Blind Sight

by Terri Persons

  “You, ma’am?”

  “Coffee. Black.”

  Carson stared at the girl as she went back to the counter. Bernadette couldn’t believe Garcia had worried about her and B.K., a youngster obsessed with big, young bosoms. Beside muffin girl, Bernadette felt old and flat-chested. She looked at the file Cahill had dropped on the table. “What’s that?”

  “Oh, almost forgot.” He handed it to her. “Wharten said this is for you and Antonia. Who is Antonia?”

  Bernadette opened the folder and some gruesome crime-scene photos started to slide out. She caught them. The file contained the work the sheriff’s office and the BCA had already done on the Dunton case. “Good. This is good.”

  “Who’s this Antonia?”

  She flipped through the materials. Skimmed the interview with Landon Guthrie, the hunter who’d discovered the body. Report from the county coroner. Nothing in the folder would bust the case wide open. She closed it and set it down. “So I hear you and the sheriff had good luck matching witches to phone numbers.”

  Cahill reached behind him and pulled a notebook out of his back pants pocket. Slapped it on the table. “It’s all there.”

  “Fantastic.” She grabbed the pad and started flipping through it. In neat printing, Cahill had profiled one witch per page. At the top was the phone number and below that were the name, age, and residence. That was followed by the individual’s profession and other background information.

  Frederick Cleveland, 39. Akeley. Self-emp. carpenter. Divorced, 3 kids. 2 speed viol. last 5 yrs. Hunts w/bow + black powder. Aka Drachen.

  Aleck Johansonn, 50. Nevis. Butcher. Married, 4 kids + 2 grand. Rifle hunter. Aka Lord Valdeth. One DWI 8 yrs ago. Wife, Meredith Johansonn, 48, homemaker. Aka Lady Bronwyn. No crime/traffic.

  Irene Edwalters, 27. Walker. Home hairdresser/electrolysis. Single. 1 kid. No guns. Aka Sapphyre. No crime/traffic.

  Bernadette stopped when she got to Dr. Sven Hessler’s name and number. “This guy worked on me last night.”

  “What?” asked Cahill.

  She pointed to the page. “Remember that ER doc who was hanging around the hospital morgue?”

  “Tall, skinny dude with glasses?”

  “Yup. He was on duty last night.” Bernadette ran her eyes over her physician’s information:

  Sven Hessler, 36. Park Rapids. Doc. Single. No kids. Angler. No guns. Aka Lord Blade. Speed viol. last year.

  “So the aliases are their coven names,” said Bernadette, continuing to flip through the notebook.

  “Right,” said Cahill. “Some are lords and ladies. Seth said it has to do with reaching a certain level. Second-degree initiation—whatever that means. Sounds a little Dungeons & Dragons.”

  As she continued flipping through the notebook, Bernadette spotted Bossard’s name. Graham hadn’t lied after all.

  Eve Bossard, 47. Walker. OB/GYN. Single. No kids. Anti-gun. Aka Lady Morgana. No crime/traffic.

  The obstetrician just got bumped up to Bernadette’s short list.

  The waitress came by and set the muffin and mocha latte in front of B.K. and the black coffee in front of Bernadette. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “I’m good,” said Bernadette.

  “Thanks,” mumbled Cahill. He watched intently as the girl went over to another table, leaned over, and wiped it down, her muffins spilling out of her sweater.

  “Did Wharten mention whether any of these lords and ladies are the coven leaders?”

  “What?”

  “Carson?” Bernadette snapped her fingers in front of him.

  “Sorry. What?”

  “Did the sheriff identify the coven leaders?”

  “Not really.”

  “Is he the one who gave you the criminal and traffic background?”

  “Some of it. Some of it I pulled up from the usual databases. That’s not to say I couldn’t have missed something.”

  “There’s got to be twenty names here.”

  “Twenty-five exactly.”

  “Not that many, are there?”

  “Count,” he said, pointing to the notebook.

  She returned to the beginning and started turning pages. Two sheets in the middle were stuck together with something purple. “You and the sheriff went out for pie last night?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Blueberry?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “That’s why they pay me the big bucks,” she said, gently separating the pages. She stared at the sheet she’d initially missed. Smiled tightly. “That lying, conniving—”

  “Who?” asked Cahill.

