Dark Portrait, page 1
part #4 of Nicole Tang Noonan Mystery Series
Dark Portrait
Nicole Tang Noonan Mystery #4
By Rick Homan
WWW.RickHoman.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First published 2019
Copyright 2019 by Rick Homan
www.RickHoman.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, establishments, events, or locales is purely incidental.
Acknowledgements
I am grateful to my Sisters in Crime (and brothers); my fellow writers and the librarians at the Mechanics’ Institute Library in San Francisco; and most of all to my wife, Ann.
Chapter 1
Out on the trails in the Presidio, a long walk will usually soothe my soul, but it didn’t on that Thursday morning. The winding paths, the smells of the forest, the relief from city noise—all the delights that come with a visit to San Francisco’s national park were not enough to stop my mind from working overtime.
I’d been walking in this section of the park a lot as fire season turned to rainy season in northern California, a few weeks before Thanksgiving. I had enjoyed my research leave up to that point, but each passing day brought me closer to returning to the campus in Ohio where I’d taught for four years. When that time came, I would have some hard decisions to make.
As I rounded a bend, I saw someone lying along a path connected to the trail. He wore a floppy canvas hat, a hiking vest over a denim shirt, loose gray pants, and hiking boots. His backpack and walking stick lay next to him. Since this was an unlikely place to lie down and rest—there was no view in any direction —I wondered if he was injured. “Hello?” I called. “Are you alright?”
I heard footsteps on gravel about forty yards away, down a hill and across an opening in the forest. I looked that way just in time to see a man disappear into some trees. He was going in the direction I had come from.
After walking a few steps down the path, I leaned to one side and looked at the man on the ground. His eyes were open, but they weren’t focused on anything. His skin was gray.
I skipped backward a half-dozen steps without taking my eyes off him. I don’t know why I did that. He certainly wasn’t going to do anything to me. Maybe I was trying to rewind to the moment before I had seen him. Maybe I wanted to go back to the trail I had left, continue on my walk, and enjoy a day that did not include finding a dead body.
I slipped off my backpack, took out my phone, and called 9-1-1. “Hello. My name is Nicole Tang Noonan,” I said when the dispatcher answered. “I’m hiking in the Presidio, and I’ve just found someone lying along a path. I think he’s dead.”
The 9-1-1 operator confirmed my phone number and said, “I’m putting this through to the Park Police. They should call you right back.”
The Presidio is 1500 acres of federal land surrounded by the city of San Francisco, San Francisco Bay, and the Pacific Ocean. It is patrolled by the U. S. Park Police. I’d seen their patrol cars, but it had never occurred to me to put their number into my phone.
I knelt on the path a little way from the dead man and took a closer look at him. It was difficult to guess his age since the muscles of his face had gone slack when the life went out of him. I felt a little queasy.
I got a sketchbook and pencil from my backpack and started drawing him. It wasn’t so much that I wanted a picture to remember him by. For that, I could have used my phone. It was more that tracing the counters of his body with my pencil helped me understand him, and that calmed my racing heart.
Drawing has always been my way of thinking about things. Drawing a person lets me know him in ways I can’t just by looking at him. It’s like having a conversation with someone instead of reading her resume.
By the time I had a general outline, I had noticed his right knee was bent at a much sharper angle than his left, and that he’d fallen with his body on top of his left arm, while his right arm was thrown forward across the path.
His backpack was partly unzipped, and a photocopy was partly visible inside it. It was a portrait drawn in pencil on paper that had aged to a tan color. Since I was looking at it edgewise, I couldn’t make out more than that.
Without looking up, I knew we were being watched. I didn’t want to move, so I shifted my eyes to the side, looking downhill along the path. I could barely make out a brown shape, as if someone were crouching low to the ground, several yards away.
As slowly as possible, I rotated my head in that direction until I brought the shape into focus. It was a coyote standing across the middle of the path with its head turned to look at me.
I exhaled and relaxed. Coyotes usually don’t bother people. This one, I guessed, had been drawn by the scent of the corpse and had come to feed on it. That queasy feeling returned.
I stood up, and the coyote disappeared into the brush without a sound. I waited and watched to see if it would appear again anywhere around me. No doubt it was using its superior senses to keep track of me.
I knelt again and looked at the man’s hands and face. There were no scratches or bite marks. The coyote hadn’t gotten to him yet.
I leaned toward him to get a closer look and saw a purple wound near his right temple.
My phone rang.
“U. S. Park Police. Is this Nicole Tang Noonan?”
“Yes.”
“Did you call 9-1-1?”
“Yes.”
“Are you still at the location where you found a man lying on the ground?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you exactly?”
“I’m on the Bay Ridge Trail, just a little west of the Park Trail. The body is lying along a little path that’s not marked.”
“What do you see when you look around?”
“I can’t see much. I’m in the trees.”
