by Sarah Lovett
Sylvia worked the ribbon loose—using the tip of her pencil, carefully avoiding touch—and stretched the neck wide. The contents of the pouch spilled onto a sheet of white paper, and she studied the objects. There were eight: a gold wedding band, a leather thong strung through six human teeth, a tangle of hair, a smooth brown stone, a silver and turquoise cross, a bundle of delicate bones, a tiny clay figurine, a chewed stub of a blue pencil. With a shudder she recognized the pencil as the one Lucas Watson had chosen during the evaluation session. When she shook the pouch a tiny sprinkle of white chips shimmered out. At a closer look, Sylvia realized they were the clipped remains of fingernails. Still, there was something else caught in the leather, and the pouch was softly extended around the bottom edges as if a form held it in place. At first, she didn't differentiate it from the skin itself, but her fingers probed and pushed and a ninth item slid out of the pouch. Dark and dried like an old apple, the ear was so weathered, Sylvia didn't immediately recognize it as human.
CHAPTER FIVE
THERE WAS A waiting list for Sunday brunch at Tortilla Flats, but Rosie was already seated in a booth. She raised a lipstick-stained coffee cup and smiled when she recognized Sylvia.
"Coffee for me, too," Sylvia told a waitress. She slipped out of her coat and tucked it over the edge of the seat. The air smelled of spices and tortillas, and neighboring tables were filled with parents, teenagers, and toddlers.
"What's up?" Rosie asked.
"I'm in a tight spot," Sylvia said as she slid into the booth. She waited while the waitress set a huge platter of stuffed tortilla, beans, rice, and a side of grease-puffed sopaipillas in front of Rosie.
"I ordered a burrito," Rosie said. "I couldn't resist."
The waitress placed a clean cup on the table and poured coffee from an insulated pot. Sylvia dabbed at the base of the cup and a small brown stain spread out onto the napkin.
"Share these with me," Rosie said, pushing the basket of sopaipillas and a plastic squeeze-bottle of honey toward Sylvia. "I'm listening."
Sylvia set the envelope containing the pouch on the table. She let the baggie slide out onto Formica. Through the slightly opaque layers, it was impossible to identify the contents.
Rosie pointed to her full mouth and wrinkled her nose quizzically. After she swallowed, she said, "What is that?"
"I didn't bother to put it back together," Sylvia said. "I didn't want to screw around with evidence." She watched while Rosie slit open the plastic runner with a polished nail and surveyed the contents of the bag. From an adjacent booth, a three-year-old tossed a wadded napkin over the Formica divider; it bounced off a salsa bottle and fell into Sylvia's lap. She aimed it gently back in the direction of the child.
"Is this what I think it is?" Rosie asked, pointing at one corner of the bag.
"An ear?" Sylvia kept her voice low and ignored the large woman, probably the mother of the three-year-old, who glared at the two women.
"Where the hell did it come from? Whose is it?"
Sylvia took a swallow of coffee, brushed a strand of hair from her eye, and stared at the overweight mother until the woman turned back to her family.
She held up her thumb and said, "First, I'd like to avoid getting my source fired. Second," her index finger joined her thumb, "I'm not at liberty to speculate on the ownership of the pouch. It should've gone directly to you in the first place."
"Why didn't it?"
Sylvia dropped her hands to the table, tore off a piece of sopaipilla, and leaned forward. "Because he was scared." The crispy golden dough disappeared between her lips.
"Who is the damn source?" Rosie stabbed at her burrito, tore into the soft tortilla with her fork, but she didn't bother to eat.
"One of your C.O.s," Sylvia said.
"One of my boys? And the pouch belongs to Watson?"
Sylvia's features settled into a neutral mask. She tipped her cup and glanced at the brown ring of fluid trapped in the bottom. "I want to know exactly what happened with Lucas." The cup fell back into the saucer with a clatter.
"You're handing me a severed ear, but you won't tell me which C.O. gave it to you, and I'm supposed to tell you the details of an active investigation?"
"Yes, I'm giving you the damn ear," Sylvia whispered. "I shouldn't even do that much." She paused and took a breath. "Anderson. He's your C.O."
