Skin Deep

by Jerome Preisler

  “Very closely,” Phillips said. He pressed his thumb into the swelling, and red fluid welled up. “This section was basically turned to mush. But my CT scan revealed even more problems—give me a second, and I’ll show you.” He reached for a scalpel, held the brain over his sink, sliced it along the fissure separating the right and left hemispheres, and then split it cleanly in half with his hands. A juice of blood sloshed down between them into the basin.

  Catherine shook her head. “Boy, she really hemorrhaged.”

  “There was no room for all that bleeding. It caused a pressure buildup in her skull and brain, even with some of it draining from her wounds.” Phillips held one of the oval halves to display its interior. “The majority of burst cerebral capillaries are here in the left hemisphere.”

  The part of the brain responsible for linear, sequential thought and long- and short-term memory. Catherine’s next question was meant to confirm what she’d already deduced. “How would that have affected Laurel’s mental condition?”

  “She’d have become increasingly confused,” Phillips said. “Disoriented…”

  “Maybe even gotten up to phone the police, then gone back to replace a book without knowing the state she was in?”

  “One woman’s tea is another’s copy of Darwin.” Phillips gave a thready smile. “In view of the evidence, it’s a distinct likelihood that’s what happened. It’s even possible she was too zoned out at that stage to be aware of the wound on her arm.” He shrugged. “Her loss of consciousness was progressive and gradual. As the pressure in her head reached a critical stage, she would have suffered an acute traumatic stroke. I’d guess that’s the cause of death, though hypotension from general blood loss could have contributed.”

  Catherine let that settle in. “Assuming that Laurel blacked out when she was shot, do you think she could’ve come around again and then gotten up to make her call?”

  Phillips slowly returned to his scale and redeposited the brain segments into the pan. “When she finally slipped into a coma, she stayed that way.” He exhaled and went on without facing her. “In my opinion, Laurel Whitsen was still conscious when she was skinned alive. She would’ve known—and felt—everything the killer did to her. If that’s what you’re asking me, Catherine.”

  She stared at his back in silence. Pictured Laurel staring up at the killer while he crouched over her with his cutting tools.

  As she left the room, Catherine started peeling off her surgical gloves and realized her hand had tightened into a fist. She had to wait a few moments before it would unclench.

  * * *

  Langston swung the Ford Taurus beater toward the parking lot in front of Raven Lunar, one of several tattoo shops lined in close proximity along South Valley View Boulevard, a tidy commercial strip on the west side of McCarran International Airport. The car knocked over the curb cut.

  “Wow,” Greg said from the passenger seat. “Shocks must be optional these days.”

  Langston smiled a little. Although he’d eyed a brand-new Mustang back at headquarters, it came as no surprise to him when the req officer on duty instead handed those keys to Nick and Sara. All things within the LVPD, including its criminalistics bureau, had a pecking order based on status and seniority. He had learned this with some embarrassment in his first days at the lab, when he’d found nowhere to put his crime-scene kit, boxes of case files, or even his sport jacket, forcing him to haul everything from room to room on a luggage cart, only to be repeatedly—and unceremoniously—told to run along.

  He keyed off his ignition now, checking the dash clock as the Ford groaned to a halt. It was eleven forty-five, slightly more than three hours from the time Laurel Whitsen made her strange, disjointed 911 call from the library. Although it opened at noon according to Raven Lunar’s website, Langston saw a silver Lexus hybrid had pulled up to its entrance, stylized versions of the studio’s name and blue moon logo painted on the flanks, hood, and bumpers. Someone was already there.

  “We’re definitely in the wrong line of work,” Greg said. He was looking out at the vehicle. “That’s some chariot. Tattoos and all.”

  Langston smiled a little. “Have you ever considered one?”

  “A tat?”

  “Right.”

  Greg shook his head. “I keep changing how I get my hair cut,” he said. “It’s hard to see doing anything that permanent to my body.”