  “I think I know who erased the pentagram from Lydia Dunton’s forehead.”

  “Really?” His eyes went to the notebook. “Which one?”

  “Nurse Delores Martini, aka Lady Willow.”

  “You sure she’s the one?” asked Cahill, leaning across the table.

  “She was at the hospital the night Tony … the night Garcia and I saw the star was gone from the body. She’s the one who pointed us to Ashe.”

  “You think she’s the killer?”

  Bernadette closed the pad and put it into her jacket pocket. “She just graduated to my short list, along with a couple of other coven members with medical expertise.”

  Bernadette was excited by what she’d found, but unless she was calling to tell Garcia she had the killers in cuffs she couldn’t interrupt his meeting. She checked her watch. A tad too early to head over to the tatt shop, too. Reaching over to a neighboring table, she snagged a coffee-stained copy of the Star Tribune. She paged through it, scanning for anything on the girl who’d been found dead in the forest, or the woman discovered hanging in her barn. She didn’t find a word on either, but there was plenty on the cold snap, as well as some post-blizzard analysis. Minnesotans loved to wallow in their bad weather.

  Cahill bit his muffin in half, chewed three times, and swallowed. Licked his fingers. “Sheriff said the witches are all meeting tonight in the woods because it’s a full moon. A little full-moon soirée. Plan is we slide in, watch them awhile to see if they’re up to no good, and then crash the bash. Scare the heck out of them and see who squeals first. See who squeals like a stuck pig.”

  She took a sip of coffee. “You’re sounding like … I don’t know.”

  “Sheriff Wharten?”

  “No. Barney Fife.” She took another drink. “What’s everyone else doing today?”

  “Some of the guys are still trying to get something out of the witch lady’s boyfriend. The crime-scene dudes—who knows what the hell they’re doing? Jerking off in that big trailer of theirs.”

  “Do I detect a little resentment?”

  “They get all the glory.” He took a sip of his mocha latte, getting whipped cream on his nose. “There’s what, three of those CSI shows on TV now? Four?”

  • • •

  They finished their drinks and Bernadette threw down some bills. “My treat.”

  “Now what?” he asked.

  She stood up and put on her jacket. “I’m heading over to the tattoo parlor. Should be open by now.”

  “Run this tatt thing by me. Why are you checking it out?”

  She told him about Lydia’s heart, and the possibility that she’d gotten it while she was in Walker. “A long shot,” she admitted.

  “Want some company?” he asked, putting on his coat.

  “Sure. Why not?”

  They walked a couple of doors down to the shop. She pulled on the door handle. Still locked.

  Cahill checked the hours posted against his watch. “Should be open.”

  She peered through the glass and saw a wooden counter with an old-fashioned cash register. Behind that was an Oriental folding screen used as a room divider. The work was probably done on the other side. Was someone behind the screen? She tapped on the glass door. A ruddy-faced man poked his head out from behind the divider and mouthed something to them, but she couldn’t understand it. He disappeared behind the screen
again. “There’s someone inside,” she said.

  “Here he comes,” said Cahill.

  The guy came out from behind the screen, went around the counter, and unlocked the door. “Sorry, folks,” he said, and held it open for them.

  She stepped inside. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Can you give me another minute?” he asked. Before they could answer, he went back behind the screen. “Had a puker in here yesterday. Cleaned it up, but it still stinks.”

  Bernadette’s nose wrinkled. She did smell vomit. She heard him spraying. Vomit and floral air freshener. “Are you the owner?”

  “Sole proprietor. Sole artist. Sole inmate of the asylum.” More spraying. “Go ahead and look for your tatts. See if anything speaks to you. I do custom work, too. Just give me a rough drawing.”

  She saw that the walls to the right and left of the entrance were lined with rows of framed pictures. Within each rectangle was either a close-up color photo of a tattoo adorning various body parts—arms, chests, shoulders, legs, backs, breasts—or a color sketch of a tattoo design. Wild tropical birds and flowers. Skulls. Fantastic butterflies. Fairies. Nude, winged women. Flaming motorcycles. Flaming cars. Tigers and lions and leopards. Barbed wire and chains. Unicorns. A flying pig.