Both women sipped coffee, and then Rosie nodded slowly. "It happened Friday night; Lucas went berserk. The doctor says psychotic break. He's medicated now. He had a copy of your evaluation; that seems to have been the trigger."
Sylvia slammed her spine against the vinyl seat cushion.
A busboy chose that moment to refill coffee cups and water glasses, and Rosie put her arms around her plate protectively. "I'm not finished," she said. When he disappeared with his coffeepot, Rosie relaxed her body and exposed the plastic baggie tucked next to her breakfast plate. "If this is a human ear, then I have to seriously consider the likelihood that it came from my body snatcher."
"It's human," Sylvia said.
"What's the rest of this stuff? A ring, hair, teeth . . . a gallstone? Jesus. It's a medicine pouch, isn't it? I've seen Native Americans who keep something like this."
Sylvia lowered her voice. "A medicine pouch . . . or a collection of trophies."
"How nice," Rosie deadpanned.
Unconsciously, Sylvia caught a lock of hair in her fingers and twisted it tight. "Quantico's Behavioral Science Services Unit differentiates . . . organized killers take their victims' wallets, rings, keys—anything that might help the cops. Later, they use those souvenirs to relive the glow. Disorganized killers might collect hair or body parts to make a blender pick-me-up."
Rosie stuffed a last bite of sopaipilla into her mouth. "Sylvia, please . . ."
"I see it two ways," Sylvia said abruptly. She raised her index finger. "It's a mojo or medicine pouch used to ward off or to inflict evil." She lifted her middle finger. "It contains trophies that can be traced to victims."
Rosie made a face and said, "The only thing that isn't in the pouch is Angel's missing pinkie. What? You've got that look!"
Sylvia stared at the pouch. "If this belongs to Lucas then my guess is category number one: mojo pouch. He's paranoid and he needs something to ward off the psychic evil all around him." She shook her head. "What will you do with all this?"
"Send the ear over to the D.P.S. Crime Lab. Then I'll question Anderson to see if I can confirm who the pouch belongs to. If I connect Lucas with Tapia's missing finger, I'll call in the state police and notify the parole board." Rosie crossed her arms under her breasts and stared at Sylvia. "But after last night, I don't think Lucas has a prayer with the board. I saw your evaluation, Sylvia. Lucas will blame you."
Sylvia nodded. "Sounds like he already has." Not to mention his father, she thought.
Rosie pushed her plate away and reached for her purse where she carefully stowed the baggie and its contents. "I promised Ray I wouldn't miss the entire football game—the Boys reaming somebody."
"Brunch is on me."
"Thanks." Rosie slid her way out of the booth. "Want to come watch football?"
"I'm going to do some work on your body snatcher." Sylvia held up a hand. "By the way, in your office you mentioned a missing hand, a missing nose. Who lost an ear?"
Rosie punched an arm into her down overcoat. She caught her belt and pulled it tight at the waist. "As far as I know, nobody. An ear certainly seems like something you'd miss."
SYLVIA STOOD IN the hall in Main's hospital and peered through a window. The tiny treatment room was empty except for a small examination table and a porcelain sink. The next room was just as small and packed to overflowing with a nurse, a C.O., and an inmate.
Sylvia left the treatment area and continued down the hall to the room where Angel Tapia had been quarantined when the body snatcher struck. The door was open and the room contained a hospital bed stripped of bedding, a chair, and built-in metal cabinets that lined t
he wall opposite the door. The trash had been emptied, the floor had been mopped, and the room smelled strongly of disinfectant
Sylvia entered, closed the door, sat in the chair, and looked up. The ceiling tiles were water-stained and corners had begun to curl. She imagined that Angel Tapia knew those stains by heart. There was nothing else to look at if you were lying down, nothing except the green floor, the green walls. She idly pondered institutional green; was it a product of World War II surplus?
She closed her eyes and focused on the muffled voices coming from the treatment cubicles. A female voice carried through plaster and concrete block. Otherwise, this room was a world of its own where Angel Tapia had been locked away. The nurse, LaRue, had taken a very long dinner break. And C.O. Anderson had monitored hall traffic.