“Are you near Rob Hill Campground?”
“I don’t think so. I haven’t seen signs for it.”
“We have an officer on the way. She should be there in a few minutes. We’d like you to stay there. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Can you stay on the phone with me in case we need more information?”
“Sure.”
“Stay alert. The officers will be trying to get your attention.”
“I will.”
“How long have you been out walking?”
“At least an hour. Probably closer to an hour and a half.” I didn’t explain that the purpose of my walk was to disconnect from things like, “What time is it?” and “When do I have to be there?”
“Are you feeling okay? Do you have plenty of water with you?”
“Yes. I feel fine. I walk in the Southern Wilds two or three times a week. I know how to take care of myself.”
“Good. Let me get some information.”
By the time I’d given my address, phone number and so on, I heard a woman’s voice from further along the trail. “Park Police. Hello. This is the Park Police.”
“Down here,” I yelled.
“Has an officer arrived?” asked the dispatcher.
I assured her one had, and we hung up.
I looked up the trail and saw a woman on horseback. “Did you call for assistance?” she asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
She dismounted, tied the reins to a branch, and walked toward me. Except for the helmet and knee-high boots, she wore the dark-blue uniform typical of the Park Police.
I stood up as she approached. Almost everyone is taller than me, but this woman was that and then some.
“I’m Officer Wanda Ruiz.”
“Nicole Noonan.”
She walked past me and bent to look at the man lying along the path. I waited while she plucked a radio off her hip and spoke into it. I couldn’t understand everything she said because she was facing away, but I’m sure I heard, “confirming,” “EMS,” and “investigative officers.”
Ruiz noticed my sketchbook on the ground next to my backpack and studied my drawing for a second before asking, “Are these yours?” When I nodded, she said, “Pick them up and come with me.”
We walked back toward her horse, still within sight of the body, and Ruiz used her radio to request back-up and give instructions for closing part of the Bay Ridge Trail.
I looked at the horse she’d arrived on, admiring its glossy brown coat and black mane. I don’t know much about horses, though I’d seen people riding in Golden Gate Park since I was a girl. Standing this close to one, I sensed the power in its massive body.
As if aware of my attention, the horse swung its neck in my direction and cocked its head towards me. Apparently satisfied with what it saw, it twitched an ear and went back to surveying the woods around us.
When she was done talking into her radio, Ruiz said, “Okay, Ms. Noonan, it’s going to get busy here. The investigative officers will want to talk with you, but it may be a while. Do you have water with you? Maybe an energy bar?”
“I’m okay,” I said, showing my backpack. “There’s someone else they should talk to. When I found the body, I heard footsteps on the trail over there.” I pointed across the opening in the forest. “There was a man walking back that way. I saw him for just a few seconds.”
Ruiz nodded. “Be sure to mention that to the investigative offi
“By the way, when I was sitting here, waiting for you, I saw a coyote a little way down the path.”
“There are two breeding pairs in the park.”
“I think it came out of the bushes over there. Should we watch out for them?”
“We’re a few months past pupping season,” said Ruiz. “The young ones can move around the park, so the parents won’t be protecting their dens anymore. The one you saw is probably long gone, along with any others.”
Her radio squawked. She took it off her belt and held it in front of her. I couldn’t understand the voice on the other end, but after a moment she looked up the trail and said, “Copy.” I looked in the same direction and saw two men in uniform coming toward us. One carried a large shoulder bag that, I assumed, contained medical supplies. The other had a stretcher. The patches on their shoulders indicated they were from Emergency Medical Services of the San Francisco Fire Department.
Ruiz directed them down the path, and they set to work.
“Why did you call an ambulance?” I asked her. “The guy’s dead.”
She shook her head. “That’s not my call.”
“He’s lying there with his eyes open. He has a bullet hole in his head.”
“Are you sure there is no possible brain injury that paralyzes a person and leaves their eyes open?”
She had me there.
Another Park Police officer came walking from the same direction with a toolbox in his hand. Ruiz walked over to talk to him. He nodded and pointed back in the direction he had come from. Ruiz replied, and he walked past me and headed further out on the Bay Ridge Trail.
After a few minutes it was obvious the medics would make no effort to revive the man. Ruiz conferred with them, and spoke into her radio again. The two ambulance men picked up their gear and went back the way they had come.
Almost as soon as they had rounded the bend in the trail, another man appeared. He wore khakis and a windbreaker over a shirt and tie. Ruiz spoke with him and nodded in my direction. As he approached me, he said, “Good morning. I’m Detective Pete Dunham of the U. S. Park Police. Did you call this in?”
Chapter 2
I told Detective Dunham I reported finding the body.
He wrote my name and phone number in his notebook, and asked, “Are you visiting San Francisco?”
“In a way I am. I grew up here, but I teach at a university in Ohio now. I’m on research leave this semester, and I’m spending it here.”
