by Robin Cook
“Well, the tattoos should help identify her,” Laurie said. She handed the photos back to Jack. “What a fascinating case. I have to say, I’m jealous. Forensic pathology is so much more interesting than arguing with politicians and city employees about budgets and construction plans.” She gestured dismissively over to her desk and the blueprints.
“You can always put in your resignation as the chief,” Jack said. “As soon as they find someone else, you could come back and be one of us grunts.”
Laurie sighed. “I’ve accepted this challenge, and I am going to see it through,” she said. “I can’t give up now. What about your virologist friend: Any more word from her?” When Jack had returned from playing basketball the previous evening, he’d told Laurie that all the rapid screens for the usual viruses that caused respiratory illness had been negative, not once but twice.
“Yes! I spoke with her around nine o’clock,” Jack said. “She thinks she sees some early cytopathic changes in a human kidney cell culture that she inoculated yesterday. If it turns out to be true, then she believes some unknown pathogenic virus is involved. I’ll be talking with her later today to confirm.”
“Damn! That’s not good.” Laurie pressed her lips together and shook her head in dismay. “An unknown, rapidly lethal virus lurking on a New York City subway is a terrifying proposition.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Jack said, “which is why I still think we should alert the Commissioner of Health about what’s potentially brewing.”
“No!” Laurie said without hesitation. “I still feel the opposite. As I said yesterday, we are going to wait until we have a confirmed, verifiable diagnosis. In some respects, an unknown virus could cause more panic than a known one. What did your virologist friend suggest was the timeline for what she’s doing?”
“She didn’t say. She only commented that if a virus is present, then she’ll have to try to identify it.”
“Did she use the phrase ‘try to identify it’?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“Good grief! That’s not very reassuring. Did she give you an idea of how she might go about trying to identify it and maybe an idea of how long it would take?”
“She didn’t. I should have asked, but I didn’t think of it. I’m not thinking right these days.”
“It’s a tough time for all of us. Don’t be hard on yourself.” Laurie walked over and sat on the couch. She patted the cushion next to her as a way of inviting Jack to join her.
“I did learn something else about the case that is surprising,” Jack said as he came over and sat down. “John DeVries found no immunosuppressant drugs on a toxicological screen that he ran overnight. I confirmed with a nurse coordinator of the heart transplant team next door that that is totally unheard of, just like it is so strange that no one has seemingly missed this woman.”
“Well, I have full confidence that you and Bart Arnold will figure it all out,” Laurie said. “In the meantime, I wanted to tell you what I did this morning on the home front. I spoke with Caitlin about my mother.”
“That’s a start,” Jack said.
“You’re right that Caitlin is upset, and she’s finding dealing with my mother difficult,” Laurie said. “But you’re wrong about her threatening to leave.”
“She told me she was upset enough that she was thinking of leaving,” Jack snapped. “I didn’t make it up.”
“Well, I just spoke with her this morning,” Laurie said. “She admitted that my mother was hard for her to get along with, but she said she was dedicated to the children.”
“Then she’s telling you one thing and telling me something else entirely,” Jack said. “Rather than debate who is getting the truth, I think the cause of her discontent has to be addressed. Did you talk with your mother this morning?”
“Of course I spoke with her.”
“Did you talk about her giving us a break?”
“She’s not all bad, Jack,” Laurie countered. “She’s getting JJ to interact with Emma. And she is spearheading getting a second opinion on Emma’s diagnosis.”
“But that doesn’t require her to be living with us and tormenting both Caitlin and me. I feel guilty enough about Emma’s autism and don’t need her to continually blame the Stapleton genes. And if she mouths off about the MMR vaccine again, I’m going to scream. Why can’t you just tell her we need some privacy? We have enough problems, especially if Caitlin were to leave.”
“You know why I can’t. It would devastate her, and she is already having a difficult time dealing with Emma’s diagnosis and being eighty-three years old with some medical problems of her own. But I have thought of a possible solution.”
“And what is that?”
“I’m going to talk with my father. Over the last few years, particularly after JJ’s illness, I’ve been progressively able to talk with him about issues like this. He understands my mother better than anyone. Besides, he can’t be happy she’s been away for as long as she has.”
“Fine,” Jack said. “Talk to Sheldon. If you think he can help, that’s great. We need some peace in our household so that we can deal with this new challenge.”
A sudden knock on the office door diverted their attention.
“Come in!” Laurie called out.
The door opened. It was Cheryl. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said. “But the conference call will be starting in just a few minutes.”
“Okay, thank you,” Laurie said.
Cheryl closed the door.
Both Laurie and Jack got to their feet. “I’ll try to call my father after my conference call,” Laurie said. “And I’ll see when we might be able to get together.”
“I hope it’s as soon as possible,” Jack said.
Laurie reached out and gave one of the lapels of Jack’s bomber jacket a playful tug. “And I hope you’re going out for a bite of lunch and not to cause trouble.”
