The Seventh Message

by William Johnstone

  "You mean a strange job?" asked Ramirez, knowing exactly what Jones meant.

  "No. I mean only a fairy would get a rosebud tattoo on the end of his dick." Sam hesitated and stepped back. "I guess that ain't a politically correct way to put it these days, but it's true. I know all about faggots and I got no tolerance for that way of life."

  Ashley ignored the crude language. "I appreciate your candor Sam, and you have a right to your opinion, but it doesn't answer our question. Who did this work?"

  Sam leaned against the wall behind him. "It's not like I talk to the cops all that much, but when it comes to homos, well that's different." Ashley raised an eyebrow at Ramirez, who winked back at her. "There's a place in the mountains that does crotch jobs for a price. They ain't licensed, neither."

  "Mountains?" Ramirez asked. "There are many mountains west of here. Can you be more specific?"

  "Mayhill."

  "Mayhill?"

  "Yea, it's a little town west outa Artesia. It's behind the general store, in the woods. Low-Down Tattoo they call it. Two guys run it. A big one and a little one. There’re real good 'friends' if you know what I mean." He smirked. “Little guy does the work. Big guy, well, you gotta watch him."

  Ashley put the picture back in her pocket. "What do you mean by 'got to watch him', Mr. Jones?"

  “He's big, dumb and mean as a rabid dog in heat. Not nobody you want a mess with. Everybody goes there with cash and nobody gets off the table till the jobs done."

  "Do you have a name for us?"

  The artist clamped his mouth shut.

  Ramirez placed his hand on the counter. "We'd like to know what we're getting into. You’ll be protecting us so we can continue to protect you."

  Jones thought about that a moment. "Butch Cassidy."

  "You're serious?"

  "Butch is what he goes by. George is his real name. George Cassidy. His picture is in the newspapers a lot. Bar fights and the like. Enough said."

  MAYHILL WAS IN the foothills of the Sacramento Mountains. Barely a town, it straddled Highway 82 with a general store, a gas station, a small well-appointed post office, and several broken-down structures in serious need of repair. Most people traveled to the area to enjoy the cool summer air and three RV parks nearby.

  Ashley felt a man should ask for directions to the tattoo shop considering their usual cliental. In the car Ramirez removed his coat, shoulder holster and necktie before climbing the well-worn wooden steps that led to the front door of the Mayhill Cafe and General Store.

  A gray haired woman stood behind a counter and greeted the stranger with a grumpy expression. She held an ice cream scoop in her hand. Two kids sat at a nearby table licking cones. The air smelled of fried food.

  "Good morning. I'm new to these parts. I hear there's a tattoo shop here in Mayhill. Wonder if you could direct me?" The women put the scoop down and stepped back distancing herself from the outsider.

  "Yea, we got a tattoo place for certain people." She gave Ramirez a probing gaze. "County Road 69 back that away." She pointed east. "Take a left. It's about two miles in the woods. They got a sign. Can't miss it if that's what you want."

  Ramirez thanked the woman. The two kids with ice cream cones giggled as he passed. He crossed the highway and climbed into the car. "No problem finding out about the Low-Down Tattoo. It's well-known around here." He adjusted his shoulder holster and coat.

  Ashley nodded. "Little town. Everyone knows everybody’s business. Which way?"

  They took a left onto County Road 69. After 200 feet, it turned into a rutted dirt path barely wide enough for two cars to pass. Their tires created a plume of dust as they bumped along at twenty miles an hour, steadily climbing uphill. The few cabins they passed appeared deserted.

  Before leaving Roswell, Ashley had checked the onboard computer for priors on "Butch" George Cassidy in Chaves and Otero Counties. Cassidy had a string of aggravated assault charges and two DUI's. No jail time.

  Ashley pointed, "There’s a tattoo sign on the left. I'm going to drive by to get a feel for the surroundings." A shabby two story wood frame house served as the shop and living quarters. Ashley remembered the warning about the 'big guy' and wished she had bought an ankle holster and revolver last week. She promised herself to do it when she got back to Albuquerque.

  After passing the house they turned around and parked the car near a rusty pickup truck in the driveway. As they approached, Ashley saw a curtain move in the front window. "We're being watched."

