The Sketcher's Mark (Lara McBride Thrillers Book 1)

by Chris O'Neill

  “I thought you said he didn’t kill women,” Beth said.

  “He doesn’t. Not the ones he thinks are Angels. Maybe he didn’t think she was one,” Lara said, hoping the truth didn’t sound as brutal to them as it did to her. She saw Brouchard further down the platform with Metro Police, pointing at the security cameras mounted on the walls.

  “They’re gonna pull the CCTV footage,” she said.

  “Good. We can get a picture of the guy,” Beth sounded hopeful.

  Lara smiled and nodded encouragement, just to give Beth something to hold on to. Security camera footage was often grainy and too far away to be of any real use for identification purposes. She looked at Jason, who sat in silence, watching what was going on.

  “Thanks for the back up,” Lara said.

  “I wanted to help,” he muttered, annoyed with himself for not having done more.

  “He was on that train. I saw him.”

  “You should have shot him,” Jason muttered.

  “I don’t have a gun.”

  “We can fix that,” he spat back.

  Lara considered, leaned in closer, lowering her voice so only Jason could hear her.

  “How?”

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Beth sat in the muster room of the Police station drinking a coffee at a desk by the window while Jason was lost in thought on the other side of the room, staring at the photos on the wall of the missing persons. He hadn’t said a word since they had returned to the station. In his office, Brouchard was finishing on the phone with the American Embassy. Lara sat at his computer looking over the surveillance footage from the St Denis and Chatelet platforms. The images were as successful as she thought they would be- they gave her nothing. The murder itself could not be seen, just the crowd of commuters moving across the platform, then the girl’s body falling backwards on the stairs as the crowd thinned out. Whoever her was, he never raised his head high enough to be caught by the cameras. Lara kept watching the playback a few more seconds until she saw herself show up on the platform. Just a few seconds too late. She would hate herself for that for a very long time.

  “It was worth a shot to see if we could get a clean image of him. Let’s get your PhotoFit artist up here,” she said to Brouchard after he had hung up the phone.

  The Inspector ran a hand through his thinning hair.

  “The girl’s parents have been informed. They’re on a plane already and should be here tonight.”

  “Is the embassy taking care of that?”

  “Of course; it’s their job. As for the PhotoFit artist, she’s on her way in,” Brouchard said, reaching for the pack of cigarettes on the desk. He offered one to Lara, who took two as she stood up.

  “I need to talk to Beth,” she said and walked out in to the main area.

  Lara walked over to where Beth was sitting. The rain spattered against the long window that ran the length of the room beside them, the city drenched in water and the sky stained with grey. Beth looked up as Lara sat across from her.

  “How you holding up?” Lara asked. “What’s going on in there? You can talk about it if you want.” Lara offered her a cigarette and Beth took it, her hands still trembling from the shock of it all. Lara lit both hers and Beth’s cigarettes and they sat in silence for a few moments with the rain pattering away and their thoughts running around in their heads.

  “It feels like somebody’s playing a game with my head,” Beth said, taking a gulp of the thick black coffee from the mug in her hand.

  “I need you to walk me through what happened last night. Top to bottom. There might be something you’ve left out, something you didn’t mention that could be helpful. Can you do that for me, Beth?”

  “Sure. And please don’t talk to me like I’m five years old.”

  Lara laughed. “Sorry. I don’t mean it to come off that way.”

  “Forget it. What do you want to know?”

  “Let’s start with an overview. Did you see anything you might call strange or out of place?”

  “Have you ever been to a fashion show?”

  “No.”

  “It’s full of people who are strange and out of place.”

  “Alright then, strike that question.”

  “I got here and I didn’t know what I was doing and I just winged it to make it look like I knew what I was doing. I’ve been terrified every time somebody talks to me like they’re gonna know I’m a fake.”

  “You’re not a fake. You’re doing great. Most people would have folded by now.”