  Langston sat quietly a moment. “I have,” he said. “Once or twice.”

  “You aren’t serious.” Greg looked at him and pulled a face. “You are serious, huh?”

  Langston continued to smile. “Why do you sound so surprised?”

  “I don’t know.” Greg hesitated. “I’m not sure I can picture you rolling up your sleeves to show off a fire-breathing dragon on a pile of demon skulls.”

  Langston was quiet again, his expression growing thoughtful. “I’d actually considered something hidden,” he said. “Of very personal significance.”

  “Like …?”

  “I think that if I shared it with you, it would no longer be personal.” Langston nodded toward the tattoo shop. “Come on. Let’s see if anyone in there will speak with us about Laurel.”

  They found the place still closed. Langston cupped a hand over his eyes, peered through the glass door, and saw a woman with short, choppy black hair sitting behind a computer at the front desk.

  He was about to ring the bell when she glanced up from her screen, motioned for him to wait, then rose from her chair. The CSIs had their ID cards on lanyards around their necks, and she quickly scanned them through the door before unlocking it.

  “Hi,” she said. “I’m Raven.”

  Langston looked at her. “Lunar?”

  “Right.”

  Langston paused. He supposed he hadn’t expected her name to match the shop’s. Why, though? Bringing presumptions into the field—large or small—left him vaguely disappointed with himself.

  “May we speak to you?” he said. “I realize it’s before business hours…”

  “Are you here about Laurel?”

  Langston could see now that her mascara was smudged. She’d been crying.

  “Yes.” He tilted his head sideways. “How did you know?”

  “I listened to the radio driving in,” she said. “They had a story on the news. I heard her name… she’s one of my clients.”

  He nodded. “We have some questions,” he said. “If you don’t mind.”

  Raven Lunar stood there nervously ruffling her hair. She was pretty, full-figured, and in her early to mid-thirties, wearing black three-quarter tights and a low-cut violet tank top that showed a large rose tattoo on her arm and offered a deep view of silver-blue mermaids riding dolphins bareback across her generous cleavage. She had a row of small purple rings in her left eyebrow, a black stud in her right, what looked like spiral loops in the upper rim of one ear, and assorted metal tapers and hooks in the other.

  “Come in,” she said. “I’ll tell you whatever I can.”

  The CSIs entered, Langston making introductions as she held the door for them. The studio was small but bright, with traditional green and blue Japanese fish kites on the wall beside the front desk and a black leather tattoo chair, wall mirror, and countertops toward the rear.

  “Koinbori,” Langston said. He was pointing up at the windsocks. “They’re very nice. In Japan, they’re hung each year on Children’s Day—the fifth of May, I think. They symbolize courage and perseverance—”

  “Because carp can swim against the strongest currents,” she said, finishing the sentence. “I kind of understand how that feels. But I also like fish, the ocean, anything to do with mermaids.”

  Langston was slightly embarrassed to realize he’d noticed. He nodded toward the chair in back. “Is that where you apply your tattoos?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Well, mostly. I’ve got a second studio upstairs if people want privacy. For certain areas on the body.”

  “And is the same true fo
r scarifications?”

  Raven shook her head. “I wouldn’t attempt them.”

  “Oh,” Langston said. “I thought you might. Laurel Whitsen had several.”

  “Yes,” Raven said. “They’re beautiful. But scarification and implant art are a specialty. You can count the real experts on your fingers.”

  “Do you know who did the work on her?”

  “Sure,” Raven said. “Mick’s place is close by. Right down the street, actually…”

  “One second, please.” Langston reached into a trouser pocket for his digital voice recorder and thumbed it on. “Can you give me his full name?”

  “Mick Aztec. He might be the best in the country. Everybody’s trying to copy his techniques.”

  Langston nodded in silence. He’d heard of him, and recently, too. But at the moment, he couldn’t recall where.

  “The work Mick did for Laurel is… was… exceptional,” Raven went on. Her voice caught. “We collaborated on a back piece together.”

