Grave Markings: 20th Anniversary Edition

by Arnzen, Michael A.

  “I went to work, laying down the outline, using the magazine photo for reference. The Yuppie’s eye color was different than Jack’s, but I wasn’t gonna question his word. I inked it in, line for line, and gave him a matching eyebrow to make up for it. All the while I could have sworn I felt something moving beneath Jack’s skin, as if the eyeball was still there beneath the flesh, trying to watch every move I made, checking every dot I laid down for accuracy. It was fucking eerie.

  “Jack didn’t do too much fidgeting like most first-timers. He just kept the gun trained on me, with his muscles locked. His good eye watered, but he didn’t mind the small tears that dribbled out when he blinked. I think he kinda liked the pain.

  “After about an hour of inking his weird flesh, the hum of the needle began to get on my nerves. It was spooking me bad, so I tried to make conversation, which I would have done anyway under normal circumstances. My first words sounded forced. ‘What’s the story, Jack?’

  “’No story.’

  “I tried to keep my voice steady. ‘Where’d you get the gun?’

  “’It’s mine, Corky.’ His voice sounded like it was softening. I hoped he was calming down. ‘I’ve had it for a long time. Other than my bike, it’s all I’ve really got left.’

  “’Uh-huh.’ The tone of his voice proved to me that he had something to get off his chest. I waited.

  “’I guess I should level with you,’ he said. ‘Can’t hurt none, since after you finish you’ll never see me again, and I don’t think you’re the sort to call the cops.’ He lifted a cigarette from the pack I keep for customers on a nearby table and fired it up. His gun was still in his hand, but he had unloaded my .44 and set it on the table.

  “’I’m on the run. This homeless look is just a cover. I’m filthy rich, actually, but my money is stashed, and I can’t touch the stuff till I know the time is right, when no one can finger me. That’s part of the reason I want the eye, Corky.’

  “’Uh-huh,’ I said, egging him on. I wasn’t sure if he was telling the truth or if he was one brick short, but I didn’t really give a damn with that gun pointed at my chest.

  “’See, they had an APB out on me. I saw a Wanted poster at the fucking post office…can you believe that shit? It even had a picture of me and my patch on it. Probably got it from one of those security cameras in the bank I did. Anyway, there I was, my face hanging in the post office for the world to see: WANTED. I got the fuck out of that post office, but I’ll never forget the line on that Wanted poster, in bold print: “DISTINGUISHING MARKS AND FEATURES: Missing right eye. Perpetrator wears black patch to cover scar.”’ His face flushed red, and I could feel the heat of anger boiling in his skin. ‘How the hell could I beat that rap? Anyone could identify me! I’m a walking freak show,’ he said, near tears.

  “His hand was twitching—the one holding the gun. ‘So you decided to hide out with the bums at the park, eh?’

  “He paused a minute, then chuckled. He was glad to see someone could appreciate the twisted logic of his cover. ‘Yeah! I figured everyone ignores them. Hell, no one wants to make eye contact with a bum. And if they do…well, they’re all freaks there anyway, so I fit right in. It’s the perfect hideout, a fool proof cover!’ He laughed again. ‘I even fooled you, Corky!’

  “I began shading in the green iris of the eye I had drawn. I was almost done, and—hopefully—Jack was almost out of my life. Something about the way he was so proud of himself made my stomach turn. He was no better than the people who he said spit on the homeless: he was using them, and that’s even worse. I pitied Jack more than I had before he showed his true colors. But I had to ask: ‘So what’s the deal? Why do you want this tattoo?’

  “’You just don’t get it, do ya?’ He was still smiling pirate’s grin, but it looked pathetic without his patch on. ‘I’ve been casing you, and the city, too. But I’ve had it with this bum routine. I’m coming out of hiding, so I can get my money and get the fuck out of here.’ His voice was stressed, and raised in pitch. ‘And I wanna look normal, so no one will see my fucking ‘distinguishing feature.’ I’m sick of being old One-Eyed Jack. This tattoo is the perfect solution to all my troubles.’

  “Pathetic. Who the hell did he think he was gonna fool?