“I’ll try to behave myself,” Jack said with uncamouflaged sarcasm. He knew exactly what Laurie was referring to—namely, what she’d warned him about the day before. She didn’t want him to become overly invested in the subway death case as a diversion from their domestic issues and create havoc for her as the OCME chief. And like the day before, Jack felt immediate irritation. He needed a diversion, and he wasn’t going to be denied.
“Exactly where are you going?” Laurie demanded. Her tone had also changed. She was back to her role as the chief medical examiner, with all its attendant responsibilities.
“I’m going to a tattoo parlor,” Jack snapped. “I realized it’s a craze that had more or less passed me by. I want to rectify that. I used to think it was for drunken sailors and badasses, but I’ve changed my mind.”
“I hope by this visit you’re not hijacking Bart Arnold’s job,” Laurie said, refusing to take the bait that he might be interested in getting a tattoo himself. “I would prefer you don’t go out in the field doing your own investigations. But if you must, Jack, please don’t put me in a difficult situation. This job is already stressful enough.”
“I’ll try to keep that in mind,” Jack said. He opened the office door and walked out with the tattoo photos clutched in his hand. He didn’t say goodbye. He also avoided talking to or even looking at Cheryl. For the moment he thought it best to keep to himself.
12
TUESDAY, 1:15 P.M.
Jack had seen tattoo parlors in the past, and it was his impression that they were always in the less-desirable parts of town and often appeared dark and uninviting, reflecting their old association with the underbelly of society, including criminality and gangs. He was mildly surprised that Tattoo Art and Piercing didn’t fit that mold in the slightest. The neighborhood wasn’t Fifth Avenue, but the commercial area was reasonably upscale, with a number of apparently successful businesses, just as the tattoo parlor appeared to be.
Walking in
, Jack stopped just inside the front door. The interior of the shop was bright, clean, and cheerful, with a glossy, recently refinished blond hardwood floor. Glass-fronted and -surfaced display cases that also served as countertops extended down the length of the room. On the wall was a collection of carefully framed photos of men and women of a variety of ages and apparent social standing, all sporting a wide range of tattoos and piercings. The tattoos were literally on all parts of the body, whereas the piercings were mostly facial or on the ears, although several were on more intimate parts. A curtain separated the front, public part of the shop from the back, where Jack assumed the tattooing and piercing was done in what he imagined were private rooms.
At the moment there were three customers, two men and one woman, each being helped by a separate employee. All were looking at catalog-like books and presumably trying to make up their minds. All appeared to Jack to be in the twenty-five to forty-five age bracket. One of the men wore a carefully pressed business suit and tie. The other man and the woman were both more casually dressed in stylish jeans.
Almost immediately a fourth employee appeared. Like the other employees, he was trendier in appearance than the customers. In particular, he had a fade haircut with the top portion dyed a light green color. Tattoos covered the visible portions of both arms.
“Can I help you?” the man asked in a friendly voice. “My name is Andre. Are you interested in a tattoo or a piercing?”
“Actually, I’m just looking for some information,” Jack said. It tickled him to think of Laurie’s reaction if he did come back with an elaborate tattoo someplace on his body. In some respects, he thought it would serve her right. Then again, the fifteen-minute bike ride to the tattoo parlor had helped clear his head, enough to make him embarrassed by his sensitivity and defensiveness when Laurie had called him out on his attitude and behavior. He certainly didn’t want to make her job any more difficult than it already was and had no intention of doing so. But he was not going to stay isolated in his office.
“What kind of information?” Andre asked. His tone audibly changed.
Jack took out his medical examiner badge that looked for all the world like a law enforcement badge. In the past he’d flashed it on occasion, as it invariably opened doors. Being in a tattoo parlor made Jack feel slightly out of his comfort zone, and he wanted to get the conversation off on the right foot. He flipped the wallet closed before Andre had a chance to look closely at the badge’s details. “I’m investigating an important death case,” Jack explained. “The problem is we have no identification, which we need. However, the deceased had three tattoos. I’d like to talk with one of your principal tattoo artists about them. Is that what they call themselves? Artists? I haven’t spent much time in tattoo parlors.”
“Absolutely they are artists,” Andre said. “Some more than others. Just a minute. I’ll be right back.”
He disappeared behind the curtain. One of the other employees looked over at Jack briefly, having apparently overheard. He flashed a nervous smile before going back to his customer. Jack wondered what that meant, if anything. To pass the time, Jack looked into the display case. It contained a bewildering number and variety of piercing jewelry. On top of the display case was a large, heavy album of tattoo designs. Jack flipped through it rapidly. It was apparent to Jack that tattoo possibilities were truly mind-bogglingly legion.
A moment later, Andre reappeared with a youthful, slender, dark-complexioned, and swankily dressed woman in tow. She was as trendy as Andre and the others. She had long, luxurious, almost black hair with strikingly intense violet highlights, highly arched dark eyebrows, and numerous dainty nose piercings and jeweled nose rings. On her upper chest at the base of her neck, peeking between the lapels of a white coat, was an elaborate and intricate tattoo. She was wearing latex gloves, as if she had been in the middle of a procedure.
“Hello,” the young woman said. “My name is Kristina Vega. I am the owner of this shop and also the chief tattoo artist. Who am I speaking with?”
