“Urgh!” I shout, slamming the lid of my laptop down. “This is infuriating! Think, Josslyn, think!”
I stand from my bed and begin to pace. If I can’t find similarities, then I need to find differences. Maybe the truth lies in the atypical clues versus the obvious ones. Smith was shot, point blank, dead instantly, while John Doe was murdered slowly and meticulously. His eyes were removed, carvings cut into his skin, and God knows what else Jim will find. The kill on Ryan Smith was quick and purposeful—he didn’t stand a chance—but the murder of John Doe was very calculated. Why?
I walk from my bedroom, through the kitchen, into the living room, through the bathroom, and back into my bedroom, making a continuous loop around my small, one-bedroom apartment. I mentally flip through the images, knowing the clues have to be there. As small as they may be, the clues are always present. Like a lightning bolt to a tree, the image strikes with unyielding clarity in my mind.
I run from my living room, falling onto the mattress. I scramble through the scattered images strewn across my bed until I find the close up of Ryan Smith’s head wound. Then I see it. Hidden under the blood, there it is. A small spider tattoo crawls up the right side of his neck.
I reach over to my laptop bag, pull a small magnifying glass from the pocket, and hold it in front of the picture. It’s faint, but it’s there.
I yank the lid of my computer open and put in my password. I click through the many images of John Doe, getting more frustrated by the second until I find the one I’m looking for. Right before I punch the screen on the laptop, the image I’m waiting for finally loads. I click on the zoom function and scan my mouse over the man’s neck. And it’s there, a black spider, no more than two inches around, appearing to be climbing upward. The detail isn’t the greatest on the picture, which means I will be paying Jim a visit at the ME office tomorrow to look at the bodies myself. Until then, I will search spider tattoos on the neck and see where that gets me. Probably nowhere, but hell, anything is an option now.
August 7, 2015 7:23 a.m.
“I couldn’t wait until you opened, Jim. I’ve been dying to get in here to look at these bodies. I might have found a link,” I announce as I push my way through the door and into the office.
The medical examiners’ office is considerably large. When you walk in, a sitting area greets you where a receptionist will assist visitors who are there to speak with the coroner or identify a body. Behind the reception desk is a long hallway. Going left will lead to the offices, and going right are the examination room, cooler, and labs. This is where we are heading.
Jim pushes open the swinging, stainless steel doors, and I follow close behind as I push down the excitement to look at a couple of dead bodies. Along the walls opposite the main entry are the stainless steel tables used to examine bodies. Each table has a sink at the head and some sort of drainage system at the foot. To the right of each table are medical instruments, a microscope, and a scale, neatly arranged and ready for use. The room smells peculiar, a mix of a strong bleach-based cleaner and blood. The air is cool and instantly gives me goose bumps.
Jim leads me over to the far table where a body is still lying on top. When he pulls back the sheet, John Doe is underneath. Jim has unfastened his stapled eyelids and shut them. It looks like he is in the process of finishing up his assessment.
I walk to the other side of the body and see the black spider tattoo etched into his neck. Located at the base where the shoulder and neck meet, the spider is like I assumed. It’s climbing up toward his head and is faded. To me, it appears to be homemade, and it seems like he’s had it for a while.
“Jim, where is Ryan Smith’s body?” I ask, keeping my eyes only on the tattoo.
“He is in locker number thirteen.” Jim points to the wall of individual coolers on the wall adjacent to the examination tables.
I waste no time as I make my way over to the wall and open locker number thirteen. I pull on the metal track then yank Ryan Smith’s body from its depths. The retractable bench moves with ease as I pull on the end and back pedal as it moves from the cooler several feet.
For some unknown reason, I hesitate when I unzip the black body bag. I don’t know if it’s because of the devastating wounds or the real possibility I am on to something. Whatever it is, it has to be put off for a moment. I need to see if his tattoo exists. Therefore, grabbing the metal tab, I slowly inch the zipper down, the sound of the disconnecting teeth causing chills to run down my spine. Using both my hands, I pull open the bag, exposing Ryan Smith.