  Ramirez unbuttoned his coat. In a low voice he answered, "By the numbers."

  Ashley knocked on the door, then stepped to the side. Ramirez stood back three feet at an opposite angle. No answer. She knocked again, and waited. She saw Ramirez rock from one foot to the other. "Mr. Cassidy, we are the FBI," she shouted. "We want to ask you about one of your customers." She heard hurried talk on the other side of the door.

  The latch clicked and the door opened an inch. An eye appeared. "Whatcha want?" The voice sounded like a woman.

  "Someone told us you may be able to help us in a missing person investigation. We have a few questions," The door opened wider and a short man peeked out.

  "Who told you what?" The man, no more than five feet tall wore a T-shirt with a faded peace sign on the front, worn-out jeans and no shoes. The shape of a large man loomed behind him in the shadows of the room.

  Ashley advanced to the threshold. "We believe one of your clients is missing. I need to identify him. May we come in?"

  "Sure. Okay, I guess for a minute." Over his shoulder he asked, "Is that all right, Butch?"

  Before the man could answer, Agents Kohen and Ramirez stepped into the room. Ashley addressed the small man. "This will save us both time. No search warrant. No state police." Ashley then turned to the big man. "You're George Cassidy, what's your friend's name?"

  Before Cassidy spoke, the little man answered for him, "My name is Barry. Barry Malinowski."

  Cassidy stepped into the light. A spider tattoo covered his thick neck which supported a shaven head. He held an enormous hunting knife in his beefy fist. Ramirez dodged to the side. "Edge weapon," he shouted and drew his gun. "Drop the knife, now!"

  "You gonna shoot me, asshole?"

  "If I do you won't know about it after the first slug rips a hole in your chest."

  Malinowski started to cry. "Don't hurt Butch, he's my friend."

  Ashley moved next to Barry while staying out of the line of fire. "Don't be stupid, Cassidy. Technically you are about to assault a Federal Agent. That's jail time. Drop the knife. We just want a few answers to some questions, and we'll go. You're scaring your friend."

  The 9 millimeter gun held steady. The knife clunked when it hit the wood floor.

  Ramirez kicked the knife away and shouted, “Hands on your head. Sit on the floor. Do it!"

  Cassidy didn't move. Barry pleaded with him. "Do what he says, Butch. I don't want a go to jail." With a scowl on his face Cassidy got down. Ramirez walked over and stood behind him, holstered his weapon and said, "Stay put."

  Ashley went to Malinowski. "It's all right, Barry. Butch will be okay. Calm down." She scanned the dingy room. A sofa with sagging cushions divided it in half. She went to it. "Sit over here, Barry. A couple of questions and we're gone." She patted the cushion next to her. He joined her.

  "We are trying to identify a missing person. We know this person has a tattoo. We have a picture I'm going to show you. Tell me what you know about it." Ashley handed the photograph to Malinowski.

  "Don't tell 'em nothin," Cassidy growled.

  Ramirez slapped him on the bald head. "Shut up."

  Malinowski looked at the picture and started to cry again. He dropped the photograph on the floor and buried his face in both hands. Overwhelmed he sobbed, hardly able to breathe. "No," he wailed, rocking back and forth. "No."

  Ashley put a hand on his shoulder. "Barry, what's the matter. Do you know something we should know?"

  In a high-pitched voi
ce he screamed. "That's my brother!"

  TWENTY

  TELLING SOMEONE THEIR PET is a victim of a hit and run is a distasteful chore. Telling them their friend or loved one is dead is far worse, but that’s what police officers have to do. Ashley faced this situation twice in her law enforcement career and knew it could be handled only one way. Just say it straight out, and wait for the reaction. That's what she did.

  "Barry, based on your identification of the rose tattoo we must inform you your brother is dead. We found him buried in the desert. We are investigating his homicide."

  Shock, followed by denial leading to overwhelming sorrow registered on Barry Malinowski's face. The sound of anguished sobbing filled the shabby living room of the remote Mayhill house. Moved by his friend's emotion, Butch Cassidy got up, stood next to him, and placed a hand on his shoulder. Agents Kohen and Ramirez stepped into the shadows of the room, and waited.