“Where are you staying?”
“With my parents in the Inner Sunset.” I gave him the address.
“Why were you on this section of trail this morning?”
“I was getting some exercise. I’ve been walking the trails a couple times a week recently. I hadn’t been this far out on the Bay Ridge Trail before, so I decided to give it a try.”
“How did you happen to find the body?”
“I was walking by, having a look at what all grows out here. I looked over that way, and at first, I thought he might have been injured or passed out. I called out to him, and, when he didn’t answer, I got closer. He looked dead, so I called 9-1-1.”
“Then what did you do?”
“Waited, like the dispatcher told me to.”
“Do you know the deceased?”
“No.”
Dunham made a note before asking, “Did you do anything while you were waiting?”
“No.”
He took a moment to read from his notebook. “Officer Ruiz says that, when she arrived, your backpack was on the ground near the body, and with it was a pad of paper with what looked like a drawing of the body. Do you know anything about that?”
“Oh. That’s right. I forgot.” I slipped off my backpack and unzipped it. “While waiting for the officer to arrive, I made this drawing. Here, you can see it.” I flipped the sketchpad open the correct page.
He glanced at it. “Are you an artist?”
“Art historian.”
“Is there any particular reason you wanted a drawing of the deceased?”
“No. It’s just something I do. I took lessons when I was a girl. When I go to museums and galleries, I sometimes make sketches as a way of taking notes on what I see.”
“You make drawings of works of art?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you make a drawing of the deceased?”
“It was a way of occupying my mind. I’m not used to being around dead bodies.”
“Did you take any photographs of the deceased?”
“No.”
While Dunham jotted in his notebook, I said “Detective, I think I should mention a few things I noticed while I was waiting.”
“Go ahead.”
“While I was sketching, I saw a coyote further down that path.” I pointed. “I wondered if it wanted to feed on the body, or if it already had, so I checked the hands, the neck, and the face but didn’t see any bites or scratches. That’s when I noticed the wound in his head, on the right side, near the temple. It looks like a bullet hole. Anyway, he must not have been dead very long because I got here by before the coyotes found him. Does that make sense?”
“Did you touch the body or move it? Did you handle any of the clothing or the objects near it?”
“No. I just looked at it.”
“Did you pick up anything from the ground or anywhere near the body?”
“Of course not. I know better than that.”
Dunham looked at me with a bored expression. “Do you watch a lot of television?”
“No. I’ve been involved in other murder investigations. The first one was when a student of mine was murdered. I was able to find out some things that helped the sheriff solve the case. The same thing happened when a visitor to the gallery on my campus was killed. And there was another time.”
“So, you have frequently involved yourself in murder investigations?”
“I wouldn’t say that. I happened to know people involved and told law enforcement what I knew. That’s every citizen’s duty.”
“Why have you decided to involve yourself in this investigation?”
“I didn’t decide to. I told you: I was walking by; I thought I should call 9-1-1.”
“How long will you be in San Francisco?”
“Until after Christmas.” I shuddered at the thought of returning to winter in Ohio.
“I’ll probably want to speak with you again. Is this phone number the best way to reach you?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you,” he said, and started to walk away.
“Excuse me,” I called after him. “Do you know who he is?”
“We have identification technicians on the way.”
“Couldn’t someone look in his pockets or his backpack to see if there’s a wallet or something that could identify him?”
“That’s not how we do it.”
“I’d like to follow up.”
“I’ll be in touch if I have any more questions.”
“Where will they take him?”
“Medical Examiner. Thank you, Ms. Noonan. We won’t need you here any further.”
His tone made it clear he wanted me to leave. I backtracked on the Bay Area Ridge Trail, skipped the Park Trail I had used to come up the hill, and headed for Inspiration Point.
My conversation with Detective Dunham did not go well. He seemed suspicious about why I made that drawing, and he got even more suspicious when I mentioned the coyote and what that might mean about the time of death. Of course, I didn’t help matters by mentioning I had been involved in other murder investigations.
I supposed I couldn’t blame him. He was a professional and might have thought I was trying to do his job for him, though I wasn’t. I had similar troubles back in Ohio with Sheriff Mason Adams the first few times we spoke, but eventually we came to understand each other.
I stopped at Spire, a monumental sculpture by Andy Goldsworthy, one of four by him in the park. This ninety-foot bundle of tree trunks never failed to amuse me. It seemed to embody our striving for something beyond this earthly life and our folly in seeking it through earthly accomplishment.
As I walked around it, I thought about how my walk this morning and my time for thinking had been disrupted. Instead of listening to what was going on inside me and planning my future, I had witnessed the end of someone’s life. That made me wonder, was it really so important to build a brilliant career for myself? In the long run, what difference would it make? Yet I wasn’t depressed. I felt surprisingly satisfied with my life.
