“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 sweat-pants. “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.

I make eye contact with Payne. “We need to ask you a few questions.”

He ties the drawstring waist. “Ask away.”

Frowning, Tomasetti crosses to the stereo on the workbench and turns it off. Silence fills the studio. Payne glares at him. Tomasetti stares back, maintains his poker face.

“Where were you Monday night?” I ask.

“Here. Working.”

“Can anyone substantiate that?”

He smirks. “God.”

I tamp down a rise of annoyance. “Do you know any members of the Plank family?”

A slow smile creeps across his face. “No.”

“You think something’s funny?”

“I just figured out what this is about.”

“What’s that?”

“I guess I’m a suspect.” He shrugs. “Am I?”

“You committed a hate crime against an Amish man ten years ago.”

Another smile. “So that automatically makes me a suspect in a mass murder?”