Grave Markings: 20th Anniversary Edition

by Arnzen, Michael A.

  And he was sure that there were more messages buried inside the tapestry of vulgarities that she wore like a coat of black. A title perhaps. Initials inside the graffiti, spelling MKI. Maybe even the preaching billboard of his nightmares: YOU ARE DOOMED.

  He turned, looked back at Judy. She still stared blindly at the wall above her, eyes motionless and dry. He thought of Lockerman’s photograph of Tina; what the Killer had done to the prostitute was similar in both appearance and approach. Except in this case he had left Judy alive.

  He grabbed her again, wrenching her chin, forcing her to look at him. “Judy, c’mon, snap out of it. You gotta tell me where Dan is…”

  A line of black saliva spilled out from her lips. Roberts saw lettering inside of her mouth, dark stains on her tongue and gums.

  “Ugh,” he gibbered. He dropped her head in disgust. He rushed out of the bedroom, heading toward the kitchen to phone the police.

  And his foot splashed in the hallway carpet. It was wet—the light from the bedroom spilled out onto a spreading dark stain in the diamond-patterned carpet, leading from what Roberts quickly realized was the bathroom door.

  He ran to the door, shoved it open, flicked on the lights.

  Everything shined. Schoenmacher was draped over the edge of the bathtub, head bobbing on the water that dribbled out over the rim and ran to the floor, pooling at Roberts feet. The spigot trickled water, a sound muted by Schoenmacher’s upturned wrist. Red pooled in the water.

  “DAN!” Roberts eyes felt as if they’d exploded in his sockets and were just now coming back into place.

  He rushed to the kitchen, yanked the phone off its cradle—it was a cellular, cordless thing—and Roberts struggled to figure out how to get it to work. He punched in seven numbers, cursed, and hung it up, mistakenly dialing Lockerman’s home—the fucker’s drunk right now, that worthless bastard—and dialed 911. They answered quickly, which surprised him, and Roberts rattled off that there had been an attempted suicide. As the operator asked for the address to send the paramedics, Roberts had to force the street name and numbers out of his head. It was impossible to think, to see any of it as real life with the afterimage that still burned inside his mind—the insane tattoo that covered every inch of Schoenmacher’s naked flesh: a full body, multicolored tattoo of what appeared to be a weather map.

  II.

  Kilpatrick couldn’t stop laughing as he tacked the photos of the weatherman and the newswoman to the top of his photo gallery. His wall, his trophy case, looked like a big news story-turned-comic book, with the two of them reporting on the lives he had given to the portraits from his mind. As if he, Prince Valiant, had somehow escaped from the framed images that had once plagued him and not the other way around.

  But he was not Prince Valiant. Prince Valiant was a wimp. Kilpatrick was King. Mark, King of Inkland. His proud initials: MKI.

  He looked at the weatherman. The jester in his court. The photograph looked exactly like one of his old art teacher’s paintings, a new addition to her “United Rapes of America” series. But it was much better than anything she’d ever done, from what he could remember of her trite artwork. The weatherman had become the weather, literally. A map that tracked the patternless storms of his inner hell.

  And the public’s living hell, too. The world they all lived in—that spinning spitball of a globe that is not round, not even a planet, but a living breathing body, a human body. Wormy and coiled like the brain. Like Kilpatrick’s brain.

  And the newswoman—his love—too, preaching the message, spreading the word, making everyone see that world for what it was. He knew that Judy Thomas was no different from himself. They were a perfect match. Her mouth was his. Her skin, his voice. And the visions hidden within those words…just like that crude drawing that as a child he had once etched into a desk…were what really mattered.

  Kilpatrick looked at her photo, the black letters on her flesh mutating and pulsing with a life of their own. He squinted, erasing the words, the letters blurring as they restructured themselves and formed writhing snakes and ropes of intestine, all slicking around one another like a puddle of disembodied cocks, fucking the grooves between the lines of ink on her skin, sliding inside the thin pink lines of empty spaces which puckered and winked and sphinctered—an anus here, a cunt there—fucking themselves like the encaged life that once lived inside his personal tapestry of eyeballs.

