Skin Deep

by Jerome Preisler

  Recalling his conversation with Stacy Ebstein, Nick had looked up the Starglow’s general information number and punched it into his phone. This was at half past seven. Ten minutes of navigating the automated menu had finally put him through to a human being, whom he’d asked to connect him with the person in charge of special events. The request had led to a series of inexplicable misroutings, including one to the resort’s box office, where he’d gotten another automated list of showtimes for the comedy-magic act currently running in its theater and then been disconnected. Cursing under his breath, he dialed general info again, this time introduced himself as an investigator with the LVPD, and again asked to be put on with somebody in special events, curtly emphasizing that he was calling in an official police capacity. That seemed to break through the operator’s wall of confusion, and Nick had finally reached the banquet manager’s line twenty minutes after he’d first called the resort.

  Unfortunately, he’d gotten a recorded message: “Hello, this is Karen Esco. You can reach me during business hours Monday through Friday and on Sundays between noon and five P.M. For questions about banquets or conferences currently taking place at the resort, you may phone the concierge’s desk. The number is…”

  Nick had hung up without bothering to note it, deciding he would wait till midday on Sunday and then try Karen Esco again.

  After that, he went back to Noble’s photo collection, carefully perusing the Dorset cases one at a time—the pictures, the associated documents, everything. They ran the familiar gamut of murders, rapes, robberies, assaults, weapon and/or drug busts, mob racketeering prosecutions, and a smidgen of political corruption and fraud indictments thrown in for good measure. In no instance was there an apparent link to Stacy Ebstein. She wasn’t shown in any photos or named in the court papers. And Nick had similarly found nothing that mentioned tattoos or a tattooer.

  It was three in the morning when Nick realized he was down to the last nine or ten cases with Dorset’s name attached to them. With so few left, his energy waning, and his body slumping in his chair, it seemed the right time to call it quits. The taco stand he’d considered swinging by would be closed at this later-than-late hour, but he knew an open 7-Eleven where he could pick up some cold cuts or canned tuna for sandwich fixings. Either that, or he could stop at a diner for something. Or, talk about downward trends, he could forget about eating for now. Just head home, hit the sack, sleep in, and maybe grab a bite when he woke up—

  Nick’s thoughts abruptly broke off, and he sat up straight. He’d been idly clicking his mouse, scrolling down the list of photo-archive folders, when one near the bottom caught his eye and he’d half-consciously opened it. The title read, “Child abd./hom. (Dumas)—8th District Court v. Clarkson (Hon. Dorset)—Vegas Globe News—7-14-2000.

  The dozen or so photos in the folder captured the same scene from different positions and angles. A man in a T-shirt and blue jeans, on his knees in a large area of blooming sagebrush, cradling a young boy in his arms. Nick didn’t need to zoom in on any of the pictures to see that the child was dead. There were distinctive signs of small wildlife predation and bruising on his neck. And his body had the unmistakable stiffness of early rigor.

  As in the other folders associated with Dorset, the judge’s name appeared not only in the folder’s title but also as a highlighted embedded link beneath the images.

  Nick told himself that this could wait till tomorrow. It was a child murder, yes, so it naturally jumped out. Child murders always did to him. Bottom line, though, it was still just one of thirty-odd cases. It could wait. He’d be at it the rest of the night unless he closed the folder, turned off the damned computer, and went home. Might as well sign on for pulling his third consecutive extra shift in the last three weeks if he didn’t do himself a favor and quit while he was ahead…

  Sighing, he clicked on Dorset’s name, and a short list of document files appeared onscreen. There was the court docket sheet with relevant filings and motions, an official summary of the judge’s ruling on dismissal without prejudice, and then what looked like headers from several newspaper articles.

  Nick skipped the docket sheet and opened the ruling summary. It began:

  “In the case at bar, based on the circumstances surrounding Kyle Dumas’s death, the court is satisfied that some type of criminal agency caused his demise. The testimony also satisfies the court that the defendant, Ronald Clarkson, might have been the last person to see him alive. He might have had a prior allegation of sexual misconduct, but charges were dropped by the complainant, a female adult who could later admit the events were consensual. He might have had a means and opportunity of abduction, but there is no physical or circumstantial evidence that he did so. There is no circumstantial evidence that he committed violence against Kyle Dumas, no murder weapon, and, most important, no direct evidence presented before the court that it finds to be uncontaminated and admissible, including DNA, fingerprints, and bloodstains…”

  His eyes narrowed, Nick read the rest of the summary and moved on to the newspaper articles about Kyle Dumas’s murder, resigned that Saturday night was lost and Sunday had found him right where he should have figured it would all along.

  Blue-spectrum radiance always suffused the criminalistics bureau at police headquarters, emanating from the confined spaces where lab rats and investigators would peer into microscopes, hunch over dusting stations, and stand at forensic exam tables in their gloves, goggles, and smocks, studying latents and biologicals under a range of light sources.

  Visitors and new employees commonly insisted that the blueness darkened from pale aqua to cobalt as the hour grew late—noticing, too, a sound that seemed almost imperceptible by day. Throughout the building, one could discern the subaudible pulse of compressors, water chillers, laser-deposition chambers, gas chromatographs, fume-exhaust systems, recirculated-air pumps, and all manner of other specialized electrical apparatus.