Sylvia opened her eyes, stood, and turned panning all four walls. Whoever removed Angel's finger had planned his crime in advance, he'd also been flexible—
She froze and stared at the stainless steel cabinets. She could see her reflection. Or actually, she saw her hair and her eyes. The rest of her face was obscured by a dull film of . . . what? She stepped close enough to run her index finger across the surface. A gritty powder had collected on her skin. She sniffed: Ajax? Some kind of cleanser. But it was on too thick to be left over from a routine scrub. She finished her examination of Angel's quarantine room and left the hospital.
Sylvia found Main's inmate services meeting room deserted although an empty cigarette pack, the smell of smoke, and the scrawled greeting—WELCOME FRIENDS—on the blackboard were all evidence of an earlier AA, NA, or spiritual meeting.
She dumped a stack of files on the long wooden table. The prison's psych offices were in use all day as part of an annual mental health screening. For her purposes, she preferred the barnlike atmosphere of the meeting room; she wanted to spread out.
She sat in a worn vinyl chair and placed a two-inch-thick orange file on her left. Two years ago, a colleague who specialized in the treatment of post-traumatic stress disorder had interviewed members of the pen's general population who were Vietnam veterans. Sylvia had a copy of his abbreviated reports; they included general findings, brief statistics, and a list of interviewees.
The competent amputation of Angel Tapia's finger clearly indicated the cutter had some medical background. The possibilities included a nurse, an E.M.T., an army medic. She didn't know of any medical doctors doing time . . . or veterinarians, for that matter.
On her right, Sylvia set down a massive manila envelope. It contained a report authorized by the state's attorney general, February 1981. Subject: Known and suspected predators during the 1980 riot. Some were now dead, others had been transferred, a few had been released. But a half-dozen of the men were alive and well in Main.
For the next two hours, she read and reread documents. She scratched almost-illegible notes on a memo pad: name of each victim and every known detail of the crime, psych diagnoses of known predators. Several words were circled, others crossed out, and arrows pierced clouds. At a certain point, her thoughts lost their thread of logic and drifted like paper boats on a lake. She stayed almost immobile as minutes ticked by until she suddenly reached for her notes and scribbled Man with a mission.
If Rosie's instinct was correct, if the body snatcher's collecting dated back to the riot, he was in for the long haul. He wasn't in a hurry and his attacks were not random. His work was important; details were important. Specific parts? Perhaps a right hand was more important than a left, and a pinkie more important than a thumb. Or perhaps Angel Tapia's pinkie was what mattered? His mutilation was certainly premeditated. Sylvia was convinced the body snatcher's mission made perfect sense—to him if to nobody else.
She heard a horn honk outside the building, glanced at the clock, and wasn't surprised to find another hour had passed. Lost hours had become routine lately.
She went back to her notes and stared at the phrases she'd circled. Sunglasses crushed, mirror smashed, chrome surface dulled, window soaped. These were details from three different crime scenes where body parts went missing.
She stood, stretched, and walked to a window. Outside wire and glass, the sky had darkened; the clouds were chunks of charcoal. Sylvia's spine ached, so did her head. She leaned a shoulder against the wall, removed her glasses, and massaged her temples. A rhythmic noise, like a fountain or a gurgling brook, was coming from somewhere outside the building. She couldn't locate its source, but it had a calming effect.
Her eyes followed the repeating pattern of the wire grill that was two inches from her face: right in front of her nose. Neat, even, methodical; not flashy, not exceptional in any way. Just like Angel's stitches.
And then she saw her own reflection in the glass and smiled.
Sylvia retrieved a pack of Marlboros from her purse and tapped out the one remaining cigarette. She found matches and lit up.
She had an off-the-wall theory. He doesn't like to see his own reflection. The snatcher is shy. Why? A deformity? She didn't think so; not an external deformity, anyway. Could it be as simple as self-loathing? Religious penance?
The smoke tasted wonderful.
