Schoenmacher slowly closed his eyes and nodded. Roberts thought he noticed wet makeup in the corners of his eyes.
Roberts slapped him on the back, more to cheer himself up than anything else. “C’mon, it’s Friday night!”
“You’re right,” Schoenmacher said, smirking. “Maybe I’ll get lucky. Let’s go to O’Connor’s…maybe that chick who asked for my autograph will be there again.”
Same old Dan, Roberts thought. He was surprised he hadn’t already called her. Because that meant that maybe the poor borderline manic-depressive really was head-over-heels for Judy Thomas. They’d make a good couple. Con artists usually work best in pairs.
II.
Lockerman could not get the letters out of his head. He’d searched everything he had before, double-checking the files on tattoo shops, telephone listings, utility companies, and other impossibly frustrating forms of paperwork. Still no MKI’s; no MMK’s either. He was beginning to doubt Roberts’ theory that the lower case letters in the victim’s titles were a message at all…least of all initials. It was a smoke screen, most likely, a trick to kill his time, to send him in wrong directions. Finding the Killer this way would take forever. But it was his only lead, his only clue.
His only lead to two missing bodies.
Back to square one.
Except for the coroner’s report on the museum evidence. The ugly artwork that was confiscated from the museum held some important information within its framed glass. For one thing, the back of the skin—the fatty layer just beneath—was fresh, and the coroner’s estimate was that the skin had been cut from the mysterious missing body only ten to twenty hours before it was analyzed. That meant that he had a time frame to work with now. The Killer worked after midnight.
Additionally, the coroner tested traces of blood that were scraped from the back of the flesh. The result: a B-positive blood type. A sample of skin was sent to Denver Technical for DNA testing, as well, though Lockerman didn’t expect it to help until they found the body—you need a victim to match the DNA. Only then, when it was much too late, would DNA be of help.
But there was one clue, which might not mean much…which Lockerman hoped didn’t mean much, because if it did, then it meant that his one and only suspect was out of the picture, so to speak.
The B-positive blood and blonde hairs from the skin matched the information in clinical records of a woman named Cheri Carvers.
Lockerman thought about the words of the blood type: B-positive. For crying out loud, he was trying his damnedest to be positive. But things were going worse than ever.
He knew that facts and truth were often confused. This is what had made his job difficult for years. But now, when there were no facts to go on at all, there was no truth left either, and that was something he was not ready to accept at all. Tina had been stolen from him and as long as he had her loss to propel him, he would never give up, fact and truth be damned.
III.
The rain woke Schoenmacher up.
They had canceled the Saturday afternoon barbecue. Lockerman was exhausted and in no mood for reverie. Roberts wanted to get more work done on his tattoo (“It’s gonna be a surprise,” he’d told him). And the weather was terrible, just like he’d predicted—even worse. Inches of rain had already fallen by 10 a.m. and it just kept coming down. Living in the mountains always made his forecasts a guessing game.
The city was gray, colorless. Schoenmacher looked out of his rain-riddled bedroom window, trying to find the sky. Impossible.
Schoenmacher was thankful that the barbecue had been canceled. His head was sour and thumping with last night’s booze still pumping through his veins. He and Roberts had closed down O’Connor’s the previous night (the babe who’d given him the phone number never did show up), sharing a pitcher of martinis for a change of pace. Roberts had cheered him up a bit, but the whole evening was dour, slow. Roberts seemed distracted all night, asking him questions like: “Have you ever had squid?” or “Did your ankle get infected when you tattooed it yourself?” Schoenmacher had changed the subject to Judy, but by that time he was soused enough to wilt flowers with his breath, and now he couldn’t remember a word of what they’d discussed.
He tightened the thin belt on his gray silk robe, and walked into the bathroom to shower. Drying his body afterward, and feeling much better, he found his eyes continuously drawn to the stick-figure bird on his ankle. He wondered if such a thing would be enough to turn Judy on; after all, she was more sophisticated than the others he routinely slept with, more classy. Would the tattoo work on her?