  After a proper length of time, Ashley approached Barry and set about convincing him, and Cassidy, that they needed to go with them to Roswell. Her gut instinct told her she would get better results if she asked questions on neutral ground away from Barry's psychological haven in the mountains. She also suspected that Barry's primary support came from Cassidy, who should stay nearby.

  In a calm reassuring voice, Ashley addressed Butch. "This is a difficult situation. It's better for Barry if we go to our office in Roswell where I have access to agency support. We need to make it as easy as possible for him. Agent Ramirez will arrange for you and Barry to stay at the Holiday Inn." Cassidy nodded as if he realized the gravity of the unfolding events. "Please take your friend and follow us in your pickup truck."

  He agreed without hesitation. "Yes, ma'am. I'll take care of him."

  Ramirez drove a moderate speed back to Roswell. He appeared agitated. "Finally we have a chance to make some headway in the Mummy Case. When we interrogate this little guy its good cop, bad cop." He shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll be the bad cop, of course."

  Ashley tightened her expression, but didn’t respond.

  "That Holiday Inn offer was a smart move," he grinned broadly, "and we'll only have to pay for one room."

  Ashley held back as long as she possible, but that last remark pushed her over the edge. "A few days ago you agreed this is my case. That you would not pull rank, even though you are way up the food chain from me. You gave me your word."

  Ramirez frowned, "That's right."

  "I know when a Special Agent gives his word, especially a veteran agent, it's as if Moses delivered the ten-commandments. You can take it as truth. It's as good as an oath in a court of law."

  "What are you getting at?"

  "What I'm getting at is that Barry Malinowski is not a perpetrator, not a suspect, not a person of interest, not a witness to a crime, and not under arrest. At best he may be a victim of a sad and useless killing." She took a breath. "My second point is that he will not be interrogated. He will be interviewed. Point three, we will not play good cop bad cop or any other stupid game."

  Ramirez gripped the steering wheel.

  "Barry will be treated with respect. That’s the only approach that will give us accurate and reliable information. I will work with him while you watch over Cassidy. Barry must not be intimidated. He needs support." Easing off a bit, she concluded, "Finally, unless they request something different, we will reserve two rooms at the Holiday Inn."

  Ramirez stared at the road ahead and said nothing.

  They cleared security at the front door of the Federal Building in Roswell, and climbed the stairs to the second floor. The FBI's satellite office had three rooms all painted a pale green: a reception area, an office for the rotating Special Agent assigned, and a small interrogation room with a one way glass window. Barry sat in this room with bent shoulders and head down. Ashley, her back to the one-way window, placed a small audio recorder on the table between them. "I want to thank you for this chance to ask you questions, Barry. I know this is not easy for you. Our conversation will be recorded."

  Barry looked up with red rimmed eyes and didn't speak.

  "Would you like a cup of coffee or a cold drink?"

  "No, ma’am."

  She remained silent for a moment. "Today we need to do two things. We need to identify your brother and confirm that he is the victim in the case we are investigating. Only then can we begin to catch the person who did this terrible thing."

  "Okay, whatever you say."

  "Describe your brother, please. What did he look like?"

  "He's bigger than me. About five foot three inches tall. Brown hair. Kind a skinny. About hundred pounds."

  "Any special markings or scars?"

  "Yes. That tattoo you showed me and a small birthmark."

  Ashley wrote on a notepad. "Describe the birthmark and its location."

  "Little purple mole high on his right shoulder. He keeps it covered cause it’s ugly." Barry choked as he added, "He always wears a nice smile, too."

  Ashley noted Barry referred to his brother in the present tense. "I'm sure he did. Do you know his birth date?"

  "He's a year older than me. Born on December 3rd." Barry stiffened. "Where is he?"

  "Where is he?"

  "Yes, my brother. Where do you have him?

  "By State Law unclaimed victims are retained by the Medical Investigator for six months. He's in Albuquerque."

  "Can I see him?"

  "Yes, but first we have to establish identity." She didn’t say that John Doe 136 would be unrecognizable. "Tell me your brother's name."

