“Look,” I said. “We still have potentially valuable information. The vic underwent treatment, was probably admitted as an in-patient somewhere. The cops or one of your investigators can check hospital records for distal tibia surgical implants.”
Perry stopped. “Time frame?”
“What we’re seeing is merely a scar, the result of bony remodeling at the pin site. The injury wasn’t recent. I’d start at least five years back, work farther into the past from there. A more effective shortcut, if you get lucky, would be to run the names from your MP list through local hospitals for matches, or to contact family members for histories of leg fractures.”
Perry gave a tight nod.
“You get any new leads on the first vic?” I asked.
“No, but we got some new MPs. Last January a college kid washed overboard from one of those Tall Ship things. We’re checking that out. A soap salesman disappeared from a Waikiki Beach hotel last summer. Left all his belongings in the room. Could be a suicide, a drowning, a cut-and-run.”
“How old?”
“Thirty-two.”
“I shook my head. “Not likely.”
Perry waggled frustrated hands. “It’s hard to keep the cops interested with thousands of tourists flowing through the islands each year. The medical angle might goose their effort. Or I could just pray for a benevolent god to save us the trouble with a DNA hit.”
Collecting a scalpel from the counter, Perry oriented the leg so that the flesh covering the outer ankle was positioned faceup. We all watched her blade kiss muscle.
Stop abruptly.
Laying the implement aside, Perry shot out a hand.
“Gimme the lens.”
Gearhart offered the magnifier. Perry grabbed it.
A few seconds of observation, then Perry strode to the sink and wet a sponge. Returning to the cart, she gently swabbed the tissue, wiping off any remaining epidermis.
“We may have us a tat.”
Gearhart and I exchanged glances.
A tattoo, I mouthed.
Gearhart’s mouth formed an O.
A bit more cleaning, then Perry gestured us forward with a back-flung arm.
We advanced as one, students gathering around Mr. Wizard.
Perry was magnifying a discoloration barely visible in the glob of flesh I’d retracted from the malleolus. I’d noticed the little blotch earlier, but, distracted by the realization that we had a second victim, I’d ignored it.
“I’ll be damned,” Ryan said
Perry shot photos of the tattoo, then, with intersecting cuts of her scalpel, excised it. Using both palms, she spread and flattened the flap of skin on the stainless steel.
“Get the lights.”
Ryan hit the wall switch.
The room went black.
I heard a drawer open, close. A click.
A blue beam hit the flap of flesh.
Under UV lighting, the tattoo sharpened. I could make out black and red swirls within a half-sickle form. A filigreed strip extended outward from the sickle’s two sides.
“That’s a traditional shark tooth pattern.” Gearhart’s voice came from somewhere to my left.
“You sure?” Perry asked. “We haven’t got much here.”
“Absolutely. I collect shark images. Paintings. Prints. Tattoos. I’ve seen dozens of variations on this theme.”
Perry made a grunting noise in her throat.
“Must be part of a
Gearhart indicated two backward C’s with a U between them sticking up from the filigreed strip.
A full minute passed, then the lights came on.
Without asking if we’d seen enough, Perry peeled the specimen free and dropped it into a jar of formalin. The tissue looked ghostly pale floating in the clear liquid.
“There we have it, sports fans.” Perry was marking the case number on the jar lid with a Sharpie. “Looks like Senor Shark ate a tattooee with a gimpy left leg.”
