Lockerman looked down at the Gazette article, wondering how the reporters were clued in on the museum incident. The Killer must have informed them; they never would have followed up a tapped radio call about a museum break-in. If this was true, then Lockerman knew that the psycho himself must have called in the crime, to get attention for himself. He jotted down a note to question the receptionist at the Gazette in hopes of getting a clue from his voice or dialect. It was worth a shot.
Another thought quickly followed: if the Gazette reported on the Killer, then the other news media were probably rushing to get in on the story also. How’d the expression go? “Bad news travels fast”? Something like that. And it couldn’t be more true of the news producers themselves.
He dialed KOPT, hoping that Roberts’ weekend had been spoiled by being called into work, just as his had.
The voice on the line was familiar: “City desk.”
“Good, it’s you. Had a feeling they’d call in the big guns for this one. Seen the papers?”
Roberts’ voice jumped in pitch. “John! I was hoping you’d call! Yeah, I saw the article in the Gazette. Who’re the assholes that told them?”
“Tattoo Killer himself, if my guess is right. The photos are my damned rookies’ fault. Worthless bastards. You think they’d want to impress the boss, not fuck up right from the get go.”
“Figures. Listen, there’s a big push here for a story on the Tattoo Killer. Buckman is breathing down my neck to get on it. Hell, he saw the link between Kuhlman and Rodriquez immediately. He wants to not only do the story as top city action for the day, but wants me to do a follow-up on the tattoo parlors in town, too. He’s treating this shit as big as an election year or something! He’s even got a pet name for these little projects of his: ‘The Crazed Tattoos and the Tattoo Craze.’ What an ass, eh?”
“Shit, I guess you won’t be able to get out of this one, will you?”
“Not likely. The other stations are running the Rodriquez story, too. Man, I hate this job. We all compete like leeches, to see who gets to suck the blood up first.”
Lockerman ignored him. “Shit! Don’t they know that this is probably exactly what the Tattoo Killer wants? Exposure, man, exposure. I mean, hell, he put his disgusting crap up in the City Museum for crying out loud!”
“Nothing I can do about it, John. I’ll try to see if we can run the story without pictures, but it’ll be difficult, considering they were in the fucking papers.”
“Well try anyway. We gotta break this mother down any way we can.”
“Will do.”
They simultaneously sighed.
Lockerman coughed, and then changed the subject.
“Sorry about canceling the barbecue Saturday. I’ll make it up to you next time, I promise.”
Roberts chuckled. “Steaks? Bottled beer?”
“Beer? I need tequila! But, yeah, if you keep those photos off the air, I’ll get you anything you want. Hell, I’ll go to Mexico myself and get some mescal. And you gotta promise me that you won’t report on anything that you have privileged info on—Tina, the two missing bodies, the initials, and so on—till we find this psycho. Our deal stands, right?”
“Forget about it.”
Lockerman shuffled some papers, eager to get back to work. “Listen I gotta run.”
“Anything on the mysterious MKI or MMK or the Roman numerals or anything else yet?”
“Nada.”
“I was thinking, the guy probably goes by a ‘handle’ anyway. Maybe the letters stand for his nickname or something.”
“Already considered it. Hell if I can figure it out, though. There’s gotta be a million nicknames out there, enough to make a dictionary.”
“Just a thought.”
“Okay. Keep it up. I need all the help I can get. See ya…and I’ll be watching the news tonight, too. Tread softly, buddy.”
“Got it. And thanks for calling, John.”
“What for?”
“You just gave me an idea for a related story.”
“Don’t I always?” Lockerman asked before he heard Roberts’ laughter and he hung up the phone.
III.
The date was still on.
His house was spotless, but Schoenmacher went over it once again, just in case. He played “Hey Jude” to help wile away the day, but it only made him more antsy to be with her.