  “I should have never let her go off with Fulvio. I should have never gone back to the hotel without her. She’d be alive right now if I hadn’t done that.”

  “This man we’re after was drawn to her for reasons that only make sense to him and he did what he did regardless of anything you could- or think you could- have done. Don’t let guilt get inside your head. It’s like dry rot in a house; once it gets in you start falling apart.”

  “Did that ever happen to you?”

  “Yes,” Lara said, remembering the woman with the shotgun at the ranch. “Some people are plugged in to something in their own mental ether that we can’t ever explain or understand. It only makes sense to them. It’s like a stain on their soul.”

  “How does it affect you? I mean, you catch these people for a living. I don’t mean to pry but how do you do it…?”

  “Sometimes it drives you a little crazy, sometimes you just can’t be around people and live in regular life. It just kind of infects you and I’ve seen people burned out by that. But feeling guilty about not having done enough to save someone is the first step down that road. You can choose not to go there.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Because it’s not your job to stop them.”

  Beth considered, took a drag of the cigarette, her eyes low as the words Lara had said settled in her mind and she tried to make sense of it all. She looked up, a renewed determination in her eyes.

  “So how do I help you catch him?”

  “Close your eyes. Try to visualize last night. Don’t just remember it. Try to be there in your mind.”

  Beth closed her eyes, took a breath and took herself back to the museum. The show was still going, she was pushing through the crowd to get to the busy backstage area.

  “I spoke to the designer we came here for. Melinda went to the bar.” In her mind, she could feel being bumped by the many assistants and models bouncing around backstage. She saw the designer’s face and heard her voice.

  Behind her, Jason approached, curious, wanting to hear what she might say.

  “She was in the crowd, lots of industry people, talkers, bullshitters, hangers on, people just trying to get lucky. She met Fulvio, he was there, very handsome, I can smell his cologne.”

  “Do you see the people in the crowd around you?” Lara asked.

  “Yes. Lots of beautiful people. Lots of wannabes and hangers on. The usual suspects except most of them speaking French.”

  “What happened?”

  “I had to call the office and tell them we got the designer.”

  “You found a quiet corner somewhere?”

  “There were no quiet corners. I went upstairs through the museum, under the pyramid, up the escalators to the door. Red carpet, photographers, people behind the ropes getting a look see. It was chilly. I had to get away from the people.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Over the rope. I told the security guard I was just making a call and I’d be back. He was a big, tanned guy, maybe Algerian or something. He just smiled. I don’t think he knew what I was saying.”

  “That’s good, Beth, really good. You went over the rope…” Lara prompted.

  “The fountain was so pretty. All the water jetting everywhere backlit so it sparkled. I made the call, told the boss we hit the jackpot and he started talking promotion. I hung up and I was so happy. Maybe I wasn’t a fake, maybe I can actually do this. The sketch artist asked me if I’d sit down
for a minute while I just let it all sink in. There were a lot of people in the square. We talked and he gave me the portrait. I went back inside, over the rope and down to the bar and met Jason and Fulvio.”

  Beth opened her eyes. She saw Jason and Lara were staring right at her, enraptured, knowing she wasn’t finished yet, even though she felt she had told them everything.

  “I’m sorry, that’s all I remember. What? Why are you staring me like that?” she asked.

  “Tell me about the sketch artist,” Lara said.

  “He was just sitting there. I didn’t notice him until he spoke. He was sketching me while I was on the phone and I sat for him. We just talked about…things. Life. Special places where you can decompress and get away. I guess we had a moment where we connected. He had the most amazing eyes. I kept looking at his eyes because I felt rude looking at his face.”

  Lara felt chills breaking out all over her. Beth could see the change in her.

  “Why didn’t you want to look at his face, Beth?” she asked, knowing the answer already.

  “Because he had scars,” she said, seeing the way Lara’s body had tightened up, her left hand balled in to a fist now.

  “Was that him?” Beth asked and Lara nodded.