  He peeled his eyes away from the anchorwoman, his messenger, his mate. His crotch was throbbing painfully in his jeans. He wished he would have brought her here, but he knew that the couple must live, if he was to truly go public. They had to go on the news, they had to deliver his message on the television screen.

  He looked over at Carvers, slumped in the corner of the room by the door. Dead. No longer useful. Her eyes still lived, they could still see, and their pupils followed as he approached them. They wanted him, they were bedroom eyes, seductive and wet and willing. But the eyes would not help him with his present problem, they could only watch. He kicked into the glass plate on her stomach, stepping down on the shards of glass, grinding them into the dried muck inside. The eyes couldn’t get him off. He had to fuck something, and he had to do it now, while the anchorwoman’s slimy juices were still moist on his groin.

  The closet.

  He had almost forgotten. He stripped and went inside, where the accusing eyes of the dead woman on the floor could not watch. The closet—where the wet womb of life and the demon awaited his entrance.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I.

  Early Monday morning Roberts sat in the orange vinyl sofa of Parkrose Hospital’s waiting room, still reeling from the shock of what had happened to his friends, still feeling guilty for it all.

  He had seen the Killer victimize three people in just one day. The balloons at the convention hadn’t bothered him much—he was too ashamed of himself and too pissed off at Lockerman at the time to really let it sink in—and he hadn’t known the rookie named Collins personally. Judy and Schoenmacher were another story altogether: a best friend and a co-worker. And they were left to survive. He felt as if the Killer had done this purposely, to terrorize him into putting the psycho on the news.

  On another level, Roberts felt pure, undeniable guilt for what had happened. As if he himself were responsible for the tattoos. Partly because he had thought up the whole convention, partly because he had left Schoenmacher home alone yesterday. His recent coverage of the Killer on the news was a part of this guilt, as well—but more than anything, he felt responsible for their transformations because he himself had transformed them in his own mind. He had been jealous of Judy, hating her fakeness because he force-fed the words she read every night into her mouth, and voilà, the Killer put words literally inside. Roberts had always made her what she was on the air, out of words, and now the Killer made it real. The same went for Schoenmacher, who he had thought was as unpredictable as the weather—the last time he saw him he had been angry with him, sick of him sponging off him at his house—and now he was physically altered by the Killer. Roberts couldn’t help but feel that because his attitudes toward his friends had suddenly changed over the past few days that it was somehow linked to the changes that the Tattoo Killer had forced them to make. As if Roberts himself had willed it all to happen.

  He hadn’t slept since the police sent him home from Judy’s, afraid that his nightmares, too, might unwittingly influence the world around him.

  He spotted Lockerman approaching the waiting room from down the hall. There was no one toward whom his feelings had taken a turn for the worse lately—it was time to undo those feelings, to make repairs. Otherwise…

  “I came as soon as I heard, Roy. How’s Dan?” His voice was soft, his eyes evasive.

  “The doctor said he’s gonna make it. He didn’t cut his wrists, thank God, like I thought when I saw all that red stuff in the tub
. That was just ink and scabs. Guess he tried to wash it all off or something when he realized how badly he’d been tattooed…. He was so drugged up, though, that he almost drowned in the process.” He swallowed. “He’ll be okay, I think. At least he survived.”

  “And Judy?”

  “Catatonic. I could have sworn she was dead by the way she stared at that ceiling…”

  Lockerman cocked his head to one side. “I shoulda been there for it.”

  Roberts just nodded in agreement, not sure what to say. He desperately needed a cigarette—the room was stifling hot, with the overpowering odors and aromas of rubbing alcohol and old bandages and sickness.

  “I want to apologize, Roy, for getting blitzed at the convention. I was stupid.” He flexed his long brown fists, as if getting ready to punch himself. “It won’t happen again, I can guarantee it.”

  They sat together silently, avoiding each other’s eyes.

  After a while, Roberts said, “Anything turn up in the investigation yet, or what?”

