A VISITATION

On his arrival back at the house, Michael was stunned to find all the lights on. He walked hurriedly around on the footpath to discover police officers milling around inside his kitchen. There was hardly a nod of acknowledgment when he appeared in the doorway.

A greeting, melodious, and with a quaint English accent, cleared the bustle. “Good evening, sir!”

The puzzled resident turned to take in a thin, boney-faced police detective sitting at his kitchen table. A shock of black hair hung pendulously over the man's high forehead and intense grey eyes. Thick, bristly eyebrows arched with his next utterance. “Mr. Louden-West, I presume?”

The painter was too flabbergasted to respond.

“Sorry for the intrusion,” he continued, “but I assure you we do have a search warrant. My name, good sir, is Detective Harrod Pincher.” He rose from his chair, as to bow, and exhibited a flowing black cape over rather antique formalwear. He scrambled to apologize for it. “Please excuse my costume. My good wife and I were on our way to a Halloween party when I was called in on duty, as you see.”

There was still no reply.

“Do sit down, Mr. Louden-West. I do not want you to be unduly alarmed by all of this. Some evidence came to light that required us returning here to conduct a more thorough investigation.”

Michael found a few words as he slid awkwardly into a chair. “I don’t understand.”

The police detective pulled a bag from under his red-lined cape and placed it on the table; it contained a utility knife. He was glum about it. “We found this in the bramble along side your house. It was conspicuous, as if it were meant to be found. We suspect it’s yours.”

“It looks like the one I own, but…”

Pincher interrupted. “When my man, Officer Tawny, was up in your attic earlier today, he saw you possessed a toolbox, and that it contained some tools matching these colors. We came back to check it out and discovered the blades for this particular model of utility knife in your box but no utility knife. Unless, of course, you have your knife in another part of the house?”

“No.” Michael paused to remember using his knife on Brae’s Halloween costume, but could not recall where he laid it afterwards. He decided to stick with his original answer.

“Well,” the man explained, “our thinking is someone used it to cut the screen off the missing child’s bedroom window before tossing it along the walkway.”

The painter could scarcely react.

“There is something else, too.” The inspector flapped his cloak like bat wings before returning to his seat. “The same officer said he found blood on your stairs.”

Michael blurted, “I cut my foot last night when I got up. It must be from that.”

“You got up, then?” Pincher leaned forward. “You told my officer you heard a loud noise last night while you slept. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“So in addition to hearing something, you also got up? Left your bedroom?”

“Yes.” Michael realized the evidence made him volunteer information he had unwittingly withheld. He added more in his defense. “I was sleepwalking, though. Broken glass was outside my bedroom door from a fallen painting. I must have stepped on it.”

The inspector creaked in his chair. “And is the glass in the trash bin by the kitchen door from your hallway?”

“Yes.”

The detective backtracked. “The loud sound you heard… Can you describe it?”

“Like I said this morning—I mean, afternoon—when the police officers woke me, I think it was the picture falling from the wall.”

“Are you in the habit of sleeping until noon?”

Michael thought the question personal, but answered it anyway. “I have insomnia, sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” The detective highlighted the equivocation. “Did you in fact have insomnia last night?”

“No.” The hedge made his reply awkward. “I just got to bed late. That’s all.”

Pincher showed due concern. “You have more than your fair share of sleep maladies, Mr. Louden-West. I hope you are under a doctor’s supervision for your sleeplessness. If not, several over-the-counter products are available that will help you with the problem.”

The resident managed a polite but nervous nod.

The detective returned to the prior topic. “The falling painting, then. To the best of your recollection, were you on your feet or in bed when it awoke you?”

Michael was nonplus. “In bed.”

“You were not sleepwalking at the time? Did not inadvertently knock it off the wall?”

“No. A draft on the stairs probably blew it off.”

“So one can presume you were sleepwalking after it fell?”

“I think so.”

“You think so?”

Michael realized his lifelong habit of expressing himself with noncommittal language was only adding fuel to the flame. He tried to explain. “When I sleepwalk, it’s al lot like being awake. Dreaming on my feet.”