  “I quickly detailed the finishing touches, and leaned back to look at my work. It was the most realistic piece of art I had ever seen…more lifelike than the photo I had cribbed it from. The whites were off-white and slightly veined, the pupil had a shining wet gleam on it, the brow was a tad disheveled so not to look as if every hair had been airbrushed. It appeared as natural on his face as the other one, despite their opposing colors of blue and green. It was my best. Grace under pressure, I guess.

  “I handed him a mirror and the minute he saw it he howled, amazed at its perfection: ‘You did it! I can’t believe you fucking did it!’ Then he really lost his marbles.

  “It was a sick sight: Jack’s one eye rolling around on his face like a loose ball bearing as he gawked at his new image. His real eye looked inhuman compared to the tat as he ogled the mirror. In opposition, the tattoo looked peacefully forward in the steady look of a sane man. The tattoo was so good, so real that it was obvious an eye like that didn’t belong on Jack’s twisted, psychotic face. He looked like that TV detective—Columbo—on acid.

  “He was so soaked-up in himself that he had forgotten the gun was in his hand. It lolled side-to-side on his lap, begging for me to reach out and disarm the lunatic.

  “I did. He didn’t even notice. He just sat there, still staring at his ugly mug in the mirror.

  “I pointed the gun at him. He might as well have been in another world, a world that only he could see.

  “He was whispering to himself, uttering what sounded like baby talk. I leaned an ear in closer. Over and over, he spoke with the disjointed and maniacal voice of a madman: ‘I can see, I can see…my God, I CAN SEE WITH BOTH EYES!’

  “I didn’t even bother trying to intimidate him with the gun. Still, I kept it trained on him while I picked up the phone and dialed. All the while he was telling himself that he could see, describing the psychedelic visions he saw. It was pathetic. So pathetic, that I wanted to believe him….”

  “Jesus! What a story! If I coulda done a story about that guy on the news, you’d be famous! What did he get? A life sentence?”

  Corky paused. Pondered. Returned to Roberts’ tattoo.

  “No, I didn’t call the cops. He was right; I’m not the sort to go narcing on a man who’s down on his luck. I called the asylum, and they came and jacketed him. He screamed when they took the mirror out of his hands, but they injected him with some sort of drug to knock him out so he could be carted away without a struggle. As they dragged him by the shoulders out the door of my shop, his left eyelid was closed and flittering. His other one—the new one—was looking directly at me…inside of me. It was as if Jack was somehow winking at me, the tattoo giving me that beaming look on the side that says We know what’s what.

  “I haven’t seen him since then, but every Thursday afternoon when this place is dead I wonder just what that look meant when they carted him away. And I wonder if the asylum is just like the pen—where you can tattoo teardrops down you cheek. One for each year you do time….”

  VI.

  The tattoo was good. It still stung a bit beneath the greasy gauze pad that Corky had slapped over it, but that didn’t stop Roberts from peeling back the cotton mesh to inspect the new ink once he got home. He had to use a hand mirror, looking over his shoulder and at the reflection of his back in the bathroom full-length mirror to see the artwork for what it was.

  And it was good: an old-fashioned Royal typewriter, as shiny black-and-silver as an antique hot rod with a wax job from hell; in fact, it seemed to be on burning wheels as it bent toward Roberts’ spine like a race car in motion. The keys were silver dolla
rs and smiley faces, each with a minute pattern or symbol on them, drawings inside of drawings. And the more he looked at it (craning his neck till his throat hurt) the more he liked it: it even looked alive, almost, smiling up at him with its keyed teeth. Like a pet or a friend. It would certainly be a friend for life.

  Roy tried flexing his arms, rolling them, hunching his back to make the tattoo move, remembering Schoenmacher’s soldier buddy with an Oliver Hardy tattoo that would chuckle when he did push-ups. It jiggled, but didn’t look like it was typing or any silly thing like that. Roberts wondered what such an odd creature would type if it could actually do so. Surely not words, judging by Corky’s philosophy.