He scrubbed last night’s dish and glass, the morning’s coffeepot and cup, and substituted paper towels for plates the rest of the afternoon. He vacuumed a beyond-dirt carpet, and changed the empty bag. He cleaned out the cat’s food dish, though there was no need for it—he thought he had heard the Calico clawing at the door (more dirt to clean) but it was just some black Prussian from the neighborhood, looking for Clive. He fed him some scraps, and sent him on his way. Then he dusted his stereo, digging cotton swabs into the equalizer and polishing the smoked plastic that covered the almost-useless turntable.
And all day he walked around doing Cary Grant: “Joo-day, Joo-day, Joo-day.”
He bit his nails, cleaned them, buffed them, and chewed them again.
He did push-ups, sit-ups, and chin-ups.
He showered again: one hour till Joo-day.
He wore a sports shirt and baggy jeans; comfortable, and nice enough (heavily starched and ironed) to impress her. His proud tan was exposed on his arms, chest, and ankles. He wore no socks, so she’d see the Birdy tattoo on her own, without any flamboyant lead-in necessary on his part. He wanted her to initiate the conversation about it.
The doorbell rang when the stir-fry began to sizzle and brown. He tapped the wooden spoon gracefully against the edge of the wok, set it in a dish, and rushed to the door, requisite towel in hand to wring his hands dry (from both the Chinese food and his own nervous sweat).
He opened the door.
Judy looked radiant. Her eyes gleamed green at him, like emeralds. Her hair was trimmed, pert. She, too, wore baggy jeans around curving hips, a light green blouse tucked around her breasts and into the denim tightly. She cocked her head to one side. “Hell-lo-o?”
Schoenmacher shook his head straight, breaking the spell. “Oh, sorry! You look wonderful!”
“Thanks.” She lifted herself on tiptoe, looking over his shoulder. “Something smells pretty good. Can I come in, or what?”
He took her hand—trying not to grip it too tightly—and led her into his humble abode. She was visibly impressed.
He played the Beatles album, letting it run from start to finish for once. She had said at one time that she loved the Beatles. John was her favorite. Paul was his. But they both thought Ringo was a bit silly, though he was a scream in the few Beatles films they’d both seen. Help, especially.
They ate Schoenmacher’s attempt at Chinese cooking, ignoring the flavor—the recipe could have been called “Soy Sauce Overkill” judging by the taste of it. But it was edible enough, and Schoenmacher enjoyed watching Judy slurp it down with the impossible chopsticks he’d provided for atmosphere.
Afterward, Schoenmacher poured some wine—he didn’t know shit about vintages or proper wine and food matchings, but the foreign label was unpronounceable enough to make it seem impressive. Judy scowled when he began to pour it, but her sips soon became gulps, to Schoenmacher’s satisfaction. The glass beer mug that he served the wine in—they were the nicest glasses he had, actually—didn’t hurt either. They moved to his suede couch in the living room, and Schoenmacher dimmed the lights, putting on another Beatles album—this time playing the more flippant and easy-going White Album.
“So tell me about your ex,” Judy said, tucking a leg underneath herself, getting comfortable on the couch. “What was she like?”
Dan blushed. If you only knew. “She taught me to cook, which should tell you a helluva lot more than I co
uld.”
She giggled, and then frowned at him in mock seriousness. “C’mon, Dan. Tell me. I’d like to know why you broke up.”
“Well,” Schoenmacher replied, leaning into her and searching Judy’s green-mirrored, dilated eyes, “she was absolutely nothing like you. That’s why we divorced.”
“That’s sweet,” she said, leaning back from him.
He fell forward, his lips landing forcefully on hers. She immediately pulled backward, but Schoenmacher held on, his pursed lips like hot, slimy suction cups.
Judy parted her lips to complain, but his tongue slipped inside, probing her cheeks. Schoenmacher wrapped his arms around her, clumsily balancing his weight by gripping the small of her back. He pulled her close, untucking the back of her blouse in the process, and her breasts pressed lightly against his chest—he thought he could feel her quickened heartbeat hammering his chest with her nipples.