  “See anything you like?” he asked from behind the screen.

  “There’s too much to choose from,” she said as she unzipped her jacket and pulled off her hat.

  Cahill was studying the naked back and butt of a curvaceous tattooed woman. “Cool,” he muttered.

  One of the framed photos was of the man behind the screen. LEONARD LENNY NAVARE, it said under the picture. RESIDENT LUNATIC. It showed him from the waist up, in a black leather vest. His exposed chest and arms were covered with a little bit of everything. In the photo, he was sporting a set of long blond braids.

  “You cut your hair,” Bernadette said.

  He came out from behind the screen. He was wearing the same vest as in the photo, but it was pulled over a T-shirt. A bow to the cold weather. He ran a meaty hand through his buzz cut. “Getting too old for that stuff. Starting to get gray in it. Chicks don’t dig that gray.”

  The stink was getting to her, and she wanted to make this quick. She pulled out her wallet and flashed her ID. “Agent Bernadette Saint Clare. FBI.”

  “Whoa,” he said, taking a step back from her. “Didn’t see that coming. My taxes are up-to-date, ma’am.”

  “That’s good to know, but I’m not here to talk taxes.” She pulled Lydia’s photo out of her jacket and held it up. “Recognize her?”

  He took a set of reading glasses out of his jeans and slipped them on. “Chicks don’t dig these much, either.” He took the photo from her and held it up to his nose.

  “Take a good look,” she said. “This is important.”

  “No,” he said, lowering the picture and handing it back to her. “Never … never seen her before.”

  Bernadette didn’t believe him. “She got a tattoo from you.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said.

  “A heart tatt,” she said.

  “I’d remember if I’d—”

  “Your DNA will show up on the ink,” interjected Cahill.

  Bernadette was pretty sure that was bullshit, and had to give the kid points for creativity. “That’s right,” she said evenly. “Your DNA, Lenny.”

  Navare swallowed hard and extended his hand. “Let me have another look.”

  She smiled tightly and handed him the photo. “Think hard, Lenny. If we catch you covering up anything—”

  “I had a senior moment is all. That’s right. Gave her an itty-bitty heart tatt.” He pointed to the right side of his face, just below the outside of his eye.

  “When?” asked Cahill.

  He pulled off his cheaters and handed the photo back to Bernadette. “What did she do? Rob a bank?”

  Cahill came up next to Bernadette. “When did you see her last?”

  “That don’t sound too good,” he said. “What happened to her?”

  “Sir, if you could answer the question …” said Cahill.

  “She came in here Christmas Eve. I was getting ready to close.”

  “Did she tell you her story?” asked Bernadette. “What did she say?”

  He folded his big arms in front of him. “I’m not sure I should be telling tales out of school.”

  “She was a minor, Lenny,” said Bernadette.

  “Did you have written parental permission to give her that tatt?” asked Cahill.

  “She told me she was eighteen. She had ID.”

  “Did she look like she was eighteen?” asked Bernadette.

  He unfolded his arms but didn’t answer.

  Bernadette put her hands behind her back and walked back and forth in front of the counter. “You sold a tatt to a minor without parental permission. A misdemeanor under state statutes.”

  “I didn’t know,” he said. “She had ID.”

  Bernadette stopped pacing and pointed a finger at him. “On top of that, she was pregnant.”

  He blanched. “Goddamn. I didn’t know. She looked chubby. I didn’t think she was—”

  “What did she tell you?” asked Cahill.

  He rubbed his chin. “She didn’t tell me anything.”

  Bernadette was sure he was lying again. “Show me your records. You do keep records, don’t you?”

  “For two years, on each and every person tattooed. I photocopy their driver’s license or ID, and then I have them fill out a form: name, address, phone, date of birth, and their signature. She signed for that tatt.”

  “What name did she give you?” asked Bernadette.

  “I … don’t remember her name.”

  “Let’s see the records,” said Cahill.

