Paint It Black

by P J Parrish

  “Breathe through your mouth,” Wainwright said. He nodded to the man in scrubs. “This is Vince Carissimi, the ME. Doc, this is Louis Kincaid. He’s working private.”

  Vince Carissimi was about thirty-five, tall and blue-eyed with shaggy salt-and-pepper hair. A pair of earphones hung from his neck attached to the Walkman on his belt. Louis could hear the tinny music. It was Jimi Hendrix.

  “Welcome to my realm,” Vince said. “Call me Vince. It’s Vincenzo, actually, but only my mother is allowed to call me that. Call me Vince. Please.”

  Louis glanced around. The room looked unnervingly like a kitchen. He noticed a sign on the wall. HOUSE RULE NO. 1: IF IT IS WET AND STICKY AND NOT YOURS, DON’T TOUCH IT!

  Louis’s gaze returned to the corpse. He had seen dead people before, but not like this. The man’s limbs were bloated and mottled, like smooth pale marble. There was a gaping black hole in the left thigh just below the groin.

  “How could you tell he was black?” Louis asked, without looking up.

  “The anatomic position of the mandible relative to the zygomatic bones indicates a Negroid skull structure,” Vince said.

  Wainwright sighed. “He’s bullshitting you. We found the guy’s wallet.” He pulled a paper from his pocket. “His name is Anthony Quick. He’s from Toledo, Ohio. Forty years old. Wife and two kids.” He paused. “I called Toledo PD. They’re sending someone out to the house this morning.”

  Louis nodded. He had pulled “messenger duty” often as a rookie with the Ann Arbor force. He knew the drill: We have some bad news, ma’am. Your husband is dead. We’re sorry for your loss.... Gentle but direct was the best way. But it never made it easier for them or you.

  Wainwright handed Louis a file. Louis scanned the dossier and then looked at the copy of the license picture. Anthony Quick was a good-looking man, light-skinned with close-cropped black hair and dark eyes that stared out with the slightly irritated look of a man who had waited a long time in line to get his renewal. Louis had a sudden image of two kids waiting at the window for Dad’s car to pull up.

  “We found a Holiday Inn key in his pocket. Sheriff’s guys are checking it out.”

  “Sheriff?” Louis asked.

  “It was from the hotel over in Fort Myers Beach. Separate city, so it’s county jurisdiction,” Wainwright said flatly.

  Louis watched Vince use what looked like pruning shears to cut away the rib cage. “The newspaper said he was a tourist,” Louis said.

  Wainwright shook his head. “Not really. A computer software salesman. In town for a convention. Had a schedule in his pocket.”

  Vince was now carefully cutting away the last of the tissue holding the chest plate. The organs lay exposed now, an amorphic mass of pink and white. Louis stared at it, fascinated.

  “Where’s his heart?” he asked.

  Vince pointed with his scalpel. “It’s covered by the pericardial sac.” He smiled. “Doesn’t look like you thought it would, does it?”

  “You said the MO was the same as Tatum?” Louis asked.

  Wainwright nodded. “Shot in the leg, stabbed, then beaten. Show him, Doc.”

  Vince pulled the flap of skin off the face. Louis almost gagged. The face was bloated from being in the water but the right side was completely flattened.

  “Horribile dictu,” Vince said.

  “We figure he was thrown in the water right after that,” Wainwright said.

  “So he died of the stabbing, like Tatum?” Louis asked.

  “Actually, it was asphyxia,” Vince said. “The guy drowned.”

  “Doc thinks he was still alive when he was dumped in the water,” Wainwright said.

  “Barely,” Vince said. “If he hadn’t been thrown in the water, he would have bled to death.”

  “Was he killed on the shore of this reserve?” Louis asked.

  Wainwright shook his head. “There is no shore, no beach. Out there, just mangroves. Bakers Point is pretty isolated. There’s one entrance road and no other way in except by boat. Not much of a tide there, kind of swamplike.”

  “Who found him?” Louis asked.

  “Fishermen. He was in the water for a couple of days.”

  “Probably two,” Vince said. “Skin and fingernails separate after about eight days.” He held up one of the hands. “He had defense wounds on his hands. I suspect he was cut trying to ward off the knife. He might have even tried to grab the blade at one point.”