It was his only chance. His only way of standing out from the others that he imagined tried to charm her day in and day out. And he was certain that Rick Montag didn’t have a tattoo…no, not Slick Rick, the suburbanite-turned-skiier from San Fransisco. He was too prissy to have a tattoo, wasn’t he?
He reached down and gently rubbed the skin that trapped his Birdy tattoo. The ink was blurred from time, and the skin had grown hair over the bird, but it was still distinguishable on his ankle. When he had created the thing, armed only with a ballpoint pen barrel and a rusty needle, he’d massacred his own flesh, the initial result being nothing more than a bloody Rorschach on his leg. It was as if the art had grown and matured over time, living its own life beneath his ever-aging skin.
Birdy, he thought. No one ever calls me that anymore. He reflected on his days in the army—rough work for the most part, but a lot of fun, too. The tattoo had gotten him through many a day: he could show it to girls, who would giggle and touch it, and eventually ask to see other parts of his body; he would flash it at other guys in the platoon and immediately gain their respect—or they’d wonder how crazy he really was, which was just as important. It was something to be proud of.
Not these days, though. Only at night, with a strange girl with him from one of the local bars, would he let his Birdy out in public. Roberts had been the first “regular” person he’d shown it to in years; ever since his days of studying to be a weatherman at Metro College in Denver, in fact.
And now Roy had a tattoo, and was paying good money to get another one.
He thought it funny how infectious the damned ink was, how it could spread from one person to another just by looking at it. As if getting inked was like getting your hand stamped for exclusive entrance into a special club. Tattoos were one of the most personal and intimate things in the world, and yet they were also instruments of bonding.
He suddenly remembered Lockerman’s story about the Tattoo Killer on the loose. It hadn’t bothered him much—he hardly ever paid much attention to the latest news, because it never personally involved him…it was always someone else who was being hurt…unless it was the weather that was the latest headliner. But now, looking at his blue-inked ankle, he couldn’t help but wonder about the Killer. He wondered what he’d do if one day the Killer climbed into his bedroom window and threatened to kill him, or ink him to death, or whatever it was that Roberts said he did. Could he use the tattoo on his ankle to get rid of him? To tell him, Hey, I’ve got one already, see? I’m just like you! Or did the Tattoo Killer only kill people who already had tattoos? Damn, he wished he would have listened more carefully to that story.
The thought that he could escape death by only showing his tattoo to the killer, though, appealed to him. Birdy could act as a shield. Maybe the sort of shield that Judy would like to see dropped (along with his pants). He couldn’t wait to show her the bird.
Judy. He couldn’t get her out of his mind. He remembered the one and only time they had gone out. They did the usual, traditional dating ritual (Schoenmacher thought that Judy was the type to go for all that; she looked like an ex-homecoming queen, the type of woman who gets pampered her whole life, and doesn’t trust a man who doesn’t play the role of “football player all-grown-up” for her). Schoenmacher treated her to dinner and a movie, and th
en a nightcap at the city’s only piano bar. She had plenty to drink, and opened up a great deal to him, as if trying to break free of that “homecoming queen” role she’d lived in for so long. And it worked out to Dan’s advantage, with the date ending up in her bedroom.
But it wasn’t the date, or even sharing these ordinary things with her that so affected him, driving him crazy with the need to be with her whenever he could. It was the way she did things. The soft caresses before reaching for the popcorn in his lap at the movie theater, the full smile of approval as she laughed at his jokes (some of them were dirty ones he had picked up in the army), the way she held him after their “let’s break the ice” drinks at the piano bar. And most importantly, the way she carefully and sensuously made slow, drawn-out love to him in her satin-covered bed, as if they’d been lovers for years. These were the memories branded on his soul, the thoughts and feelings that came up whenever he saw her on the set. Heated emotions that he could feel literally flowing out of his pores whenever she smiled or raised her dark eyebrows in his direction. A warmth that flashed across his spine whenever he heard her sexy, sultry voice saying his name (“…And now for the weather, here’s Dan Schoenmacher”). He wasn’t sure if it was love or lust, but whatever he felt inside, it was the best damned feeling he’d ever had for a woman since his ex-wife—probably the only feelings he had for one person, and he’d slept with plenty. Judy was special. He had to have her for his own.