  “Don’t you need a search warrant or some such shit?”

  “If I have to get one, I swear to God I’ll come back with a small army and rip this place apart,” said Bernadette. “It’ll take a month for you to get back to business.”

  “Fuck. All that for a little girl? Did she kill someone or what?” His eyes widened. “She was the one who was killed. Son of a bitch. She’s the kid they found in the woods.”

  “Are you looking to be named an accessory to murder, Lenny?” asked Cahill.

  “Christ, no.”

  “Where’re your files?” asked Bernadette.

  He thumbed over his shoulder. “In the back.”

  “Lead the way,” said Cahill.

  “It’s really a mess,” said Navare. “Why don’t you two wait out here?”

  “Lead the way,” Cahill repeated.

  Bernadette liked double-teaming with the kid. When he wanted, he could be an intimidating prick.

  The two agents followed the shop owner behind the counter and screen, and went past the work area. Puke and floral odors aside, it looked as pristine as a dentist’s lab. To the left of the table and tools was a door. Navare pushed it open and turned on the overhead light, a naked bulb mounted to the ceiling.

  The walls of the ten-by-ten cube were tacked with motorcycle posters, nude centerfolds ripped out of magazines, and enlargements of tattooed people. Bernadette assumed they were past clients. A battered metal desk was shoved up against the wall opposite the door, and an ancient wooden file cabinet was crammed into a corner to the left of the desk. Navare went to the cabinet and pulled open the middle drawer. “Give me a minute,” he said, and started poking around the files. Every once in a while, he looked over his shoulder at them. He seemed nervous as hell.

  “If you can’t remember her name, how are you going to look her up?” asked Cahill.

  Navare didn’t answer.

  The two agents exchanged glances. Bernadette walked deeper inside. Between the desk and the cabinet stood a life-size cardboard cutout of Lucy Lawless as Xena, the warrior princess. That brought to mind another tough broad, and her tattoo of a snake swallowing its own tail. “Did you do Jordan Ashe’s tatt?”

  “Nah,
” Navare said. “She got that ink before she moved to Minnesota. She’s not from around here, you know.”

  “I heard,” said Bernadette.

  “Too bad she offed herself. Never would have pegged her to be the type. I’m not saying she was Little Miss Mary Sunshine or anything, but…” His voice trailed off as he continued digging.

  Bernadette found it interesting that a suicide story was already being circulated around the towns.

  Navare turned around. “How’d you know her? Was she part of this mess?”

  Cahill nodded toward the cabinet. “Please. We’re on a tight schedule.”

  He turned around and resumed his search. Bernadette kept running her eyes around the room. She eyed the space under his desk. There was something sitting on the floor next to the legs of the chair. It was lavender. This man didn’t look like a lavender sort of fellow.

  He wrestled a folder out of the tightly packed drawer. “Here she is. Heart girl.”

  Bernadette ripped the file out of his hand and opened it. Two pages. The first was a photocopy of a driver’s license. It had Lydia’s mug shot and then a bunch of bullshit lifted off a Massachusetts ID, starting with the name Angela Schmidt. Bernadette had seen similar fake licenses a thousand times. She turned to the second page and saw that Lydia had carefully copied the fictitious information from the plastic. When the kid signed at the bottom of the form, however, she changed the spelling of the last name, going with Schmitt. Bernadette smiled sadly. Lydia was just a goofy kid.

  “What’s up?” Navare asked.

  “I’m keeping this,” she said, closing the folder.

  “Uh … sure.” Navare shut the cabinet drawer.

  “What else did she tell you? Did she say how long she’d been in town? Did she say where she was headed after your shop?” asked Cahill.

  He shrugged. “I got the impression she’d just gotten to town. She asked a lot of questions.”

  “About?” asked Cahill.

  “Where she could crash for cheap. Where she could eat for cheap.”

  “You didn’t think any of that was worth reporting to the police?” asked Bernadette.

  “I didn’t know she was the dead kid,” he said.

  “Even before that happened,” said Cahill. “Especially before that happened. Why didn’t you tell the police you had a pregnant minor in your shop? A girl who sounded like she was in trouble?”