  “The flowers and branches,” Greg said.

  “That’s right.” Raven turned to face him. “You’ve seen it?”

  “She’s been examined by the coroner,” he said, his gaze meeting hers. “He took photos.”

  Raven’s eyes lowered as that sank in. “Oh, right,” she said in a sorrowful tone. “Mick and I were very proud of how it turned out. It’s composed of features from different blossoming trees. Plus some imaginary ones.”

  “Ah,” Greg said. “I was wondering.”

  “We used creative license. Laurel’s two big things were flowers and fantasy stories. In fact, she was writing a novel. A modern mythology, she called it.” Raven shook her head. “Laurel was one of the sweetest people you’d ever meet… it’s hard to imagine anyone wanting to hurt her. I can’t believe we’re talking about her in the past tense.”

  “I’m sorry,” Langston said, reclaiming her attention from Greg. He’d meant to ask something else about the scarification artist. “About Mick Aztec. Your working with him, that is. I thought you didn’t…”

  “Do skin mod, right. That part was totally Mick. I worked on original design sketches. And then did my tattooing over the scar tissue.”

  Langston quietly mulled how to ease into his next set of questions. But he’d learned since joining the crime lab that delicacy was often an impossible luxury. “Raven… can you tell us anything about the tattoo on Laurel’s arm?”

  “Yes. Well, she had a few of them. But I’m guessing you mean the one on her right…”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Why would that be?”

  “It was on Flash Ink,” she said. “I figured you knew.”

  Langston shook his head. “No, I’ve never heard of—”

  “Flash Ink is the name of an online tattoo magazine,” Greg explained. “It’s been spun off on cable TV… sort of a reality show. Pulls huge ratings.”

  Raven was nodding in agreement. “They follow a dozen body artists and their clients through the whole tattoo process and end with a big stage contest,” she added. “The series moves to a different city every year. This season, it was Vegas. Before that, they went to Canada. Toronto, I think.”

  “The tattoo with the rabbit and deer was yours?”

  “Well, I created and applied it. But it was on Laurel’s skin, which in my mind makes it hers,” Raven said. “We called it ‘Transfornatural.’ ” She furrowed her brow. “Why do you want to know about her tattoo if you never heard of the contest?”

  Langston decided to change the subject briefly. The details weren’t pretty. But he also hadn’t forgotten Hodges’s eye swabs and still wanted to explore a possible link between that morning’s two newly discovered murders.

  “Raven, can you tell me anything about the ingredients of certain colors? And how they’re mixed?”

  She shook her head. “Not a whole lot beyond the really basic stuff. But I know a couple of people who make up my caps when I need a particular shade.”

  “Would you be able to steer us in their direction?”

  “Sure. If it’ll help. In fact, one of my color guys shares studio space with Mick.”

  Langston nodded. He would want to pay them a visit after finishing with Raven. “As far as the contest, am I correct in understanding that you’re judged as teams?”

  “Right. It comes down to two in the final round. The winning team splits ten thousand dollars. The runners-up get five. Laurel and I only reached the semifinals, though I think our piece might’ve been a little subtle for the panel. We got all kinds of positive viewer feedback. And my business doubled afterward.”

  “I’m curious… is there any symbolic meaning to the illustration?”

  She shrugged. “I’d categorize it as neo-surrealist fairy tale. It’s more narrative than symbolic.”

  Langston involuntarily widened his eyes.

  “Blame that on my graduate degree in fine arts from Berkeley,” she said with a thin smile. “The piece is really playful. But if you want to look for subtext, I suppose it tells how some of us feel about being modded and about what it takes to do it. The bunny’s a sort of cartoon character. Small, mischievous. We thought it was kind of funny that he’d saw off the buck’s antlers and then have the stones to ride him bareback.”

  “That pesky rabbit,” Langston said.

  “Basically,” Raven said with a nod. “When I got my first tattoo, it was like winning the Revolutionary War. I was ecstatic.”