Judy backed away an inch, and Schoenmacher took advantage of the gap between them, quickly plunking open the buttons on the front of her blouse with experienced fingers. He moved his face to her neck, kissing it gently as he reached inside her shirt and palmed a full breast, kneading its taut nipple between his knuckles.
“Dan,” Judy whispered into his ear. “Please, don’t.”
Schoenmacher reached around with his free hand and pulled at the top button of her jeans.
“No!” Judy violently stood up, the weatherman accidentally yanking down her fly in the process, revealing white lace panties that barely covered the dark and shadowy mat of hair beneath. Schoenmacher stared at her open pants and grinned.
She turned around so Schoenmacher couldn’t watch as she buttoned up her top and bottoms. “I didn’t come here for this. I thought we were going to talk.” Her words were slightly slurred, her tongue like a soaked sponge in her mouth—she could still taste Dan’s lingering flavor, intermingled with the cheap wine. “In fact, I think now is as good a time as any to tell you that I don’t think we should see each other like this. It’s unprofessional. And I just don’t think we’re right for each other.” She turned to face him, her eyebrows furled as she looked down at him.
Schoenmacher stifled a burp, which caused his eyes to blur and his nose to burn inside as if he’d snorted lighter fluid. “But, Judy, what we shared last time. You can’t tell me that you didn’t like it. That you didn’t want me then, or now…”
“All of that was a mistake, Dan. I had too much to drink, just like tonight.” She reached for her purse. “Too much to drink, and too much of your smooth talk. You should sell used cars, you know that?”
Before he knew what he was doing, he was reaching for her as she bent over beside him to pick up her purse, her ass like a magnet.
He was standing now, her hips in his hands, and he was pushing her forward onto the carpet. Judy screamed as her face hit the floor. She tried to roll away, and…
Violent scratching at the door.
Schoenmacher stopped working on the tops of her jeans, and frowned.
Judy saw his distraction and pounced on it. “Dan, I think there’s someone at the door. You better get it.”
“Yeah,” he said, his voice dreamlike. He moved like a sleepwalker toward the front door, looking around the living room as if surveying another planet. What am I doing? he thought.
He opened the door.
And a multicolored blur rushed past his feet, an alien creature that bolted toward the couch.
Judy screamed as the thing bounded off the couch and landed on her lap. She jumped, and the skinny thing landed on all fours as it flopped off her legs. She picked up her purse and ran toward the door, nearly tackling Schoenmacher.
Schoenmacher looked at the creature in the corner of the living room, by the stereo. The door slammed behind him.
Clive?
The cat was furless. Without whiskers. It had been shaved, from the tip of its nose to the end of its tail, looking like something out of a low budget adult cartoon. Flabby skin and bones.
Shaved clean…and tattooed.
Terrible, ferocious red eyes encircled the cat’s real emerald eyes—eyes inside of eyes, capped by monstrous black eyebrows, in a twisted Groucho Marx expression. Its ears were patterns of lines that spiraled down from the tips like rolled cones of graph paper. An evil red-lipped and fanged smile spread around the cat’s mouth, taking up its entire face in a clownlike Cheshire.
It moved, rubbing its long body against the corner of the stereo. Tiny bells rang, and Schoenmacher noticed that small silver bells were attached to the cat’s bony tail—the tail was purple and pink like a large, bloated penis with wire that pierced the skin. Humanlike fingers had been drawn over Clive’s paws, her ribcage was externalized in white ivory, and large human breasts—at least six of them—were dangling from those ribs, hanging on to the bone with grotesque and demonic fingers of their own, breasts with claws that somehow connected up with the cat’s real purple nipples.
Schoenmacher wobbled, his legs giving out. He leaned back against the front door. “Clivey? Clivey?”
The cat meowed, and then trampled toward him.
Schoenmacher noticed the drawings on top of the cat, which at first he thought looked like the underbelly of a fish, but then realized that it looked more like the white-and-blue underbelly of a certain helicopter…the KOPT-KOPTER, from which he sometimes read traffic reports.