  Catherine Willows no longer consciously registered any of this as she walked the halls. For her, the deep blue glow was as ordinary as the film noir posters lining her daughter’s bedroom walls, the throb of equipment as normal as the music from Lindsey’s mp3 docking station. She had been with the unit a very long time, and it was in these surroundings that she was Catherine raised to her highest power—confident, efficient, in control

  Now she strode from her office into the outer corridor, passing lab cubicle after glass-walled lab cubicle as her graveyard shift went about its quiet, systematic work. It was almost five o’clock in the gray hours bridging Saturday midnight and Sunday morning, and she was past due for a caffeine recharge to boost her tso the far side.

  Catherine figured she’d drop in on Nick once she slugged back her coffee. Although she’d penciled him in to take half the weekend off starting Saturday night, he hadn’t swung by her door to offer his customary wave before departing, and she had a suspicion she might find him reviewing the items he obtained from the shutterbug sex-toy hawker who’d been Tattoo Man’s earliest number.

  She turned a corner toward the break room, and lo and behold, Hodges was meandering toward her in his white smock, his face saturnine even by his glum standard.

  “Catherine,” he said, moving up the hall. “I was just on my way to see you.”

  “Oh?”

  He nodded. “I’ve decided things need changing around here,” he said.

  “What things?”

  A deep breath. “Things,” he said, “that lead to distractions for me.”

  She wondered if he was referring to Wendy Simms, the DNA tech. Everybody at headquarters and their long-lost fourth cousins in outer Belgrade knew he was infatuated with her.

  “What sort of distractions?” she said.

  “The sort that negatively impact my job performance,” he said, “and divert my concentration from where it should be.”

  Catherine looked at him. She was convinced that had been an oblique reference to Wendy. “Oh,” she said. “I see.”

&n
bsp; Hodges straightened, inhaled again, and tipped his chin up toward the ceiling as he visibly inflated his confidence. “It can’t go on. We need to make some changes.”

  Yes, Catherine thought, here it comes. And LVPD regulations would, of course, require one or the other to change shifts if they got openly involved. In that respect, the techs becoming an item would be worse than having them live with their unrequited affections, since Catherine was not eager to lose either to days. Nor, as supervisor, could she explicitly encourage a don’t ask, don’t tell policy. Suggesting that they keep their amorous intentions to themselves would be a breach of her professional obligations. At the same time, however, it would place her in a bind if Hodges actually came out with his dilemma, since that would mean she’d have to enforce the regs, remind him that workplace hanky-panky was forbidden, and discourage it between him and his lovely Wendy. Either that, or put one of them down for a mandatory transfer.

  Catherine frowned. It was enough for her to get involved with her daughter’s romantic problems. Two intelligent and supposedly mature adults ought to be able to figure out the dating game for themselves. “Hodges, you might want to think about this before we talk,” she said.

  “I’ve thought enough about it, Catherine,” he said. “It’s big and hard. But it belongs firmly in your hands.”

  She bit her tongue. “Look, I was just about to get some coffee. If this can wait awhile—”

  “It can’t,” Hodges said. “You need to set our evidence clerk straight about staying on post.”

  Catherine looked at him. “The evidence clerk.”

  “He’s constantly derelict.”

  “Oh.”

  “Absent without leave.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Nowhere to be found,” Hodges said. “Leaving me to pick up his slack because my lab is down the hall from the evidence room.”

  She tucked a loose wisp of hair behind her ear. “I’ll straighten the situation out with him,” she said.

  “Remedy it, I hope.”

  “I think that’s what I said.”

  “I just want to be sure I’m understood,” Hodges said. “This has been an ongoing problem, Catherine. And thanks to his latest unannounced departure, I’ve been logging in items all night.”

  Catherine was thinking she desperately needed to chug down some coffee. “What items?”

  “Nick’s computer discs,” he said. “And Sara’s epithelials. Which I not only checked in but delivered to the appropriate lab for analysis.”

  “If I’m not mistaken, wouldn’t that be your lab?”

  “That’s beside the point,” Hodges said. “Or on second thought, perhaps it is the point. I should have gotten started on those skin samples by now. But the discs had to be tagged and coded, and Nick didn’t know the correct procedure. So naturally, the task fell to me.”

  “Nick’s still here?”

  “Yes,” he said. “While some might stray from their posts, other soldiers of the night boldly hold the line.”

  Catherine gave a vague nod. She’d blearily set aside her thoughts on whatever he’d been complaining about, remembering that she’d meant to drop in on Nick, not yet having gotten a chance to find out exactly what he meant to do with the boxload of CDs he had brought back from the sex shop. “Later, Hodges,” she said, abruptly brushing past him.

  Catherine ducked into the break room a moment later, figuring she’d pick up an extra cup of java and carry it over to Nick’s office so they could drink while they powwowed.

  She was hardly stunned to find Langston hovering over the machine. When she filled out her monthly supply forms, coffee ranked a consistent third behind only dusting powder and petri dishes.