  “So the rabbit’s celebrating its victory.”

  “Yeah,” Raven said. “Even though it might’ve hurt. He needed courage to saw off the buck’s antlers and then implant them in his own head. But it’s all growing pains. Change doesn’t come easy. He’s won the freedom to change and express who he is.”

  “And the buck?” Langston looked at her. “Feel any sympathy for him?”

  “Some. He’s a big, hopeless lunk. Stuck on keeping his antlers because he thinks they make him powerful. If he only knew…”

  “True empowerment is being able to let go of them,” Langston said.

  Raven smiled again and aimed her index finger at him. But her features were heavy with sadness. “There’s your meaning, I guess. And why Laurel loved that piece. It isn’t easy fighting your own hangups, and everything society says you should be, to get to who you are. She could’ve stayed out in Frisco, taken over her dad’s investment firm, been set for life. Instead, she worked as a librarian and wrote fantasy novels that nobody published.”

  Langston heard the tremor in the young woman’s voice and paused so she could gather herself. He truly wished he didn’t have to tell her the rest. “Raven,” he said, “the tattoo was removed from her arm.”

  She looked stunned. “No, it can’t be. That would take months with a laser, and it was there when I saw her a couple of weeks ago. Besides, why would Laurel even want to—”

  “I don’t mean she intentionally had it taken off.” Langston pressed his lips together. “Someone did it to her at the crime scene… in the library this morning.”

  Raven stared at him with dawning comprehension. “How…”

  “We have reason to suspect the person used a surgical knife,” Langston said. “It was expertly done.”

  “I can’t believe it.” Her face had gone a pasty white. “Why… my God… who would do anything that sick?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Greg said. He thoughtfully scratched behind his ear. “Do you know if Flash Ink gave viewers any of Laurel’s personal information?”

  Raven was shaking her head. “Not the kind that would tell where she lived or worked. They were really careful about it.”

  “Didn’t they show you giving her the tattoo?”

  “Yeah, they had cameras on us the whole time,” Raven said. “They would’ve mentioned that I’m in Las Vegas, but I don’t think they gave my full address.”

  “It would be easy enough to look up,” Greg said. “Let’s say someone fixated on Laurel. The person could ha
ve watched for when she visited here, tailed her home or to work, and gotten familiar with her normal routines. Then waited for the right opportunity to attack her.”

  She shook her head again. “No, I can’t believe it happened that way.”

  “Any reason?” Greg asked.

  “You must have seen the other tattoo studios on the boulevard.”

  “Right, but yours is the only one called Raven Lunar.”

  “You don’t understand,” she said. “We’re all tight. We look out for each other. Somebody would have noticed if there was a stranger standing around outside, sitting in a parked car, or whatever.”

  “Many predators are good at being inconspicuous,” Langston said. “I have some background in that area. They can be very clever at stalking their victims.”

  “I guess,” Raven said. “But we get different types in this neighborhood. And we know the scaries. I still don’t see—”

  The CSIs looked at her. She’d abruptly cut herself short and snapped her head around toward the computer on the front desk.

  “Is anything the matter?” Langston asked.

  “I don’t know.” She turned to face him. “It just came to me about the website. Because of Laurel.”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “Flash Ink has an online version of the magazine. But it’s got other content for paid subscribers.”

  “Besides the e-zine,” Greg prompted.

  She nodded. “You need a user name and a password to access it. There are videos, heavy-mod photo galleries, an Internet store, that kind of thing. After I heard about Laurel on the radio, I logged on to check out some pictures of us from the contest. Don’t ask why. Maybe just so I could see her alive. And then I read a post about what happened.”

  “Her murder, you mean?”

  “It was on a message board,” Raven said. “I wasn’t surprised. Community forums, chat rooms—Laurel was on them a lot. Connecting to all kinds of different people.”

  “Are you saying… ?”

  “I told you I never worry about scaries on the street,” Raven said. “You can spot them in a minute. But you know…”