  “Well,” Lockerman said eagerly, “I, uh, read the reports from the convention; Collins’ remains were relatively fresh—couldn’t have been deceased for more than two days before the convention, if that means anything. We couldn’t find any markings on the balloon fragments or anything like that. No trademark title or initials…”

  “That could mean that the Killer didn’t do it. Maybe Corky wasn’t the only copycat out that day.”

  “Doubt it, Roy. Seriously doubt it. Why else would Collins be the one to get butchered like that? No, it was the Killer, sure as shit.”

  Roberts shrugged. Any straws were worth grasping at this point…especially if they fueled Lockerman’s investigation.

  “They’re still looking for evidence at Judy’s house, though I doubt they’ll find anything. I’m heading back there later.” Lockerman sat up. “There was one odd thing, though nothing major. There were all these wires dangling from behind her television. I think the Killer stole her VCR or something like that. Doesn’t mean much in itself, but it could help out in the big picture of things if we find it on his premises…”

  “What the hell would the Killer do with a VCR?”

  “Hell if I know. Rent splatter movies? No, that’s silly. Wait…you don’t think he’s been videotaping his victims, do you? No, then he’d already have a VCR; those recorders all have playbacks…”

  Roberts looked over at Lockerman, looking him in the eye for the first time. “The news. He wants to tape the news, just like Dan did.”

  “Dan?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Why would he tape the news?” Lockerman rubbed his chin. “You don’t think he expects what he did to Dan and Judy to end up on TV, do you? That’s crazy!”

  “He’s crazy.” Roberts’ face twitched as he considered the possibility. “All along that’s been his sole motive, right? Getting on the news…we know that’s his objective. So maybe he wants to tape it when we report on him…or, hell, maybe he thinks that Dan and Judy will just go back to work looking like they do…”

  “Think he’s that insane?”

  “Never know. Imagine it—why else would he spare their lives? He’s killed everyone else.”

  Lockerman leaned back on the orange vinyl to ponder the idea.

  Roberts was getting excited. “I bet that’s it, man. Now tell me, what did you guys find on Judy’s body? I wouldn’t doubt if what he wrote was his message to the world or something moronic like that…”

  “Haven’t examined the tattoo yet,” Lockerman said. “So much shit all over her. What a waste; she was beautiful.” He sighed, and Roberts knew he was reminded of Tina Gonzales.

  “Well, I bet there’s a clue there somewhere. You can’t write a billion words and not reveal something about what makes you tick.”

  Lockerman raised an eyebrow. “How about the video of the convention? Anything there?”

  “Shit, I haven’t even been to the station yet. I’m too busy worrying about Birdy to even think about work. Fuck it.”

  “Yeah,” Lockerman said. “Fuck it.”

  Roberts felt something give inside his skull, an audible emotional pop. Tears were building up; he could feel them. He covered his eyes to hold them back. “John, listen. I’m scared shitless. Scared. You gotta promise me you won’t fuck up again like you did yesterday. I gotta know I can count on you to be there.”

  Lockerman raised a hand to touch Roberts, then pulled it back. “You got my word, man.”

  Roberts gulped down an immense amount of saliva, still forcing back the tears. He thought again about how the Killer seemed to be reading his mind, transforming his friends because he seemed to will it to happen. “He’s coming after me next, I just know it…”

  “Don’t personalize this, man. If you’re lucky, the Killer doesn’t even know who you are. It’s not like you’re an accessory to these crimes or anything. The TV news might have helped him, but that isn’t your fault, you just work there. You’re just doing your job….”

  “Well my job sucks.”

  “Don’t worry, Roy.” Lockerman finally rested a hand on Roberts’ leg. “I’ll take care of you, man.” He gripped his thigh tightly. “And I’m gonna catch this motherfucker if it kills me.”

  Roberts wiped his face—there were no tears. They were kept inside, as if he were saving them for something special. He wondered why men can almost never cry unless they force it to happen.