  “Yes, it was. That’s the man who killed your friend and has my sister somewhere. You were sitting right next to him as close as we are right now.”

  Beth felt nauseous. She dropped the cigarette in the cup of coffee and stood.

  “Excuse me, I have to go to the restroom,” she said and hurried out the door. Jason looked over at Lara. She shook her head at him, let her go and, reluctantly, he did. Brouchard was standing in the doorway of his office, had heard everything.

  “I need to call Brenner in LA,” she said to the Inspector, getting up and, for the first time, feeling like she was a step closer to this man.

  “Who’s Brenner?” Brouchard asked.

  “He does body art in LA. I need to talk to him about these scars on our boy. The scars are the key. To everything.”

  Chapter Thirty Six

  Brouchard had the Skype call set up and waiting for Lara half an hour later. Beth had been taken downstairs with the Photofit artist and Lara was confident she would be able to give a better physical description than what she could muster from her still cloudy memory of the events under the bridge. The number she had given Brouchard to contact Brenner was a Hollywood area code and the man who answered was pale, stocky, with short cropped hair and tattoos up and down his arms and all across his chest. The Inspector took an instant dislike to the man. He was British, his accent pure south London. He moved when he spoke, unable to stay still for longer than three or four seconds at a time. If he was a tattoo artist, the Inspector thought to himself, he wondered if his work was the only thing that could make him stay in one place.

  “Hello, Lara, luv,” the tattooed man said from his shop in California.

  “Hi, Brenner,” Lara replied, a fondness in her tone that Brouchard had not heard until now. They had obviously known each other for some time. He sensed that she had a genuine affection for him but was keeping him at arm’s length.

  “What can I do for you, darling?” Brenner asked, a huge grin exploding across his face.

  “What can you tell me about body scarring?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “People who scar themselves in patterns. On purpose.”

  “You mean scarification? Skin tattoos? It’s for nutters.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “It is body art, but instead of using ink you use your own skin to make patterns.”

  “That’s disgusting,” Brouchard commented, more to himself than anyone else. Lara ignored him and pursued her line of questioning.

  “Go on,” Lara encouraged Brenner. She saw him take a gulp of what looked suspiciously like scotch and gather his thoughts.

  “Well, it’s fucking hardcore,” he decided, searching his mind for what he thought about the process. “I mean, the true nutjobs do it to themselves without a professional handy. It has more meaning that way if they cut up their own bodies.”

  “Are there shops that will do that for them?” Lara asked.

  “Sure, but you’re crossing over in to fetishism and the S&M community and they’re a secretive lot so good luck trying to get someone to talk. It’s not hugely popular, as you can imagine, so the clientele tend to value their anonymity and they pay accordingly. Like I said, good luck finding anyone who’d spill the beans.”

  “Why would somebody do this to themself?” Lara threw the question out there, already starting to form an opinion of her own.

  “People get tattoos to commemorate something. An event. A holiday. A person. Something that they want to remember because it means something to them. Scarification is the same thing. Except it’s not usually a fucking vacation they’re commemorating, you know what I mean? Has anyone told you today you are bloody gorgeous, Lara McBride?”

  “Yes. I am in Paris. How do you do it?”

  “You have to traumatize the flesh. Cut it, burn it, then meld it in to shapes and patterns. You do that enough and you kill all the nerve endings. You can’t even feel it anymore. Like when you turn me down for a drink. Tell me about the ones you’re talking about.”

  “They’re very intricate,” Lara said, trying to remember as much detail about them as she could. “They’re thick, like lips, almost tribal. Multiple lacerations.”

  “Where does he have them? I’m assuming it’s a man you’re after,” Brenner inquired.

  “They’re on his face. He may have others on his body, but all I saw were the ones on his face. Both sides, on the cheeks.”