By mid-afternoon, the rain had died. It was still gray outside, though, and in the distance he could see the sky above the city striped with black washboard. It was still raining in the heart of the city.
He spent the afternoon preparing for tomorrow’s date. Everything had to be just right. He vacuumed every inch of his light brown carpet, beat the throw rugs against the railing beside his front door, cleaned the glass windows and mirrors, defrosted the refrigerator, washed his dirty clothes (especially the sheets and bedding), and took out the cat litter.
He wondered where Clive was. Clive was his Calico feline—a female cat, but he gave it a male name nonetheless, because it looked like a man with its big flat nose and muscular body. Every few months or so, though, she’d remind the world of her true sexuality by getting in heat and roaming the condominium complex, looking for a horny male. And like most males, there was always one willing to do the job. But Clive, who had been fixed since birth, was too stupid to realize that it wouldn’t get her anywhere. So she was nowhere to be found for a week or so, and then suddenly, magically, she’d reappear at his front door—mangy, stained, and starving to death. None the smarter from the experience, she’d repeat the behavior months later.
He cleaned out the catbox anyway, even though it hadn’t been used since the last time he changed it.
When he finished with the house, he cleaned the car and the carport.
Then he policed his little plot of land (fresh sod and a sapling forced with wires to stand straight) for trash, even though the complex had an outdoor maintenance team. He threw the soaking wet beer caps and cigarette butts he found into his aluminum trash can.
He knew he was overdoing it, but it was worth it. He wanted absolutely nothing to go wrong when Judy came over for dinner.
When night came, he played a Beatles album on his compact disk player, programming it to play “Hey Jude” over and over and over.
Satisfied with the house cleaning, he sat on his brown suede sofa (brushed, to feel like it was new) with a beer in his hand. Tapping his toes, he sang along with Paul, his voice adding a “Y” to “Jude” and singing about things getting under his skin to make him feel better. He couldn’t wait.
IV.
Business had picked up since the newspaper article on the mysterious painting. Even on a rainy day like this one. Mike Rodriquez had done more museum tours on this one Saturday than he had in three weeks combined (he knew this, because he had checked the register during his lunch break). It was great, as far as the curator was concerned. Finally something to do other than sit on his thumbs or plunk change into the candy machines in the lobby. But it was also exhausting, having to do this much work, doing the same routine over and over, showing the people arrowheads and explaining the history behind wagon wheels.
It was the most work he’d done in ages.
He looked down at his gold-studded watch: four-fifty. Time to sweep up and close shop.
He stood up from his desk beside the interior arch of the stucco building, closing the registry book and sliding his wooden chair behind him in one quick motion. Next, he grabbed a gray and dust-bunnied broom from the records room, and began to sweep, whistling as he worked.
He hoped the noise he’d been making would inform the remaining visitor that it was time to go.
The one man who remained in the museum, and had been there for at least two hours, was looking at the exhibits on the far wall. He spent most of his time looking at the place where the “disturbing” painting had once been. Rodriquez had replaced the bare spot on the wall where the painting once was with an Indian rain-dancing dress, lined with beautiful turquoise beads and red stones.
Rodriquez thought it odd that the man was staring at that particular area—did he somehow know that that was precisely where the horrible artwork had once been?—but he was too much in a rush to get the floor done. An ice cold beer and Charles Dickens waited at home for him. He couldn’t wait to get out.
