Mr. Murder

attached bath, walk-in closet… a guest bedroom… kids' room… another bath…
        The final bedroom at the end of the hall-which puts him at the front of the house-is used as an office. It contains a big desk and computer system, but it's more cozy than businesslike. A plump sofa stands under the shuttered windows, a stained-glass lamp on the desk.
        One of the two longest walls is covered with paintings hung in a double row, frames almost touching. Although the pieces of the collection are obviously by more than one artist, the subject matter, without exception, is dark and violent, rendered with unimpeachable skill, twisted shadows, disembodied eyes wide with terror, a Ouija board on which stands a blood-spotted trivet, ink-black palm trees silhouetted against an ominous sunset, a face distorted by a funhouse mirror, the gleaming steel blades of sharp knives and scissors, a mean street where menacing figures lurk just beyond the sour-yellow glow of street lamps, leafless trees with coly limbs, a hot-eyed raven perched upon a bleached skull, pistols, revolvers, shotguns, an ice pick, meat cleaver, hatchet, a queerly stained hammer lying obscenely on a silk negligee and lace-trimmed bedsheet…
        He likes this artwork.
        It speaks to him.
        This is life as he knows it.
        Turning from the gallery wall, he clicks on the stained-glass lamp and marvels at its multi-hued luminous beauty.
        In the clear sheet of glass that protects the top of the desk, the mirror-image circles and ovals and teardrops of color are still lovely but darker than when viewed directly. In some indefinable way, they are also foreboding.
        Leaning forward, he sees the twin ovals of his eyes staring back at him from the polished glass. Glimmering with their own tiny reflections of the mosaic lamplight, they seem to be not eyes, in fact, but the luminous sensors of a machine or, if eyes, then the fevered eyes of something soulless-and he quickly looks away from them before too much self-examination leads him to fearful thoughts and intolerable conclusions.
        "I need to be someone," he says nervously.
        His gaze falls upon a photograph in a silver frame, which also stands on the desk. A woman and two little girls. A pretty trio.
        Smiling.
        He picks up the photograph to study it more closely. He presses one fingertip against the woman's face and wishes he could touch her for real, feel her warm and pliant skin. He slides his finger across the glass, first touching the blond-haired child, and then the dark-haired pixie.
        After a minute or two, when he moves away from the desk, he carries the photograph with him. The three faces in the portrait are so appealing that he needs to be able to look at them again whenever the desire arises.
        As he investigates the titles on the spines of the volumes in the bookcases, he makes a discovery that gives him an understanding, however incomplete, of why he was drawn from the gray autumnal plains of the Midwest to the post-Thanksgiving sun of California.
        On a few of the shelves, the books-mystery novels-are by the same author, Martin Stillwater. The surname is the one he saw on the mailbox outside.
        He puts aside the silver-framed portrait and withdraws a few of these novels from the shelves, surprised to see that some of the dustjacket illustrations are familiar because the original paintings are hanging on the gallery wall that so fascinated him. Each title appears in a variety of translations, French, German, Italian, Dutch, Swedish, Danish, Japanese, and several other languages.
        But nothing is as interesting as the author's photo on the back of each jacket. He studies them for a long time, tracing Stillwater's features with one finger.
        Intrigued, he peruses the copy on the jacket flaps. Then he reads the first page of a book, the first page of another, and another.
        He happens upon a dedication page in the front of one book and reads what is printed there, This opus is for my mother and father, Jim and Alice Stillwater, who taught me to be an honest man-and who can't be blamed if I am able to think like a criminal.
        His mother and father. He stares in astonishment at their names.
        He has no memory of them, cannot picture their faces or recall where they might live.
        He returns to the desk to consult the Rolodex. He discovers Jim and Alice Stillwater