  Louis was staring at the gashes on the bloated left hand. He could see an indentation on the ring finger where Vince Carissimi had apparently cut off a wedding band.

  “You match the knife yet on Tatum?” Wainwright asked, from behind Louis.

  “Nope,” Vince answered. “I thought at first it was one of your garden-variety kitchen Henckels. Found a butcher knife in my catalog with the same twelve-inch blade. But Tatum’s wounds indicate the blade has an upward curve to it. It looks like these wounds are similar.”

  “So it’s not your run-of-the-mill switchblade or pocketknife?” Louis asked.

  Vince shook his head. “Not even close.”

  Wainwright sighed. “Shit. Well, keep looking.”

  Louis’s eyes traveled the body, coming to rest on the wound on the thigh. “Do you know what gauge shotgun he used?” he asked.

  “The shooter used blanks,” Vince said.

  Louis felt Wainwright come up behind him. “Blanks?” he said. “Damn. It looks like a real gunshot.”

  “The explosion of gases leaves a wound just like pellets,” Vince said. “Tatum was the same, by the way. No pellets. Just the hole.”

  “Why the hell would he use blanks?” Wainwright murmured.

  “Maybe he just wanted to disable him first,” Louis offered.

  Wainwright looked at him and nodded.

  Vince was slicing open a thin membrane in the chest. “Oh, by the way, I found something else strange. He had minute traces of paint on him. In the pores on the neck and face.”

  “Paint?” Wainwright said, blinking. “What kind of paint?”

  “I don’t know. It was black.”

  “New? Old?”

  Vince shrugged. “Hard to say. There wasn’t much, but it could have washed off. You want me to send it out?”

  Wainwright nodded, lost in thought. Louis was looking again at the corpse. If there was black paint on the mutilated, mottled body he sure couldn’t see it.

  “Did Tatum have paint on him?” Louis asked.

  Vince’s blue eyes met his. “Not a trace.”

  “You’re sure?” Wainwright asked.

  “Of course I’m sure. After I found the paint on this one, I went back and checked. No paint on Tatum.”

  Wainwright shook his head. “Damn.”

  Vince snapped off his gloves. “Well, I’m done here. You guys wanna go for coffee and bagels?”

  “That’s it?” Louis asked.

  “Oh, no,” Vince said, taking off his scrub shirt. He was wearing a gaudy Hawaiian shirt beneath. “Octavius runs the gut.”

  They followed Vince Carissimi out into the hall. The large black man was still there, reading a paperback copy of Edith Hamilton’s The Greek Way.

  “He’s all yours, Octo,” Vince said. “Don’t forget to tie off the subclavian. I don’t want to get a call from some pissed-off mortuary jockey in Ohio.”

  The man grunted and went into the autopsy room. Vince saw Louis watching him.

  “Octavius is the diener,” Vince explained.

  “What’s a diener?” Louis asked.

  “It’s a German word that means servant, but he’s really an assistant. Octo’s been here forever. Sometimes I think he knows more about carving than I do. Experto crede . . . trust one who has experience.” Vince turned to Wainwright. “So, breakfast or lunch?”

  “Already ate, thanks,” Wainwright said. “You go if you want, Kincaid.”

  Louis shook his head.

  Vince looked disappointed. “Well, next time you make it over to the m
ainland, my treat.” He held out a hand to Louis. “Good to meet you.” The ME disappeared, trailing Hendrix after him.

  “Strange guy,” Louis said.

  “Vince knows his stuff,” Wainwright said. “Likes to try to impress you though, with the Latin shit.”

  Louis looked up at the sign above the door. “Mortui vivos docent,” he read.

  “ ‘The dead teach the living,’ ” Wainwright said. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  They walked out into the bright sunshine toward the parking lot. It was about seventy-five and the breeze had a briny tang even though they were miles from any water. Louis pulled the air deep into his lungs, trying to clear his head of the smells from inside. He watched a small airplane lift off from nearby Page Field and hover like a balsa glider until it disappeared into the clouds.

  “You need a ride?” Wainwright asked.

  “No, thanks. I borrowed Sam Dodie’s car,” Louis said.

  “Nice folks, the Dodies,” Wainwright said. “I met ’em at a Rotary party.”

