weapon. Her brain has not yet been recovered. In both cases a body part or parts was missing. In both cases a symbol, a carving, was left behind.”
Paris points to the first two pictures. One is of the symbol carved into Willis Walker’s tongue. The second one is of the symbol carved into Fayette Martin’s back.
“Reuben says that the mark may have something to do with the religion of Santeria, or one of its darker offshoots. I’m following up on that now. He believes that the mark on Mr. Walker’s tongue was made post-mortem. The mark on Fayette Martin’s back was made before she died. But minutes before she died.”
“Who found Willis Walker?” Carla asks.
“Cleaning woman,” Paris says.
“And the two kids who found the woman?”
“Neighborhood kid and his girlfriend. The girl is the one who called it in. Greg got their statements.”
“What do you have on Martin’s family, friends?” Elliott asks.
“Both parents deceased,” Paris says. “She had a brother in Milwaukee. He’s flying in to claim the body. She worked at a place called The Flower Shoppe in Chesterland ever since high school. According to her brother there was no boyfriend. As far as I can tell, Fayette Martin and Willis Walker did not know each other.”
Paris meets the eyes of everyone in the room, sees no further questions. He sits down.
“Greg?” Elliott says.
Greg Ebersole remains seated. To Paris, he looks like a man on the verge of physical collapse. “Willis Walker was married and had-are you ready for this? — eleven children. Five different women. Two of them had the brief privilege of being called Mrs. Willis Walker. Three of Willis’s progeny are doing hard time, one of them in the Ohio pen. Willis was co-owner of Kinsman Products, a print shop specializing in calendars, letterheads, business cards. He also fronted a record label called Black Alley Records. But mostly Willis Walker was in the business of getting away with petty crime. Twelve arrests, two convictions, both misdemeanors. Never spent more than forty-eight hours behind bars. No connection yet to anyone into voodoo or anything like that. Willis wheeled and dealed, so the possibility that he owed, or was owed, a large sum of money is extremely likely.”
Greg flips his notebook shut.
Elliott says: “Obviously, the last thing we want here is the FBI, people. Let’s try and clear these. Also, let’s look into the gangs, especially the Latino gangs, see if we can match this to some kind of initiation rites. Let’s check the index of gang tattoos, see if this mark means anything. Carla?”
Carla Davis sits up straight, crosses her legs. Today she is wearing a red wool skirt, cut just above the knee and a white silk blouse. All three men do their very best to look her straight in the eye. “Sex Crimes will look into the tattoo freaks, as well as the guys who like it in public. If Fayette Martin was having sex in that doorway, right before she was murdered, maybe this guy has done this before, and this time it got out of hand. Also, anybody who’s shown a propensity for recreational carving.”
“That happen a lot?” Paris asks.
“You’d be surprised,” Carla says.
“Doubt it.”
“Had a guy, few years ago,” Carla continues. “Creepy crawler. He used to prowl Tremont in summer, looking in windows, watching girls undress. His thing was sneaking in after the girls had gone to sleep, chloroforming them, then carving a series of numbers on their foreheads with a hat pin.”
Paris and Ebersole exchange a glance. “And that’s how he got off?” Greg asks.
“Well, he used to masturbate while he carved. Never raped any of them. Did it five times.”
“Please tell me he’s in Mansfield now,” Paris says.
“Oh yeah,” Carla says, standing, collecting her papers. “And are you ready for what the numbers meant?”
“What?”
“It was his locker combination,” Carla says. “His damn high school locker combination.”
“Jesus,” Greg says.
“The worst part is that he’ll be out in eighteen months and there are five women walking around Cleveland with this asshole’s locker combination written across their foreheads in scar tissue.”
No one in the room feels it would be appropriate to laugh, considering the serious nature of the crime. They are professionals and they take the violation of a citizen under their watch very seriously. Laughing would be unprofessional.
So, instead, they grab their papers and coffee and cigarettes and head for the door as fast as they can.
“Are you Detective Paris by any chance?”
They are in the Justice Center lobby. It is noontime, crowded. Paris turns to see a young man of his height, nice looking. A Nikon hangs around his neck.
“By every chance. You are?”
“Julian.”
Paris arches an eyebrow, waits for more.
The man continues. “I’m sorry. Mercedes Cruz is my sister.”
“Ah, yes, okay,” Paris says, extending his hand. “Jack Paris.”
“Julian Cruz,” he says, shaking hands.
Julian is clean-cut-khakis, suede hikers, leather flight jacket, tortoiseshell sunglasses, trimmed mustache-and perhaps a few years older than Mercedes.
“Nice to meet you,” Paris says.
“Same here. I called upstairs but they told me I just missed you.”
“Yeah. They have to let me out sometimes. Union thing.” Paris buttons his coat, smoothes his hair, anticipating having his picture taken with little notice. “How’d you know it was me, by the way?”
“Believe me, my sister described you to the last detail. She’s awfully good at detail.” He unsnaps the leather case around the Nikon and holds it up. “I’ll make this as quick and painless as I can.”
“Where do you want me?”
Julian gestures to the huge windows overlooking Ontario Street. “Light looks good there.”
They walk across the lobby. Julian positions Paris, steps away, focuses, says: “You know, I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but Mercedes is awfully taken with you.”
“Is that right?”
He snaps a picture. “Well, maybe taken is the wrong word. It’s just that this is the biggest assignment she’s ever had. She just is glad to be working with such a professional.”
“Well, it’s my pleasure.”
Snap. “I love her very much and I hope she sets the world afire. That’s all.”
“I have no doubt she will. I hope I can help,” Paris says.
“Don’t tell her I said anything, okay? I don’t know if you’ve gotten a taste of that temper yet. She’d kill me.”
“I understand.”
“A few more?”
“Sure.”
Julian snaps a third, fourth, and fifth picture, then caps the lens. “Thanks. All done. I’ll make sure you get copies.”
Paris lies: “I look forward to seeing them.” They are near the door to the parking garage. Paris points to the garage. “Can I give you a lift anywhere? I’m heading east.”
Julian holds up an RTA pass. “West. Thanks anyway. Nice meeting you.”
“My pleasure.” Paris pushes open the door, wondering-about twenty seconds too late-if his cowlick had been sticking up on the top of his head, a tonsorial battle against gravity he has waged with his hair, on a daily basis, since he was eight years old.
The Flower Shoppe is a tan, rough-cedar-and-glass building on Caves Road in semirural Chesterland, conveniently located across the street from the LaPuma-Gennaro Funeral Home.
The sky has brightened but the day is still cold enough to make the snow crunch beneath Paris’s feet as he approaches the garland-and-ribbon-bedecked building. His breath describes small cirrus clouds of vapor before him. He opens the door and is immediately enveloped by the humid fragrances of pine and spruce and balsam.
