“Either that,” Tony tacked on, “or it was a case of divine intervention.”
“I got the tattoo.”
At five o’clock, Mels looked up from the final version of her story on the prostitute. Eric was standing in front of her, a folder in his hand, a shit-eater on his face.
“From the Marriott victim who disappeared from the morgue?”
“The very one.”
“Lemme see?” she said, holding out her hand.
“It’s, ah…yeah.” He passed the pictures over. “Not my style. I’m more of a tribal guy.”
As she popped the top fold, Mels’s brows lifted. The photograph was in color, but that wasn’t necessary—at least not where the ink was concerned. The tattoo’s depiction of the Grim Reaper was done in black and white, and with eerie detail…to the point where even in the photograph, the glowing eyes under the ragged hood and the bony hand pointing out to the viewer seemed to call upon her specifically.
“Pretty gruesome, huh,” Eric remarked. “And nice cemetery, too, don’t you think.”
True enough on the background: The horrible figure was standing in a field of graves, the headstones stretching far into the landscape beyond, the decaying robes sweeping out and obscuring that which seemed to go on forever.
“What are these hash marks at the bottom?” she wondered.
“It’s got to be a count of something—and not loaves of bread, I’m willing to bet.”
“Could be gang related.”
“That’s what I was thinking, especially given that there was a body recently in the morgue with something similar on it—according to my source.”
“What does the CPD think?”
“I’m looking for the answer to that right now.”
Mels glanced up. “So you’ve done an Internet search on the image?”
“There are a thousand representations of the Grim Reaper on the Web—and some of them are in people’s skin. From what I could find, none look exactly like that, but all of them sort of look like that, if it makes any sense.”
“How did your source get these? I heard that everything was wiped cleaned from the intake file.”
St. Francis was in an uproar over the incident; it was as if the man had never been through their system at all.
Clean. Very clean.
“My buddy happens to be a tattoo buff. He took the pics on his own phone as the body came in.”
“Handy dandy,” she murmured as she returned the folder. “So, if we assume the ink is gang related—what the hell was the guy doing wearing a state-of-the-art bulletproof vest? And what about the disappear? Gangs aren’t that sophisticated, financed or dogged about their dead—breaking into a hospital to get a body back? And then pulling an IT scrub? Not going to happen. Mob’s the same.”
Eric chewed on that mangled Bic of his. “It’s got to be government of some sort. I mean, who else could pull it off?”
She thought of Matthias’s empty autoloader. “I hear the bullets were from a forty?”
“The gun that was used against the guy? Yeah—and the good news is that the police took the vest along with the clothes and boots into evidence so they’re still around.” Her colleague’s eyes narrowed. “So, are you going to tell me why you’re so interested now?”
“My dead girl got slit in the throat as well.” Although, really, what were the chances the two killings were related?
“Ah, so you’re collecting neck injuries.”
“Just being thorough.”
“And how’s your story coming on that prostitute? Anything new?”
“I’m working on some things.”
“Let me know if you need any help.”
“Back at you.”
As Eric walked off, she realized that the newsroom was largely vacant. And she was nearly out of time when it came to her deadline.
Rereading her article, she was dissatisfied. No new information other than the victim’s identity, and when she’d called the family, she’d gotten a rather shockingly uninterested no comment.
How could you not be upset at your daughter’s death?
Mels didn’t like sending her piece in as it was. The writing was fine, and spell-check had done its job, but the real story was with Monty and his photographs and she couldn’t put any of that in yet.
With a curse, she hit
Switching her screens, she reassessed the side-by-side of two images that she’d put together an hour before: they were both of similar markings carved into abdominal skin. One was from that Cecilia Barten girl who’d been found at the quarry on the outskirts of town just days before…and the other was what Monty contended had been on the prostitute’s belly.
The pattern of scratches looked like some kind of language: There were identical characters in both photographs, although they were not in the same sequence—which in her mind didn’t rule out in the slightest the Monty-as-Photoshopper theory. If anything, it was perfect, tying the death at the motel to that of the Barten girl without making the manipulation a one-for-one obvious.
In fact, the more she thought about it, the more she decided the tampering fit with Monty’s routine. If he was the “source” for a new serial killer, how much fun would that be for him….
Except she had to wonder. When no one else was killed like those girls, what was he going to do? And his job was at risk. He was already walking a line by giving info like he did. Raising the stakes by lying about it was just too foolish.
Maybe he was simply getting sloppy.
Then again, what about the hair color? The prostitute had colored hers right before she’d died, to a shade of blond that matched the Barten girl’s. That wasn’t something that had changed between photographs; that had actually occurred.
What if Monty was a copycat killer?
“How’s your car situation?” As Mels jumped, Tony halted in the process of packing up his stuff. “You okay over there?”
“Yeah, sorry. Just thinking.”
Her buddy slung his bag over his shoulder. “You need to borrow my vintage wheels again?”
Mels hesitated. “Oh, I couldn’t bother you with—”
“Not to worry. Just drive me home and she’s all yours as long as you bring me breakfast again tomorrow morning.” Holding up the keys, he swung them back and forth from their KISS logo tag. “I really don’t need the damn thing.”
“One more night,” she hedged.
“Two more sausage biscuits with coffee, you mean.”
The pair of them laughed as she shut down her computer. Getting up, she took the photographs Monty had given her, stuffed them into her bag, and linked an arm through Tony’s.
“You’re a prince among men, you know that?”
He smiled. “Yeah, I do. But it’s nice to hear it once in a while.”
“Listen, do we know anyone who’s good with photographs?”
“You looking for a portrait of yourself?”
“I’m talking about analyzing.”
“Ah.” He held the back door open for her. “As a matter of fact, I know just who you can talk to…and we probably can meet him on the way home.”