He began sweeping at the opposite side of the gallery from where the stranger stood. But by the time he reached him, flopping his broom the entire distance to hint at closing time, the man still stood there as if his black leather boots were planted in the gray concrete floor.
He swept around him, too nervous by his appearance: the man was bearded, skinny but muscular, and he wore a headband that held his oily black hair away from his forehead. He looked vaguely like a gang member, or a biker, but more like a leftover from the 1960’s than anything else. Especially with those freaky mirrored sunglasses drooping down his beaklike, hawkish nose.
And he stank like hell.
A thought dawned on Rodriquez: Could this be our frustrated artist?
In the corner of the museum—close, but far enough away from the hippie to avoid his aroma—Rodriquez quickly shook the dustmop above the pile of filth he had swept up. Dust rained down from the broom, showering the pile of dried mudballs, gum wrappers, and copper pennies. Next, he leaned the broom into the corner, and headed back to the records room, under the guise of getting a dustpan.
Instead, he dialed 911. He didn’t say anything—in case the weirdo might be able to hear him—and just left the receiver dangling over the edge of the desk, knowing from TV they’d trace the call sooner or later. He grabbed the dustpan and hand broom from a closet. He closed his eyes and sighed. He knew what he had to do. It might prove difficult, but Rodriquez had to trap the man in a dialogue. If he could get him into a conversation—maybe even talk to him about his own horribly amateurish artwork—then the stranger might be conned into hanging around long enough for the police to come and bust him.
Maybe he’d even get a promotion if he helped them catch a crook. Perhaps even a commendation from the city.
He gripped tightly on the dustpan’s handle—wishing it were a gun, instead—and re-entered the foyer, not looking up as he walked into the gallery, as he supposed a man at work might nonchalantly do. Then he raised his head, making sure that he didn’t accidentally walk right into him….
The man was gone.
Rodriquez felt his muscles loosen. His shoulders slumped. His lungs emptied. He suddenly had the urge to use the restroom.
And then he noticed that the Indian dress was missing.
Not missing. Stolen. That bastard didn’t like it taking up ‘his’ space, so he tore the thing down! Doesn’t he know how much that artifact is worth? It’s priceless!
He had to call
the police. Again. He stormed back to the break room, hoping the 911 service was still on the line, to tell them not to worry. No emergency, just another burglary.
In the room, the phone was cradled in its receiver. He wondered if he had even dialed 911 at all—he had been in quite a flustering panic at the time. Had he imagined it?
And then the burlap fibers of the ancient Indian dress wrapped around his neck, tightening as it cut off his blood, causing him to drop to his knees on the cold concrete floor.
The tattoos on Kilpatrick’s arms flexed and shook madly as he yanked back on the sleeves of the dress like a cowboy pulling back on his horse’s leather reins, stepping down on the curator’s back for leverage. The man’s glasses slipped down his nose as he gagged and choked, his brown features turning bright pink. Dust plumed from the old fabric, the motes saturating Rodriquez’ open, straining eyes. But he could not blink.
The thrill could be heard in Kilpatrick’s coarse voice as he grumbled down at the dying man: “Let’s see how much you like being censored, motherfucker!”
V.
He reached for the bottle of Johnnie Walker Red and unscrewed the cap. Looking through the glass, Lockerman noticed that it was half empty, and he tried to size up just how much of the stuff was now curdling inside his stomach, mixing with the donuts and coffee he had had for breakfast.
There were two other bottles, empty, in the trash. Seven more were still capped and full in the case under the kitchen table, like a week’s worth of orphans waiting patiently for their day to come.
Johnnie Walker was Tina’s favorite. The case had originally been meant for her, a surprise Memorial Day payoff for all her help (and an alternate choice of drug to help her kick her other habit). But thanks to the Tattoo Killer, he wouldn’t get the chance to deliver the gift in person. He’d have to drink to her alone.
Grave Markings: 20th Anniversary Edition Page 16