  “Yeah,” Louis said with a slight smile. “I’ve been staying with them.”

  “How’s your ribs, by the way?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “I should have warned you about Levon,” Wainwright said. “He’s got a history of drug abuse. From the looks of it, I’d guess he was on something yesterday. Maybe PCP. Like I said, you’re lucky he didn’t kill you.”

  Louis slipped on his sunglasses. “You’re still convinced he killed Tatum?”

  Wainwright nodded. “Like I said, he’s got a history.”

  “Have you known Levon to ever carry a knife?”

  “He had a switchblade on him last time we arrested him.”

  “But these wounds aren’t from a switchblade.”

  “He could’ve used a different one.”

  “But why Anthony Quick? Levon has no motive for that.”

  Wainwright hesitated. “Like I said, Levon has a history. He’s got some mental problems. And the MO was the same.”

  “Except for the paint.”

  Wainwright looked at Louis. “Maybe the paint means nothing. Maybe Quick painted his house or something before he got here.”

  “His dossier said he sold software for Novel,” Louis said. “You ever know a computer geek who got his hands dirty?”

  “Look, right now I don’t even know if these two murders are related. Right now, I gotta find Levon.”

  “Any sign of him yet?”

  “No,” Wainwright said. “We got an APB out, and I have someone watching Roberta’s house and the store. Levon stayed in a room in the back sometimes. But he’s not coming back.”

  “So what’s your next move?” Louis asked.

  Wainwright was looking out at the airstrip again. “I don’t know,” he said tightly.

  For several seconds, they just stood in the warm sun, soaking it in. Wainwright seemed absorbed in watching the planes.

  “I came here to retire,” Wainwright said softly.

  Louis waited, sensing Wainwright wanted to say something more. But Wainwright just let out a deep breath.

  “Well, I gotta get back,” he said, turning.

  Louis watched Wainwright walk toward his cruiser. He noticed he had a subtle limp.

  Wainwright stopped and turned suddenly. “Hey, Kincaid,” he called. “I just thought of something. I think I know where Anthony Quick was killed. Wanna come along?”

  Chapter Nine

  He expected pine trees, mossy paths, and maybe a deer or two. That’s what preserves looked like in Michigan. But he was in Florida now, where the earth smelled of rotting things and the spindly trees were packed dense, their branches twisting up to the sun like tortured fingers, their roots curving down into the water like inverted rib cages. Mangrove trees, Wainwright called them, as they drove past a sign that said MATLACHA NATURE PRESERVE. They didn’t look like trees to Louis. They looked like skeletons frozen in the black water.

  The reserve was on the southern tip of Sereno Key, where the neat little neighborhoods ended and the land trickled off to melt into the brackish water. The water here was different than over on the bay. There, out in the open, it caught the sun and was moved by the tides and the wake of human activity. Here, it was dark, still, and primordial, frosted with a thin layer of algae.

  Louis looked out over the mangroves. “There’s no way someone could get through those trees and wade out to the water,” he said. “Where do you think he threw him in?”

  Wainwright lowered the visor as he took a curve in the narrow, hard-packed dirt road. “There’s an old boat ramp up here somewhere.”

  They passed a small wooden sign that said NATURE WALK. Louis craned back to look for a path but saw nothing but dense brush. “What the hell is there to see out here?”

  “Birds mostly,” Wainwright said. “Tree huggers like this place. It’s kept natural on purpose. I guess they feel it makes them one with God and all that shit. Me, all I see is a swamp.”

  Wainwright took another curve and stopped suddenly. They had come to a clearing where the trees opened abruptly onto blue sky. In front of the squad car was a wooden boat ramp that dipped down into the tannin-brown water.

  “This is it,” Wainwright said. “The only place he could have dumped him.”

  Louis thought suddenly of the garbage on the causeway. “How do you know Quick wasn’t dumped somewhere else and the tide carried the body to where it was found?” he asked as he got out.

  “I checked with a fishing guide I know,” Wainwright said. “Bakers Point is a small basin, with little water movement. Plus I just got a feeling.”

  Wainwright was walking the ramp, his eyes scouring the planks. Louis joined him. The warped wood was old and sun-bleached to gray. But there was no sign of blood or paint. The air was hot and still, with no sounds—from animals or water.