  “Damn,” Brenner commented. “I’m not a psychologist, as you know, but in this trade, you get to learn a lot about people and how messed up their internal wiring is. I’d say your fella probably really hates himself. Or did at some point. He might have started out just hurting himself then somewhere along the line, he’s turned it in to an art form.”

  Brouchard turned to Lara, speaking low.

  “When Beth is finished with the Photofit, we should get the picture out to the tattoo and fetish shops in Paris. We might get a hit if somebody remembers him.”

  “Yeah, that’s probably a waste of your time, Francois,” Brenner called from the monitor, slugging down another hit of scotch. Brouchard looked caught off guard.

  “I’m sorry?” he prompted.

  “Like I said, they’re probably not going to talk to you anyway, but if these scars are as intense as you say, the fella you’re looking for sounds like a strictly DIY do it at home kinda fella. So, he wouldn’t have had anyone else do it for him, know what I mean? Don’t touch the merchandise sort of thing. And he probably doesn’t live in Paris.”

  “What makes you say that?” Lara asked, intrigued. She had had some ideas of where his home base might be before now but had not considered he was out of town.

  “Logically speaking, you’d need somewhere private to recover from facial scarring like that. You’d want to stay out of sight, not draw attention to yourself, so he’d stay home. Probably lives out in the boonies where he can chop himself til his heart’s content and nobody can hear him scream. God, there’s some sick fuckers out there. And I thought LA was bad.”

  “That’s an interesting point,” Lara said to Brouchard, who was trying to keep up with a woman whom he had already accepted was operating on a level far higher than his own. He thought it wise to just watch her and take mental notes.

  “If he has these girls, these Angels,” Lara thought aloud, “then he’s got to be keeping them somewhere. He’d need privacy and I’d been thinking a house with a basement somewhere in the city but he’s suggesting our man just visits and does his main work out of town. Maybe he has a place in Paris for when he comes in for special occasions.”

  “You mean to hunt,” Brouchard said, following her.

  “Exactly. Melinda said she was in a van in a garage.”
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  “Listen, I’ve got some tourists want Lakers tattoos on their arses,” Brenner called.

  “Sure. Thanks, Brenner. See you when I get back,” Lara said, moving to the keyboard to disconnect the call. Brenner moved in closer to the camera so his eyes filled the screen.

  “Is that a promise, luv?”

  “Goodbye, Brenner,” she said and hit “End” on the display. The screen terminated the call and she stood, looking over to see Jason leaning against the office doorway, no telling how much of the call he had heard.

  “So he’s punishing himself?” Jason asked.

  “My god, Englishmen on the computer, Englishmen in my office. Everywhere, it’s Englishmen,” Brouchard exclaimed.

  “I looked up this idea of ‘scarification’,” Lara said, pulling up a window on the computer that showed high resolution pictures of facial scars on African villagers. Jason moved in closer to see.

  “In their culture, it’s a tribal rite of passage. It marks the journey of transcendence from boy to man. Like hunters blooding their faces after a kill. In Western culture, it can be a more aggressive form of ‘cutting’.”

  “I went out with a lass who did that,” Jason said. “Nice girl. Y’know, beneath the crazy.”

  “Why did she do it to herself?” Brouchard asked.

  “She said she felt worthless. Her parents got inside her head. Made her feel like a failure, unloved, unwanted. They did a good job on her because her self-esteem was almost completely gone and she was big on self-destruction.”

  “Sounds like a good time,” Brouchard smiled, trying to alleviate the situation.

  “Yeah, it didn’t last long,” Jason said, lost in thought, betraying his own pain.

  “Patterns. Shapes. Art…” Lara mumbled, her eyes trailing out to look beyond the window of the squad room. She saw the night was closing in outside, the dark drawing nearer. She saw the rain falling on the window making crazed patterns that had no logic but their own, the buildings that crowded the city, walling in the people on the streets and boulevards below in a concrete maze. She was suddenly aware of all the shapes around her. And that every last one of them had been designed.