by Elle Gray
“Blake?”
Astra’s voice snaps me out of my reverie. I toss the red marker into the trash can and pick up the black one instead. I turn back to Astra.
“Yeah. Sorry,” I say. “I was just thinking.”
Astra knows about my phobia of the color red. She knows how much it rattles me, and I have no doubt she didn’t miss me throwing it away. But she’ll never say anything in front of anybody else. I’m sure that at some point today, she’ll remind me that she loves me and that she’s there for me to talk to if need be. She’s a good friend like that. Always has been.
“Anyway, we just got the preliminary report and autopsy photos in,” she says.
“That was quick. Three days? That’s got to be some sort of a record.”
“Apparently, people jump when the name of the great and fearsome Blake Wilder is invoked,” Astra cracks.
“That’s never worked with you,” I say.
She shrugs. “Yeah, because I know you well enough to not be afraid of you.”
I laugh. “Just don’t let that get around. I like this prompt service thing happening here. I could get used to that.”
I glance over at Mo and see that she’s got her face buried in her tablet. Her jaw is clenched, and she seems to be concentrating. I can tell she doesn’t approve of how loose things are here. She’s a stickler for formality and the rules and apparently doesn’t care for the banter.
Between that and her squeamishness at the crime scene, I’m starting to think that maybe I erred in picking her for the team. But she’s got such a good head for numbers and by all accounts, an almost preternatural ability to sniff out patterns that I hesitate to let her go before I see if she can be reformed. It’s something I’ll have to talk to her about at some point.
“Rick, can you put the photos up on the monitors?” I ask.
“On it, boss.”
A moment later, we’re looking at the pictures of the body on the monitors in glorious HD. Other than the pulped face and missing fingertips, everything else is normal. No stab wounds. No gunshot wounds.
“Mo, is there a preliminary cause of death?” I ask.
“Severing of the carotid artery,” she replies.
As if he’s already able to anticipate me, Rick blows up a photo of the victim’s neck, showcasing the neat, clean slice on the throat, without me having to ask. I like that. Being able to anticipate is a good quality to have. And it makes me feel like I at least got one of my picks for the team right.
The wound was hard to pick up at the scene because of the damage to the face and head overall. But cleaned off and sterilized by the ME, it’s pretty clear to see now. And for me, it stands out like a blinking red light.
“The ME was not able to make any sort of an ID,” Astra says. “No dental match is possible, nor are fingerprints… obviously.”
“He ran the victim’s DNA and got no hits in any database either,” Mo adds.
“So we’ve got no ID and no way to get an ID,” Astra grouses. “Awesome. This case should be a piece of cake to solve.”
“Actually, there might be a way to get an ID,” Mo says.
I turn to her. “How so?”
“Richard, can you－”
“Just Rick, if you don’t mind,” he calls back. “Calling me Richard makes me think of my parents, and that’s a whole thing, so… just Rick.”
Mo sighs. “Rick, can you blow up photo Thirteen B, please.”
A moment later, the photo comes up, and it’s of the right upper arm. There are slash marks on it, all clean slices like the neck, but a lattice of them. And through it all, I can see what remains of a tattoo. There isn’t much, but it’s there.
“He really tried to obliterate everything identifiable, didn’t he?” Astra observes.
“He did, but he missed this,” Mo nods, sounding slightly excited, pointing to a section near the bottom. “This tat is a custom job. See that?”
We all strain to see what she’s pointing to and Rick blows up the section－I really like his anticipating our needs－but whatever it is Mo is pointing to, I can’t see it. Astra and I exchange a look and then turn to Mo.
“Most tattoo artists will just give you what you ask for and send you on your way with your cookie cutter tat. Most of them are hacks. But there are a few actual artists out there, and those guys always have very distinctive styles,” she explains. “More than that, they like to sign their work as any great artist would.”
She points to what looks like nothing but squiggles and dots to me. And that’s when it hits me. It’s a signature, but like a code embedded into the work, so as to not stand out or interrupt the work. Which brings a question to my mind immediately.
“How do you know so much about the tattoo subculture, Mo?” I ask.
She refuses to meet my eyes and says nothing, but when Astra laughs softly, I see color flare in Mo’s cheeks.
“How many tats do you have, Mo?” Astra asks.
“A few,” she replies.
“How many is a few?”
“More than none, less than a lot?”
“I bet she’s covered underneath that snappy looking pantsuit,” Astra says. “Sleeved? Full torso? Come on Mo, you hide them so well that it’s like you have this whole secret identity. Enlighten us.”
“She has enough to know about the intricacies of the culture,” I interrupt. “That’s really good stuff, Mo. Can you run down whose signature that is?”
She nods. “I can do that.”
I never would have pegged her for somebody who’s into the ink. But I suppose that serves to show me once more that you can never judge a book by its cover. And as Astra continues to hector her about her tattoos, for the first time in our brief acquaintance, I see Mo Weissman smile.
Eight
Marco’s Corner Diner; Downtown Seattle
“Well, I’m glad you finally got around to making time for us,” my Aunt Annie says stiffly.
I settle back into my seat and pretend to not hear the cutting tone in her voice, nor see the disapproving scowl on her face. I love my aunt, but she can sometimes be a little much. Two minutes into sitting down for dinner and she’s already starting in on me.
“I’m sorry, Annie,” I say sincerely. “With this promotion and being given a team of my own to run, I had to hit the ground running. I haven’t had much time for anything since I got back.”
“Well I, for one, am super proud of you, Blake. I’m really excited for you,” Maisey offers, earning a dark scowl from my aunt.