Centered on Clive’s lanky back: the KOPT logo.
Schoenmacher felt dizzy. He lay down on the floor. He closed his eyes. The carpet felt hairy, dirty, like a furry living animal itself. He imagined hearing its heartbeat, but it was Clive, purring as it leaned against his ears. His cat…the unrecognizable thing in his house…rubbed against his eyelids and sniffed his lips with its wet and whiskerless nose. It smelled like putrid fish. Its hot skin felt smooth and leathery like a diseased lizard. Schoenmacher shuddered. But he did not move, he did not open his eyes. He did not want to see Clive, he did not want to see anything at all. He had lost his chance with Judy, he had lost his cat, he had lost the strength to keep his own eyes open.
The cat licked at the salty tears that dribbled down Schoenmacher’s nose. A sticky, sandpaper tongue ran across his eyelids, trying to yank them open. As if forcing him to see what it had become.
And the next thing he knew, he was being sucked down into something that felt vaguely like sleep.
IV.
Judy screamed, pounding the hard plastic steering wheel before her as she turned on to Highway 115, heading away from the mountain condos and back toward downtown…and civilization. She was certain that Schoenmacher was just now figuring out that she left, but for some reason it felt as though he were following her home, too. There seemed to constantly be blinding bright lights in her rearview mirror like Dan’s two beaming eyes trying to force her into sleeping with him.
She punched the steering wheel again. “Stupid!” she shouted, admonishing herself for even giving him a second chance. She pummeled her thigh: “FUCK-(slap)-ING-(slap)-STU-(slap)-PID!”
She wasn’t even thinking about the disgusting-looking cat that had landed on her lap. Dan’s mauling fingers disgusted her even more—always probing and plunking buttons, always trying to cop a feel. And what pissed her off most of all was that she was almost ready to let him get away with it—she had almost fallen for his crap—when he did the worst thing he could possibly do. He knocked her to the floor when she clearly was about to leave.
She looked down at her jeans. The top button was opened and she tried to close it. The buttonhole had been stripped—it was too big to hold her pants shut.
She pounded on the steering wheel again.
Date rape. That’s what would have happened if that blessed monster hadn’t clawed at the door…
Judy turned onto the Circle Drive exit. Headlights still shone in her re
arview. She told herself that it wasn’t Dan.
She wondered what she would do now, how she would face him day after day, on the air. How could she possibly say “And now for the weather…” without starting up her own storm of accusations or tears? How could she stand to have to sit there and smile at him during the end-of-the-news comments, without making a few comments of her own, telling the world that Dan Schoenmacher was a con man and a rapist?
It was close to date rape, but it wasn’t. And even if it was, she knew she wouldn’t be able to prove it. She wouldn’t even have the power to get the bastard fired for sexual harassment, since she had willingly gone to his house. KOPT’s management, two-faced males that they were, would no doubt accuse her of “professional jealousy” or some other good garbage and laugh her right off the air.
But she had to do something.
And right now it seemed that her only option would be to look for another job.
That suited her fine.
She’d just ignore the fucker, and look for something elsewhere. Maybe even go back to the newspapers, where people wouldn’t have to stare at her every night. Where the Fuck-Me Mail wouldn’t get delivered anymore.
She pulled into her driveway, happy to be home.
But scared shitless to be so damned alone.
V.
Roy Roberts was still driving in the dream, a night-long journey toward a sun-lit horizon that was impossible to reach. The orange half circle was a stippled disk, a bisected dartboard that remained pinned to the flat edge of landscape as if crushed against the wall of sky by the Earth itself, an Earth that had stopped rotating as it, too, was stopped up in the process, the blue sky a brake on the spinning world, bringing all motion to a grinding halt.
The highway he sped across was empty, straight. Road signs passed him by in a blur, and though he could not read them, they all appeared to say the same thing.
Grave Markings: 20th Anniversary Edition Page 19