The ample amounts of blood that had been covering his skin have been cleaned up, making his pale skin easy to study. I avert my eyes away from the large gunshot wound in his skull and look over his body. He has two large tattoos on his chest, all black and all random, weird, homemade-looking designs. The large carving of the V is even more visible now that the blood is gone.
I turn my eyes to the spider tattoo on the right side of his neck. It looks nearly identical to the other man. It’s small, faded, and also looks homemade. Okay, now I need to understand the significance between the two.
“They’re prison tattoos,” Jim says, startling me from behind.
“Jesus, Jim!” I shout then shake off the anxious feeling from him sneaking up on me.
“Sorry, Josslyn. Both the men have them. They are very significant when someone is incarcerated for a lengthy amount of time. I believe it’s Russian.”
“Russian? What in the hell do you mean?” I ask as he zips the body bag back up and pushes Smith back into the cooler.
“Do your research, Josslyn. There is a code between inmates in the Russian prison system, something that started back in the late forties, early fifties, I think. If you have these tattoos, you represent a certain sect in society, but you’ll need to find out what that is. I have a feeling there is more to these tattoos, but I have no idea what it could be.”
I look at him, completely dumbfounded that he knows this, but at the same time, I am extremely excited to have somewhere to start.
Distracting my mind from the tattoos, I ask, “Did you find anything else significant on the other man?”
“Along with his eyes missing, it appears he’s had all of his teeth removed. His mouth was glued shut, so we didn’t recognize that on the scene.” Jim walks over to the other body and points to his mouth. Sure enough, his teeth are gone. “What I find interesting is that the two men have no identity in the United States, but they are covered in prison tattoos, so they are in a system somewhere. If I’m right about the tattoos, I am guessing this man was tortured”—Jim points to the unknown man’s body and looks to me—“for information perhaps. But after completing the autopsy, I examined all his organs, and based on the time they started to go into decomposition, this man was alive when his teeth and eyes were extracted.”
“Damn,” I whisper in astonishment, looking back at Jim. “This is heavy, Jim, but why would he be tortured for information? What information could he hold?”
“No telling. When someone is killed in this manner, it usually entails some sort of retaliation. My guess is there is a war going on in the underworld, and Blythe Harbor happens to be the killing grounds.”
Before I can open my mouth to speak, my phone vibrates inside my pocket. Annoyed, I pull it out and look at the number. It’s Gabe.
I swipe my finger over the answer function and say, “Yeah?”
“Where are you?”
“I’m at Jim’s office. Why?” I put him on speaker and set the phone down while I study the unknown man’s tattoo more closely.
“I’m six blocks from the ports, over by the small airfield.” He clears his throat and continues, “It appears our killer has struck again.”
Jim and my eyes connect, our mouths dropping at the same time.
Chapter Eight
Nikolai
July 20, 2015 12:55 p.m.
Just as Stephan said, Monty was waiting for me when we arrived at Sea-Tac. As I stepped off the p
lane, Monty pretended to search my things. I informed him something of interest was left on the third seat from the back. With his greedy smile in place, I took that as my cue to leave the terminal and head toward the street.
A Lincoln Town Car was waiting for me when I exited the airport. I need to thank Stephan for this added touch. However, first things first. I need to get a good night’s sleep and get a mode of transportation. I will need to journey across the country in a couple of days in order to make it to Brooklyn for my plan to finally start to unfold.
I instruct the driver to take me to a nice hotel. Thirty minutes later, we pull up outside the Four Seasons where I am greeted by a very happy bellhop.
“Stay with my belongings,” I say to the driver who nods then gets back in the car.
I don’t worry about him with my luggage full of money. I know he can’t access it without a code, and it would look weird if I walk into this luxury hotel carrying my own luggage. However, my briefcase comes with me. I never leave it alone.