  Lockerman left around noon, when they still weren’t allowed to visit Schoenmacher. The weatherman wouldn’t be stable until later that evening, the doctor had told them. Roberts wondered if he himself would ever be stable again.

  II.

  Late Tuesday and Lockerman still couldn’t drown out his apathy, even with two pots of coffee burning inside his stomach. It wasn’t so much that he didn’t care—he did, and he meant every word of his promise to Roberts—but the fact that he was losing. Losing his friends, his drive, his mind. Losing the race against time, the race to get the psycho before he killed again. And the Killer was beating him, in every way he could think of.

  He swallowed the grainy remains in the bottom of his Styrofoam coffee cup, and forced himself to look at the photos again. The pictures from the hospital were more disturbing to him than any of the other victims, even Tina. Perhaps because these tattoos were on living people, perhaps because he could not distance himself from them, could not think of them as merely victims with important evidence rather than friends. There was something horrid in the contrast of cold, sanitary hospital white that served as the background against the police photographs of Schoenmacher’s weather map and Judy’s disgusting graffiti. It somehow gave the bodies the appearance of being already dead. Like morgue shots.

  He forced himself to concentrate on the facts, on the details, and to ignore the truth behind them.

  Schoenmacher’s body was inundated with a map of the United States in glimmering colors, just like the computer screens he stood before every night on the news. Swirling clouds, tornado symbols, the usual “H’s” and “L’s” that signified high and low pressure systems all covered his skin. There were “E’s” scattered awkwardly amid the “H’s” and “L’s,” too, giving the impression that the Killer was somehow trying to label the country HELL in the chaos of swirling symbols. Tiny three digit numbers with circles next to them—temperatures—were etched sloppily, randomly on the map. Thin black lines described the borders of the states inside the continent, but they were not real states at all: the borderlines were shaped like human and inhuman bodies writhing in orgy. In some of these areas, a little smiling sun shined yellow beams down on graphic sexual scenes. Thunderstorm lightning bolts and black commas of raindrops were stitched into the soft flesh of Schoenmacher’s penis and scrotum.

  Lockerman’s gut lurched, and he slid the photo ben
eath the stack on his desk.

  The photographer had done a thorough—perhaps too thorough—job of capturing the words that covered ever inch of Judy Thomas’ body in a labyrinth of lines and letters. To Lockerman, the initial look of the general outlay of the Killer’s inscriptions was one of a giant fingerprint, the dark sentences curved and looped across the woman’s flesh, arching and encircling each other. A maze of words. There were pictures there, too: images forming and unforming in the labyrinth of letters. But he couldn’t decipher them.

  The first photograph was of her face, of that dead, open-eyed stare that Roberts had talked about, with the blinding flash of the camera reflecting white light off her glossy, marbled eyes. Her entire face—eyelids, chin, nostrils, tongue, earlobes—was scribbled over with nonsensical words, cryptic words that Lockerman could not find a pattern in. The other photos were much the same: random, unpatterned words that expressed hatred, bigotry, misogyny, lust. The hyperactive rant of a madman—perverted like a rapist’s kiss across every inch of flesh.

  Lockerman realized that this finally proved beyond a doubt that the anonymous freak was indeed male. This—and the semen they’d found sprayed on the back of her thighs.

  On the photograph of her palms, Lockerman found what he was looking for, the word underlined with a laceration: viSiON OF THE mATCHmAkER. The requisite MKI was nowhere near the title, but he was sure he’d overlooked it somewhere in the myriad of words on each photograph. Whatever it meant, one thing was certain—Judy Thomas was number seven in the Killer’s series of victims; Schoenmacher was probably number six, though Lockerman didn’t have the strength to study his photograph for the sick inscription yet.

  Seven bodies, Lockerman thought, wondering what the connection was between them. They no longer seemed to be chosen at random—especially the last two, his friends. Schoenmacher and Judy had been tattooed and left to survive in some demented ploy to get on the news. Collins was killed to be a messenger of some sort. And Rodriquez’ murder was obviously premeditated—a murder of passion and revenge. Tina’s death made no sense at all, but…