  Regardless, the tattoo made him feel stronger than he had for years, physically and mentally. As if this new creation were a coat of armor—or more appropriately, a coat of arms. It made a statement, something he hadn’t been able to put in words (chalk another one up for Corky), a declaration to the world that said: Take a look, world. Roy Roberts isn’t all bad news and boredom.

  As he looked in the mirror, he couldn’t help but mentally compare the typewriter tattoo that Corky had given him to the picture of Tina Gonzales he’d discovered in Lockerman’s house. He cursed himself for ever feeling attracted to the dead, albeit beautiful woman. In retrospect those tattoos were absolutely horrible in their violent desecration, like graffiti scribbled over a molested Mona Lisa. Roberts understood now why he had been sexually attracted to the photo: the dark imagery had brought out the woman’s inner beauty by inherent contrast—or maybe he was so shocked by the disgusting tattoos that violated her flesh that his mind force-fed him the good beneath the bad, whether it was there or not. The tattoo on his own shoulder blade reminded him that ugliness is not necessary for beauty to exist, that some things, some images, are naturally pleasing and attractive.

  It all went back to the good news/bad news dilemma that he’d wrestled with all his life: why does society always need to hear the bad news and dirty laundry day after day? To make themselves feel superior? Couldn’t they report on all the good things? If so, wouldn’t the positive image that the media provided change society’s outlook…maybe even people’s behavior?

  Thinking about his job began to anger him. He taped the gauze pad back over the typewriter, temporarily hiding it from the world so it could heal. He felt giddy, excited. The same sort of feeling he’d had ten years ago when he bought his first new car—he couldn’t wait to drive it around the block and show it off. But he knew that he’d have the rest of his life to do so, once the scabs sloughed off and the ink settled deep inside his dermis. Much like he was still proud to drive around his Chevy today, he hoped the pride he was feeling would continue.

  He prayed it would.

  He remembered that Corky had offered him a welcome to return, should Roberts wish to have the tattoo altered, to get a new one, or to just shoot the shit. Roberts liked Corky, he told a good tall tale and had a way with words despite his ranting and raving about how images were so much more important. With such a wonderful tattoo branded on his shoulder blade, he was beginning to see Corky’s point. Images were something he’d almost ignored—like the daily commute home from work, he had become totally anesthetized to the world around him. Working with words all day, five days a week, had just buried him deeper in a blindness to the world around him.

  Even his home life was missing that necessary imagery: the blue paint on his house was crackling and ugly, worn down by the cold Colorado winters and high-altitude ultraviolet rays that pounded its frame constantly; his backyard jungle was close to becoming a designated wetland; his clothing was outdated and clichéd; and he could certainly use a haircut. Schoenmacher had flat out told him how shitty he was looking lately, and he was now beginning to see that his comment was not mere small talk.

  He knew that getting the typewriter tattoo was his first step in changing his own image. He was now dedicated to showing the rest of the population not only how he saw the world, but himself as well.

  Because every image was unique. And Roberts was beginning to realize that maybe he was, too.

  But he wanted to make sure that he didn’t end up like One-Eyed Jack, a man so obsessed with seeing things that he ended up literally seeing things. That was nuts. Crazy. A gonzo-psychotic case of the Samantha-genitalias.

  But how much of what we see really IS all in our minds?

  Roberts wondered if imagery was one aspect of the Tattoo Killer (he was beginning to see his personal nickname for the psycho—Tattoo Killer—in capital letters, the way it would appear in his story once they caught the guy). Was he a man gone insane over images? Was he obsessed with seeing his inner visions on the outside of a human hide…or was he just a vicious, cold-blooded killer who had nothing better to do than doodle on bodies after he’d had his way with them?

  The questions were coming back—the Five W’s. “Shit!” Roberts yelled aloud in utter frustration.

  The phone shrilled back at him from the desk in his living room, an echo to his expletive. He casually walked, bare-chested, tattooed, and feeling—feeling what? Macho?—as he brought the cold receiver to his ear.

  It was Lockerman. “Guess what I did today, John? Got my shoulder blade…”

  “No time, Roy. I gotta get back on this case.”

  My God, he’s still at work on those initials? That only meant one thing. “Nothing’s turned up, huh?”