When I walk through the door, the contemporary style exudes from the every surface. The stone-covered walls are a variety of charcoal colors with accents of taupe scattered about. They interlink along the wall and up to the ceiling, giving the room a vast yet inviting feeling. The same finish transfers to the large, contemporary fireplace with ivory leather chairs facing each other. The orange glow from the fire dances against the glass and reflects off the soft lighting coming from the chandeliers above. Next to the fireplace is the long, white sandstone desk with a fresh bundle of white flowers bundled in a vase. I smile when I see the flowers. It’s a signature of mine when an innocent is killed. It’s my way of saying this isn’t what I wanted to be done, but circumstances left me with no other choice.
I walk up to the desk and approach a gentleman who seems very eager to help me. His smile is blinding as his eyes dance with excitement. Either this man is on drugs or really, really likes his place of employment. I look to his name tag and think Quinton is an appropriate name for him.
He flips his sandy blond hair, and I get the weird feeling he is trying to make himself more presentable for me. Annoyed, I straighten my stance after I place my briefcase down at my side. I glare at him, similar to how I did with the fat man, and show him I am here for business, not pleasure.
“Checking in this afternoon, sir?” Quinton rubs his lips together as if he just applied lip balm and shines his megawatt smile back at me.
I clear my throat then swallow down the anger I am feeling. I had to deal with men like him when I was in prison the first time, men who like to be with other men. It was not a good outcome for them once it was all said and done. In prison, I kind of understand a man’s need to penetrate something, but when the world is filled with millions of beautiful women, I feel fucking a man is simply a waste.
I snap my gaze to him and reply, “Yes, I need a room.”
“May I interest you in a Deluxe Bay-View Room? Along with the plush, large bed with fresh, soft linens, the room also boasts a sitting area with a state of the art television and small desk area. The view from your room is the breathtaking Puget Sound and Elliot Bay. Will that work for you, sir?”
“Yes, that will be fine.” I pull out my wallet and get my American driver’s license from the sleeve. I pass them to the man, and he starts punching in the information.
“You’re a long way from home, Mr. Black. I hope your trip from New York City went well.”
I nod assertively.
Many men know me by my given name, but for this last trip, I will only use an alias. As a way to cover my ass when I got out of prison the second time, I decided I needed a plan B that only I knew about. It’s a shady, dangerous business, and one can never be too careful, so it was always in the back of my mind that I would eventually need a way out. I just never thought it would be because of Stravinsky’s betrayal. I’m glad I was smart enough to make the arrangements it took for this identity, nonetheless.
I have an entire life created under my Vincent Black alias. I own a small, one bedroom apartment in New York City. I have an account in Zurich linked to this name, along with a back story regarding my career as a consultant. Of course, all of my identification is false, and there is no Vincent Black in the system. Then again, I don’t plan to be in the system, so it’s not a problem in my eyes.
I drift out of my thoughts when the clerk asks me another question.
“Do you have a credit card?”
The question baffles me for a second, and then I realize this is standard procedure for nice hotels like this. It’s been far too long since I’ve been in a clean, quiet place. I pull my Amex card from my wallet, making Quinton’s eyes go large when he takes in the black card. I guess nothing says you’re a rich asshole better than when you pull one of these cards.
When I was creating Vincent Black, Maxwell Beatty, the fraud genius I was working with, insisted I carry one of these elaborate credit cards. He said, if I wanted Americans to take me seriously, then this card is the way to do it. Apparently, they are only offered to the elite and will put you in an entirely different status. Like all my Vincent Black identification, this card is a total fake, but if it is run, Maxwell set it up to be pulled directly from my bank account with no one being the wiser.
“Do you have dry cleaning and laundry service available at your hotel?” I ask, knowing my suit needs a good cleaning, and I could use a clean pair of boxers. All I want to do is get to my room, shower, and sleep for two days. I’ve barely slept since I left prison, and I need a few days to regroup and collect myself.