“With some events real and others less so?”

“Yes.”

“None of which you can attest to, either way?”

“Yes.”

“Such as whether you were on your feet or in your bed when the painting fell?”

The painter was being lured into a blind alley. “Well, I didn’t dream of bumping into the painting.”

“But you do recall stepping into glass with certainty?”

“I must have, though. To get a cut on my foot. To leave blood on the stairs.”

The detective rose slowly and pulled at the corner of his cape before launching into another line of questioning. “I see you are a painter, sir. And a talented one at that.”

“Well, they’re not to everyone’s taste.”

“Oh, I can imagine. They are a little scary.” The man let slip a muffled laugh before glancing around the room in a fidgety way. “I saw some soda in your refrigerator earlier. Would you mind if I had one? I’m a bit hypoglycemic, you see. Sometimes I feel like I am going to faint.”

"Of course." (Michael felt like he was in an episode of Colombo.)

“Thank you, most kindly.” Harrod Pincher looked at the drawing on the refrigerator door after retrieving the beverage. “Was this drawn by the caretaker’s child?”

The resident only half-heard the question.

The inspector pulled the tab on the canned drink. “I think it shows promise. But you would be the expert on that, I believe.”

Again, no reply.

“What would you say it is, Mr. Louden-West? The thing in the drawing?”

“An angel, she said.”

“Indeed.” The detective sat his drink on the counter without sipping it, returning to his seat at the table. “I would gather from the drawing the young child has kept your company. Would I be correct in this?”

“She appears to have the run of the place.”

Inspector Pincher stared up at one of his officer. The man placed another plastic bag on the table. On first pass it appeared to contain nothing, but on closer examination a single wound strand of dark hair was discerned. The detective’s expression was again flat. “This was also found by my officer earlier today on your bedspread. Forensics tells us it is a match to the missing girl.”

Michael was thrown. “Her father has a set of keys. Brae probably plays here while he’s working.”

“Of course.” The detective drew in breath to chase away any ease his response may have engendered. “There are remnants of a bed sheet in the trashcan where the broken glass was discarded. May I ask where the remainder of the sheet is?”

The painter was honest. “I made a Halloween costume.”

“For the child?”

“Yes. It had to be trimmed down to fit her.”

“The tears are rather ragged,” he observed. “Did you use scissors?”

“No.”

“A knife, then?”

“Yes.” Michael left it at that.

The inspector did not press it. “We have taken the liberty of removing the shreds from the trash receptacle. I hope you do not mind?”

“Of course not.”

Harrod Pincher’s words made another disarming lap around the table. “You can understand my concern here, Mr. Louden-West. I’m sure you want to cooperate in everyway to help us in our investigation.”

“That goes without saying.”

There was a ponderous moment before the detective spoke again. “In looking over the pieces of the thrown-away bedding, we found a small trace of blood on one. In light of your story about cutting your foot the broken glass in the same trash bin may have conceivably contaminated the fabric. This being the case, would you do us the courtesy of giving us a sample of your blood? In keeping with this spirit of cooperation?”

“Of course.”

“And a set of your fingerprints, too?”

Michael sank. “Am I a suspect?”

Harrod Pincher’s eyes widened. “Have you allowed anyone else to use your knife, sir?”

“No.”

“Then, you see, the point of gaining a set of your fingerprints is not to connect you to the knife, but to rule you out if we find prints on it in addition to yours. For that matter, the knife may not even be yours. This model can be readily purchased at any hardware store. If your prints are not on the handle, then—again—you have only to gain from it.”

The stated reason for the prints was not wholly convincing.

Pincher expanded on his reassurance. “The same goes for the blood sample. If it is a match to what we find on the sheet, then that too bolsters your account of things. I am as anxious as you are, Mr. Louden-West, in eliminating you as a candidate in this unfortunate business.”

“Then I am a suspect.”

The detective sighed at the man’s confounded state, but seized on his resignation as approval for the request. He glanced up at the attending officer and made a curt gesture with an eyebrow.

The policeman moved in with an inkpad and some heavy paper to take Michael’s fingerprints.