Last spring, the day Malcolm revealed he had cancer, she'd bought a pack of Marlboros. He told her it was a stupid, obvious way to defy her fear of death. She agreed. Now, she smoked only when she was alone; she coveted her secret habit.
She stubbed out the last of the cigarette when she heard a door close somewhere at the other end of the hall. That was followed by shuffling footsteps, probably a C.O. cleaning up.
She left her files and notes in the meeting room and strolled down the deserted wing. An inmate artist had executed a mural on the walls. The murky colors—black, gray, red, brown, purple—always reminded Sylvia of somebody's drug nightmare. Dark dreams of shadows, monsters, and demons against a nihilistic landscape. To look was to touch the mind of the artist—to look was painful.
"Hello," someone called out quietly.
Sylvia had reached the end of the hall. To her right, behind a glass wall, a desktop publishing system sat unused. The room was empty.
Who had said hello? Sylvia's attention turned to the open doorway opposite the office. It led into a large room, now almost completely dark. The sound of the fountain was audible again, but now it was more like a purring cat. And it seemed to be coming from inside the room.
Sylvia inched toward the main door and the stairs. Not water, not a cat, but breathing. Somebody breathing.
The door swung open abruptly and someone stood in shadow. A hulk of a figure.
"Nobody's supposed to be here now."
Sylvia caught her breath as a door slammed at the other end of the hall. She felt trapped. The figure moved forward into the light. He had the ruddy features of a redneck. C.O. Anderson.
"I'm locking up. Let's go."
Sylvia's muscles didn't respond immediately when she willed them into motion.
She found her voice and said, "I'll get my things."
She strode down the hall to the meeting room and began to gather up her files. It registered immediately: the pages with her notes were gone.
THROUGH THE 600 MM lens, Billy Watson could stand forty feet from the house and see Sylvia Strange in her kitchen. She was in perfect focus. Her dark eyebrows shaded deep-set eyes. Her unruly hair was tucked behind her ears. On her chin she had a faint dimple. And her neck looked creamy white except for the slash of shadow in the hollow.
The Volvo was parked at an angle in her driveway, and lights glowed from the living room, kitchen, and study. The electric halo illuminated patches of juniper and piñon surrounding the house, but the light didn't reach his hiding place on the south side. He had set up his tripod under a small cottonwood near the coyote fence. The moon, what there was of it, was shielded by clouds. There were no street lamps this far out of town, the nearest house was a quarter mile across the river, and his blue van was hidden behind juniper and scrub. If she looked out her window, she'd only see a tree.
He squeezed off two shots as she disappeared from the frame. Then, before he was ready, she was back. The whole thing felt like ducks popping up and down at a shooting gallery. Deep in concentration, he bit his tongue. The next time she stepped into frame, he just stared at her, focusing, refocusing. "Yes, baby, yes . . ." he whispered in the darkness.
He hadn't planned to come here. At home, he'd been restless, angry that everyone was calling his brother crazy. He knew better; Luke wasn't nuts, he just knew how to keep them off balance: they were scared.
Billy remembered one time when he was in third grade and Luke was in fourth. Luke had refused to talk to the nuns the entire day. He had clamped his mouth shut and smiled when Sister Antonia and Sister Margaret cuffed his ears and made him kneel on concrete. The next day, when Billy tried the same trick, it took one slap from Sister Margaret before he was blubbering and acting like a crybaby.
At home tonight, his sister Queeny was sick again. And what was worse, the old man was yelling at that lawyer Burnett. Luke would've smiled at it all, but Billy was still just a crybaby. So he'd gone out to cruise, out for a six-pack, and found himself on the road to her house.
Since he'd delivered the roses, he always parked in the same spot. It was a good place to smoke, finish the beer, watch. Seeing her tonight had prompted him to take his camera out of the trunk. He was good at photography—it was the only thing he'd enjoyed in high school. You could set up your own secret world through the viewfinder. The pictures would be a gift for Luke.
He wrapped his arms around his chest and paced. His breath came out in smoky wisps. When he happened to look up, he saw that the cloud cover was breaking apart and that stars had appeared, gleaming like glass shards. He lowered his eye to the viewfinder.