“Dr. Jack Stapleton. I’m a medical examiner at the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner.”
“This is not some unorthodox inspection of our facility, is it?” Kristina questioned.
“Not at all,” Jack said reassuringly. He thought the question explained the other employee’s nervous smile. With the invariable attendant medical problems associated with both tattooing and piercing, Jack imagined inspections were critical. “As I mentioned to Andre, I wanted to talk to you about some tattoos. I have photos right here.” Jack unrolled the photos and spread them out on the surface of the display case. To keep them flat, he stuck the edges under the tattoo catalog.
Sensing she was going to be detained at least for a few minutes, Kristina pulled off her gloves. She asked Andre to go back and tell her customer she’d return shortly to finish up. Kristina then used her hands to smooth out the photos and studied them carefully. She took her time. Andre returned almost immediately and looked over her shoulder.
“Not bad,” she said finally, straightening. “The Chinese character appears amateurish, but the puzzle piece and the palm are okay, with just minor blemishes and drifting of the pigments. I’d give the two a B-plus.”
“Interesting,” Jack said. He was impressed with this woman and wondered if she was older than she looked. Initially he thought she could be anywhere between twenty and thirty, but now he wasn’t sure. She seemed remarkably mature. “But it’s not grades I’m interested in hearing,” he continued. “What I am interested in is how unique and recognizable this art is. You artists don’t sign your work like other fine artists, for obvious reasons. But how distinctive do you feel it is? Presumably tattoo artists can recognize their own work. Is that fair to say?”
“It is, for sure,” Kristina said. “Particularly custom designs. The more the tattoo is flash, the less recognizable it is, even if you did it yourself.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Jack said.
“Tattoo flash are designs that exist out there in the world,” Kristina said. “It comes from customers, tattoo artists, and even professional flash artists. It’s out there. It’s like this stuff on my walls or in this binder.” Kristina patted the top of the tattoo catalog Jack had mindlessly flipped through. “It’s generic stuff. You can buy it online with an outline, so it’s easy to reproduce, and it can be reproduced over and over. Almost anybody can do it. But over the last number of years shops like mine have become custom shops. Everything is more or less stylized for the customer, which makes it unique and more recognizable.”
“Okay, I get it now,” Jack said. “What’s your feeling about these three photos? Are these tattoos generic or recognizable?”
“The Chinese character is definitely generic. Totally! The puzzle piece is, too, since you can find all sorts of permutations of the idea online. The only unique thing is the name Helen.”
“So this design is really common?” Jack said. Vinnie had confirmed as much during the autopsy, but Jack had hoped anyway that it could be a lead.
“Oh, yeah! It’s common,” Kristina said. She bared the volar surface of her own left wrist. On it was a tattooed outline of a puzzle piece containing the name Kate. “It’s been common for a while for couples. But it’s becoming particularly common now because it has been adopted for the autism awareness movement.”
“What?” Jack demanded. He couldn’t believe what he had just heard. It was as if Kristina had slapped him with a wet washrag.
“Yeah,” Kristina continued, unaware of Jack’s reaction. “I’ve done a few puzzle-piece tattoos myself on young couples with autistic kids. Not exactly like this but similar. It’s something about the illness being a puzzle, but no one has told me specifically.”
Jack struggled to regain his composure and reorient his mind. “What about the palm tree?” he asked.
“That is probably the most custom tattoo of these three,” Krist
ina said. She bent over and studied it more. “Palm trees are quite popular because of their symbolic meaning. So whoever did this one probably just made it up as they went along. You don’t really need an outline.”
“When you look at a tattoo like that, do you have any idea what specific artist might have done it?” Jack asked.
“Not really,” Kristina said. She bent back over to study the image again. “Although the way the fronds are drawn reminds me of a friend, but it would be pure speculation on my part.”
“Is your friend here in the city?” Jack asked. It would be worth risking the time if the artist was accessible.
“No, she’s in Detroit,” Kristina said. “So it can’t be her. But let me have my two other artists take a peek. Maybe they might have an idea. Are you thinking it was done here in the metropolitan area or maybe right here in Manhattan?”
“I don’t have the faintest idea,” Jack admitted.
The other two artists were both males and obvious devotees of their own craft. One of them also had an impressive collection of piercings on the helixes of his ears. Neither of them recognized any distinguishing characteristics of the palm tattoo that might suggest to them who the artist could have been. Kristina sent them back to their customers.
“Sorry we couldn’t be more help,” she said. “And I have to get back to my customer. Here’s my card if you have any more questions.”
Jack took the card, thanked the woman, and went out to get his bike. As he undid his locks, he felt decidedly discombobulated. Interacting with such a young, hip, and artsy crowd made him feel old and unfashionable, which he knew he was. But more important, Kristina had also managed to make him feel even more frustrated. Here he was, out running around to try to escape his unsolvable domestic pressures, yet through her they were managing to haunt him further. The idea that a tattoo on a corpse he was desperately trying to ID was similar to the tattoos adopted by the autism awareness movement seemed almost cruel in its coincidence.