  “Jesus, this place stinks,” Louis said.

  “Tide’s out. That’s nature for you,” Wainwright said. “Lots of things in nature stink.”

  Louis chuckled. “See anything?”

  “Nothing,” Wainwright said, crouching to peer at the planks. “Shit, there has to be some blood. He was stabbed eighteen times.”

  Louis wandered over to the edge of the road, scanning the dirt around the ramp. It was flat and smooth, as if it hadn’t been walked on in years.

  “When did it rain last?” he called back.

  “The night Tatum was killed,” Wainwright said. “But even so, a man bleeds this much, it doesn’t matter. There would still be something to see on this old dried-up stuff.”

  Louis turned. “Like spray paint?”

  “Spray paint? Why do you think it was spray paint?”

  “I doubt he’d take the time to use a brush.”

  Wainwright started to stand up with a groan and Louis extended a hand. Wainwright accepted it, rising to his feet.

  “I still don’t think the paint means anything,” he said.

  “Maybe it does to the killer,” Louis said.

  “Then why didn’t he paint Tatum?”

  “I don’t know,” Louis said.

  Wainwright glanced around. “Shit, I was so sure this was the place.”

  Louis wiped his sweating brow. The boat ramp emptied into a narrow channel of mangroves. Louis spotted a beer can in the mangrove roots. From far off came the faint whine of a boat’s motor. Louis thought of the fishermen who had found Quick’s bloated body. They probably thought they were looking at a clot of trash, like the garbage caught in the rocks up on the causeway.

  He turned to Wainwright suddenly. “Dan, could you call your office and have them pull the evidence sheet from the Tatum scene?”

  Wainwright stared at him. “Why?”

  “I got a hunch about something.”

  Wainwright radioed in and Louis waited until Wainwright’s man had the evidence sheet. Louis started to speak, but Wainwright held up a hand. “Never mind, I think I just figured out what you’re looking f
or. Jones, check the sheet of all that garbage we picked up around Tatum on the causeway and tell me if you got a can of spray paint on it.”

  They waited. Something splashed. Louis eyed the trees, expecting to see a gator come crashing out.

  Finally Jones’s voice came back. “Yes, sir. One half-full can of Krylon spray paint. Black satin. No prints.”

  Wainwright looked at Louis. “The motherfucker dropped it in the rain,” he said softly. He told Jones to run the can over to the lab, then signed off. He slid the radio back and looked at Louis.

  “Any other ideas?” Wainwright asked.

  “Yeah. The Nature Trail,” Louis said.

  They backtracked to the trail sign and parked. The trail itself was a primitive, twisting boardwalk of old planks over the swampy ground, seemingly heading nowhere.

  Louis opened his shirt, growing hot from the afternoon sun, and wiped his brow with his sleeve. Wainwright forged ahead on the boardwalk, unfettered by the heat, making his way through the tunnel of mangroves like a bear in the woods.

  As they walked, Louis eyed the planks for signs of a struggle, drops of blood, ripped clothing, but there was nothing.

  “Watch out for snakes, Kincaid,” Wainwright called back. “Don’t worry about the gators. They’re usually asleep in the heat of the day.”

  Louis stopped, his eyes darting to the brush. He heard Wainwright chuckle but then go silent as he came to a stop.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Wainwright said softly.

  Louis hurried up behind Wainwright. Wainwright stood next to a sign that said SCENIC OVERLOOK. In front of him was a wooden platform.

  “I didn’t even know this was here,” Wainwright said.

  “Well, you’re not into this nature shit,” Louis said, walking ahead.

  They went to the base of the platform and stopped cold. There were dark brown stains on the gray wooden steps.

  “Bingo,” Wainwright said.

  Some of the bloodstains were splatters, others streaks. “It looks like he dragged him up,” Wainwright said. “Careful going up.”

  Slowly, avoiding the bloodstains, they ascended the ten steps. The platform was about six-foot square and it left them just above the tree line. To the east, across the narrow inlet, there was another body of land. But Louis didn’t focus on it. His eyes were drawn immediately to the large brown bloodstain in the middle of the platform. It radiated out nearly three feet. On one edge of the stain, black overlapped the brown.