background noise ceased abruptly, probably because Reed had closed a door. The captain’s voice was tense when he came back. “Someone from your team called our admin office this evening and wanted to compare some dates with Nelson’s leave requests. I don’t see what that could have to do with anything.”
Dupree gave Johnson a surprised glance. His deputy mouthed, “Tucker!” and threw up his hands in a gesture of disgust.
Dupree closed his eyes for a moment and exhaled sharply. “Captain, I have you on the speaker now, and I’ve got Agent Johnson and Assistant Inspector Salazar with me. We need to hear your thoughts on Detective Brad Nelson and the Andrews case.”
The captain sounded troubled when he spoke after a lengthy pause. “Shoot. What do you need?”
Dupree didn’t beat around the bush. “How long have you known Brad Nelson?”
“Twelve years.”
“What’s your opinion of his professional ability?”
“He’s a good officer, but I have an even better opinion of him as a man. Nelson is good-hearted and generous. It’s rare to have a career officer who hasn’t been beaten down and dehumanized by his work. He’s empathetic; he suffers along with the victims.”
“Can you explain what happened to his face?”
“Sure. It was a long time ago, before I met him. Maybe that’s where his empathy is rooted . . . The landlord of the old apartment block in Boston where he was living set fire to the building to collect the insurance money. Ten people died in the fire. Nelson doesn’t like to talk about it. A fireman pulled him out. Once he was released from the hospital and was pretty much back on his feet, he applied to join the fire department. He couldn’t meet the physical requirements because of his injuries. But the Boston police accepted him. He met his wife Sarah, they married, they had children, they moved to Galveston. That’s about all I can tell you, since as I said, he doesn’t like to talk about it.”