  “Nada. Except one thing. Reading the coroner’s report, I found out that Kuhlman was bludgeoned about ten hours before he committed suicide. Although these biker types frequently get in barroom brawls and shit, it’s my guess that the guy—or girl—we’re after knocked him out before turning him into a gearhead.”

  “Sounds reasonable.”

  “Oh yeah, another thing. It might mean nothing, but the, uh…” Lockerman broke away to cough. Roberts wondered if he was smoking again. “The second victim, Tina Gonzales, had those same initials on her. MKI. So we know that we’re dealing with the same motherfucker. I still can’t get over the fact that this guy signs his victims. Fucking sick, man.”

  “He’s an artist. Proud of his work.”

  “Since when do you know so much about artists?”

  Roberts paused, and decided not to tell him. He could wait. “Hey, did he give the second tattoo a title?”

  “Oh yeah,” Lockerman said, giving a whistle for emphasis. “Get this: ‘Mommy Birds and Killer Bees.’ Is this guy fucked in the head, or what?”

  It did sound stupid. Roberts wondered what sort of title Corky might give his typewriter. Probably none, since he thought that images spoke for themselves.

  Lockerman interrupted Roberts’ thoughts: “Ya know, I think he’s getting sloppy because he’s nervous. He knows were gonna find him soon. You don’t just put your John Hancock on your victims and not expect to get caught, ya know? The writing on Tina’s body was sloppy, man, even sloppier than the words found on Kuhlman—as if he were in a panic to get the job done or something. Or maybe he’s just fucking illiterate. Who knows?”

  “Could be,” Roberts said flatly. He was a bit upset at being lectured to, not getting a word in edgewise. Knowing Lockerman, he figured he was hitting the coffeepot hard, racking his brain to get a lead on the case. But there was something else behind Roberts’ resentment. For some reason, he felt as if he understood the Tattoo Killer a bit more than Lockerman possibly could—as if the experience of actually getting a tattoo had increased his knowledge. His wisdom.

  “I think so. He’s going down, man. I mean, shit, if he’s getting nervous, then that means he’s gonna slip up big-time. Then we’ll catch him. That’s the way to get these psychos, man. Press ‘em till they squeeze like grapes.”

  “Well, do you really think you’re gonna get anything else done tonight?” He looked over at a digital clock—a red L.E.D. timer like something left over from
the seventies—that blinked eleven twenty-three like a bad neon sign. Time had flown by…it was already Saturday night. “Why don’t I come pick you up, and we go out for a few beers?”

  “No way, Roy. I can feel him out there. Something tells me I’m gonna stumble on to something really big tonight. I’ll give you a call if I go stir crazy, okay?”

  “’Kay.”

  Lockerman hung up. Roberts suddenly wanted to scratch his tattoo. Instead, he carefully ran his knuckles over the gauze patch. It felt wet and lumpy. He wondered if it felt the same as the eye patch on Corky’s One-Eyed Jack.

  For just the slightest of moments, Roberts sensed the tattoo moving beneath the patch, rustling wetly against the grainy cotton gauze as if trying to bore its way out of his shoulder.

  He dove headfirst into his bed, figuring all that bourbon he guzzled at the tattoo parlor had seriously gone to his head. Sleep came quickly, an involuntary knockout punch from deep inside, and Roy Roberts was cognizant of no dreams at all that night, not even nightmares.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I.

  A week had gone by without any clues—or any additional victims that they knew about. Lockerman unabashedly hoped that the Tattoo Killer (as Roberts had called him) had not skipped town. He wanted him, all to his own. He had spent sleepless nights studying the photographs of the bodies—particularly Tina’s fine body—looking for something, anything to give him a lead. He’d traced the myriad of tattoos on each photograph, looking for some underlying pattern that the Killer could have drawn into their interconnecting images—it was impossible, like looking for a road map in tea leaves. Or more aptly: a needle in a haystack.

  But most of the time, late at night, he just shined his nightstick as he gazed into Tina’s eyes, praying for the chance to tattoo the Killer himself black and blue with painful, permanent bruises. MKI would be MIA when he got through with him.