  “Hey there, soldier,” she said.

  He looked up at her. “Catherine,” he said, sounding a bit out of sorts. “Sorry, what was it you said?”

  “Nothing.” She shook her head. “Anything left in the pot?”

  “I’m about finished brewing up a fresh one,” he said. “Excuse my vacant stare… I didn’t hear you come in.”

  Catherine, wearing a trim sharkskin pantsuit, glanced down at the high-heeled boots under her slacks. “Are these things really that quiet?”

  “The truth is, I’m really that preoccupied,” Langston said. He reached for the coffeepot, poured two cups, handed one to Catherine. They stood silently and drank, Catherine recalling a brief account he and Greg had given her of what they’d picked up at the tattoo parlors back when Saturday was still young.

  “Making progress?” she asked.

  “I think so,” Langston said. “I’ve been at my computer most of the night. But I placed several calls to the Toronto police earlier.”

  Catherine nodded. “Toronto’s where that Flash Ink tattoo competition was taped last season.”

  “Before the show came to Vegas, yes,” he said. “I wanted to find out if there were any homicides in Canada with characteristics at all similar to the Laurel Whitsen killing. Or the Tattoo Man crimes.”

  “You think Ecklie might be right lumping them together?”

  “It seemed logical to cover all bases,” Langston said with a small shrug. “But I agree with you that there’s no real evidence pointing to it.”

  Catherine looked at him over her steaming cup. “Any luck with our colleagues up north?”

  “After a bit of doing, yes,” Langston said. “The Toronto Police Service is divided into two divisional commands. One covers the downtown part of the city, the other the outlying areas. Theoretically, central field and area field—that’s what they’re called—operate in tight sync.”

  “Which means that, in fact, they’re all fouled up.”

  “It could have been worse. The people I reached at first were cagey—I think they would have rather spoken to a fellow officer. But I was finally able to reach a deputy chief, Davis Reynolds, who directs operations between the commands. He was fairly accommodating… and informative.”

  She waited out a brief silence, her cup steaming in her hand.

  “There were three murders in Canada between nine and twelve months ago that draw strong comparisons to Laurel Whitsen’s,” Langston said. “Two fell within jurisdiction of the TPS. The third was up in Alberta and went to the Mounties.”

  “By comparisons, you mean…”

  “The victims were partially skinned,” Langston said. “The Toronto cops guessed that tattoos had been removed from their bodies and theorized the motive was to delay their identification, hide street-gang affiliations, or both.”

  “I can see why they’d consider it,” Catherine said. “There’s enough precedent in criminal-case files.”

  Langston was nodding. “Toronto has two major street gangs in addition to their offshoots and smaller posse-style crews. And the triads have been embedded in its Chinatown area for decades—the Big Circle Boys and the Ghost Shadows are the most notorious. Since one of the DBs was an Asian male, it raised some antennas.”

  “But we’ve got a very different situation here,” Catherine said.

  “Yes. Laurel Whitsen was killed where she worked and had her personal belongings with her. Nobody cared about hiding who she was.”

  “And I doubt many gangbangers study the Dewey decimal system,” Catherine said with a grim smile. She drank some coffee, pulled a face. “Do you like how this tastes?”

  “I suppose it turned out a little weak.”

  “Maybe just a little, Ray.” She paused. “I take it the Canadians didn’t associate the killings with the TV contest?”

  “Not that they told me,” Langston said. “My sense, though, was that the DC wasn’t aware of the show or the Internet magazine.”

  A grim smile. “Where’s Dudley Do-Right when you need him?”

  Langston smiled back at her and sipped quietly from his cup.

  “Did you get the vics’ IDs?” Catherine asked.

  “Yes, Reynolds was especially cooperative in that respect,” Langston said. “He e-mailed names and pho
tos to me as we spoke.”

  “And were you able to find out if the Canadian vics were contestants?”

  Langston nodded. “I established an account with the e-zine that gave me access to its social-networking features. There are archived galleries for every season’s episodes, and I found photos of all three.”

  “So we’ve established that someone’s picking his targets from the board.”

  “For a fact.”

  “Notice any common threads besides?”

  “Not yet,” Langston said. “The body art they display is exceptional, but that’s a basic prerequisite for getting past the cattle-call auditions. The themes, motifs, and styles are all very different.”

  “And as far as which level of the contest they reached… ?”

  “Two were semifinalists, the other an early-round elimination.”

  “Could they have been clients of the same tattooer? Maybe even friends?” Catherine asked. “What I’m wondering is if they had any kind of ties, before, during, or after the contest.”

  “The same questions occurred to me,” Langston said. “Well, aside from the first.”

  Catherine gave him an interested look.

  “Tattoo artists and recipients win or lose as teams, and the rule is that each artist pair up with a single client,” he said. “Remember, the contest is only Flash Ink’s season finale—its last episode or two. The rest is like any reality show. It follows the tattoo process from conception onward, follows the recipient at home with the family, captures the artist-client bond. It would be impractical to film that if a particular artist had several clients. And I’d imagine their one-on-one rapport generates viewer involvement with the characters.”