“Yes, Mr. Black, we do.”
“Fine. Send someone up to my room in one hour to retrieve my laundry.” I pick up my briefcase and turn on my heels after he hands me my room keys then walk back out to the driver who’s been waiting patiently with my large suitcase full of money.
I snap my fingers, and the driver pulls the case from the back then hands it to me. The bellhop tries to take if from me, but I glare at him. He immediately backs down. Yeah, take this from me, and I will slice your fingers off, asshole.
I make my way to the elevators and ride them to the eighth floor where I quickly find my room. I don’t take time to study the layout. To me, all hotel rooms are the same—bed, desk, bathroom, and entertainment unit. I don’t require an upscale room with pianos, living rooms, and butler service. To me, this is luxury since I’ve spent most of my life living in a cavernous dungeon.
I remove my clothes, tossing them on the bed, and then turn to look at my naked body in the mirror. I’m the perfect killing machine, a weapon molded by Ademar Stravinsky to destroy without hesitation. I can do so much with my body alone, and I plan on doing it in the near future. My tattoos, although some faded, are still recognizable.
My eyes catch the eight-pointed stars placed on my shoulders. They were once the source of pride, but now all I see is betrayal and the hate that accompanies it. Before I can stop myself, I look over at my briefcase sitting on the bed and open it up. I locate my vinyl case of small, scalpel-like knives and pull one from its sleeve. I hate these stars, and I want them destroyed just the way Stravinsky destroyed me years ago.
I lift the knife to my shoulder and hold the tip over the faded, black tattoo then slowly run the blade diagonally down. Fresh blood beads and instantly starts to run down my chest. The crimson river floods from the laceration, creating a makeshift river through my pale skin.
The pain doesn’t even compare to the agony of betrayal. In fact, the pain is welcome. It feels like the devotion for my fellow brethren is oozing from my body, only to be replaced with pure, concentrated hate.
I repeat the same motion, creating an X over the star, then do it again with the other tattoo. Blood is running down my chest and torso, but I only look upon it with fascination. This will be the last time I’m willing to bleed over that man.
I walk to the bathroom and jump in the shower, washing the blood from my skin and the days of travel off my body. The pink water s
wirls round the drain, cleansing my body of a past I will never have again. The wounds I just inflicted are not deep, but will serve their purpose to remind me I am no longer obedient to the Vory V Zakone.
I step from the shower and quickly dry off. Walking from the bathroom, I drop the damp towel to the floor and finish my visual assessment of my naked body.
It’s been many, many years since I’ve looked at my body full-length in the mirror. More than eight years, in fact. My eyes start looking past the tattoos and focus on the other scars on my body—the wounds I’ve incurred due to the years spent in the life, each and every scar telling a story darker than the next.
My muscles from my shoulders to my feet are all sculpted and lean. I don’t have the largest muscles, but my body is trim and agile, making it easy to bounce from prey to prey.
I feel like a young man again, fascinated with what I see in the mirror. I glance down at my dick, remembering Anna’s mouth attached to it days ago and how tragic that was for her. She should have never opened her mouth. Then I think about the last time I had sex with a woman.
The night before I went to prison, I visited a whorehouse run by our organization where I spent the entire evening deep in pussy. I close my eyes, remembering the brunette colliding her body over and over on my dick while I had a red-head’s nipple between my teeth. The three of us spent the night fucking each other. I would have the red-head bent over the bed, slamming into her fleshy body while she had her tongue between the brunette’s legs. The night was hot and the best way to start an eight year stint in the hell hole where I was sent.
I admire what I see reflecting back at me and smirk, seeing how hard my dick is from the memory. I close my eyes and see the women sprawled out on the mattress, circling their clits as they wait for me to devour them. Then I wrap my hand around my cock, sliding it down the shaft and back up. With the memory of those two sexy women yearning for me, I stroke myself slowly and steadily.
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