  "Can Butch come in here?'

  "Butch is right outside with Agent Ramirez. It's better if you and I speak alone. I want you to feel free to talk to me. Anything you say is confidential. Your brother's name, please?"

  "Bitty."

  "Bitty Malinowski?"

  "No, his real name is Russell Smith, he got the name Bitty because he is kind a small, like me."

  "Why did he have a different last name?"

  Barry bowed down and started to cry, again. He held onto the table for support.

  "Take your time, Barry."

  Head still down, and in that effeminate voice, he started. "It was me, Bitty and Faye. Bitty is the oldest. My sister Faye is a year younger than me. We were in Child Protective Services back then. I don't know anything that happened before that. I don't remember a Mom or anything. I only know what they told me. We was real young."

  "How young, Barry?"

  "Like three years old. The Malinowski family adopted me. They was wonderful. Bitty wasn't so lucky. He just moved around from one foster home to another. Faye, too." Barry's expression hardened. "I lost track of him for a long time. Then he showed up a couple of years ago. We got to be good friends.

  "Was he married?"

  "No. Only Faye got married. She's a nurse down in Carlsbad, where the big cave is."

  "Do you have an address for Faye?"

  "Yes, I got it in my wallet."

  "Barry, I will be contacting your sister in the next couple of days. You have to decide how best to handle this. I mean about telling her."

  Barry straightened himself in the chair. "I'm the older brother now. She needs to hear it from me. I'll call her."

  Ashley sensed a strength in Barry that surprised her. He would need that strength in the days ahead. "I think that's best. Do you have an address for Bitty?"

  "I don't know for sure, but Faye knows. She stays in touch better than me."

  "Why don't you know where Bitty lived, if you were good friends with your brother?"

  Barry glanced off in the distance. "Bitty was different from me. He had boyfriends." He turned back to Ashley. "Just boyfriends. After he grew up he moved around a lot. But he was my brother and I loved him." He choked and his eyes reddened again. He asked, "Why would anybody want to kill Bitty? He never hurt nobody."

  Ashley watched Barry struggle with that question. She pushed her emotions aside so she could stay focused. "That's what I'm here
for, Barry. To answer that question and more, much more."

  MARK RAMIREZ listened to the interview on the office intercom while he watched though the interrogation room window. Ashley was handling this with skill. His more direct approach would probably not have achieved the same results. He made a mental list of things to do: (1) ask Cassidy and Malinowski to not leave the area without notifying them first, (2) caution them to talk to no one about this case, (3) have them contact Agent Kohen if they remembered anything that might be important for the agency to know, and (4) have a transcript of the audio recording typed and forwarded to the field office. Walter Kent would assign it to a staff analyst right away.

  He opened the telephone book and found the number of the Holiday Inn. "I'd like to make a reservation for tonight. I want two of your best rooms, each with a King sized bed."

  Ramirez knew tomorrow they would begin to put together the pieces of the Bitty Smith puzzle. A puzzle that would need many answers. He could not know that the answers would lead to a conspiracy that could potentially change the lives of untold thousands of people.

  TWENTY-ONE

  IN THE AGENCY PECKING ORDER, an Assistant Deputy Director is near the top. For someone in that position getting an audience with the director of the FBI requires little more than making an informal request. As the newly appointed head of the Joint Terrorism Task Force Division (JTTF), Mike Johansson belonged to that inner circle.

  "Since it's your first day on-the-job Rashid, I've made an appointment to introduce you to Director Delong," said Mike. He and Rashid hurried down the corridor to the director's office. "The President appointed him last year. He got a narrow approval by the Senate, but that’s politics. He’s a good man."

  They waited only a few minutes before entering the office. Delong set aside a report he was reading. "Have a seat gentlemen." He pointing to two leather chairs in front of his glass topped desk. FBI Director Edward Delong didn't look like the polished well-groomed government official people expected to see heading a high profile agency. His disorderly brown hair matched his wool sport coat with a frayed lining that hung an inch below the bottom of the jacket. A well chewed cigar he never lit, jutted from the corner of his mouth. "Good to see you, Mike. How’s your task force shaping up?"