“Thanks Maisey,” I reply.
Annie and Maisey sit side by side in the booth across from me, looking for all the world like a before and after photo that shows the marked difference decades of bitterness can make in one’s appearance. Where Maisey is still fresh faced and young, my aunt is more severe and pinched looking. Deep lines are etched into her face－probably from how often she frowns and scowls. They both have the same coal black hair, though Annie’s is shot through with more gray than I remember. The resemblance between them is striking and it’s obvious they’re mother and daughter, but I hope Maisey doesn’t turn out like Annie.
After the murder of my parents, I came to live with Annie and Maisey. My cousin and I have been the best of friends ever since, and although I have a good relationship with Annie, it can sometimes be a little… strained. Admittedly, Annie did a good job taking care of me and acting as a surrogate mother all through school. But I know it was tough for her. And ever since I joined the Academy, she’s always disapproved of my career choice, thinking it’s not proper for a woman. Maisey couldn’t be more excited about it though. She’s a true crime junkie and is always pumping me for stories about my work.
My aunt has become a bit of a shut-in ever since we moved out after high school. She’s always had a low opinion of men, and a distaste for crowds, but in the last several years it’s like she’s nearly imploded on herself. She’s had some rough experiences in life, so I can’t bring myself to condemn her for
it. But I hate that she has rubbed off on Maisey to the point that my cousin has zero confidence. She’s still a young, very pretty woman, but lacks any sort of social skill thanks to the iron grip my aunt has on her.
My aunt is a good person, don’t get me wrong. And I love her to pieces. She’s family and has always been good to me. But she has definite ideas about gender norms and the proper role for men and women in this world. Ideas that, at this point in her life, are never going to change. I just want Maisey to have options in life. I want her to find love and to be happy.
“Well, I don’t want you to think that I’m not proud of you, Blake,” Annie relents. “I am. I’m very proud of you. I just hate what you do.”
“I know, Annie. But somebody has to stop these monsters.”
Her mouth twitches like she’s about to say something more, but her lips compress into a tight line as if she thinks better of it. This is an argument she and I have had many times before. I know her thoughts on it and she knows mine. And like her opinions of men and relationships, those thoughts are never going to change for either of us.
“So tell me about this team you’re running,” Maisey chimes in enthusiastically. “What do they have you doing?”
“Maisey, can you not sound so excited about it? It’s all so ghoulish and distasteful if you ask me,” Annie says.
I smile but tell them what it is I’m doing. But when I get to the current case we’re working on, Annie asks me to not talk about it at the dinner table. Out of deference to my aunt, I tell Maisey I’ll fill her in later. A few moments later, the owner of the diner, a man named Marco, comes over to take our orders personally. He’s a tall, strapping, handsome Latin man with tawny skin and dark hair and eyes. I can’t help but notice the way he looks at Maisey and the way she looks back at him. I share a secret smile with my cousin.
The flirtation between them went on forever. It was ridiculously obvious that they were into each other. I made it a point of taking Maisey here to dinner often for that exact reason, and before I left for New York, I made her ask him out. She’d resisted like mad, her shyness and lack of confidence working overtime, but she finally gave in and asked, and they’ve been seeing each other ever since. Behind Annie’s back, of course. Baby steps though, right? I’m just glad that Maisey is finally seeing somebody and seems relatively happy.
“That man was flirting with you,” Annie notes.
“Was he?” Maisey replies. “I didn’t notice. I wouldn’t worry about it, Mother. He’s probably just angling for a better tip.”
“He’s angling for something,” I say under my breath.
Her eyes suddenly wide, Maisey kicks me under the table, making me grimace. But then we both start to giggle like a couple of teenage girls. Annie looks between us and frowns, obviously having no understanding of what we’re carrying on about.
“What does that mean?” Annie snaps. “What did you mean by that?”
“Nothing. Just a joke,” I protest, still unable to keep the smile off my face, then try to change the subject. “Maisey tells me you’re thinking about retiring?”
Annie looks at us both suspiciously for a moment, then turns to me. “I’m thinking about it. Maybe in a couple of years.”
“That’s great. It’s about time you take some time to relax and enjoy life. What would you do with all that time?”
She shakes her head and looks absolutely perplexed as if the question has thrown her for a loop. And I suppose it probably has. Annie’s spent her life obsessively worrying about everybody else－if worrying was an Olympic sport, she’d be a perennial gold medalist－that she probably really doesn’t know what to do with her life and time. It’s a thought that makes me sad for her.
And that gets to the other part of my mixed feelings about her. She spent so long worrying about me because I was dropped into her lap unexpectedly after her sister, my mom, was murdered. She never asked for that. I know it’s not my fault, but I can’t help but feel a little guilty. Like I’m partially responsible for it. Annie made a lot of sacrifices for Maisey and me. I just wish she would allow herself to enjoy her life.
“Well, you have time to figure it out,” I smile. “You should make a list of things you want to see and places you want to go. You should take time to enjoy your life, Annie. You deserve it.”
“That’s kind of rich, coming from the woman who can’t take the time to enjoy a meal with her family,” she snaps.
I sigh and try to keep my own temper in check. But the air between us is crackling with tension. This isn’t how I wanted this evening to go.
“Well, I’m here now. How about we try to enjoy our evening together?” I offer, trying to sound brighter than I feel right now.
“And when do you think we might have another evening together that we can enjoy?” Annie presses.
“Mom, let’s not do this. Please?” Maisey pleads. “Let’s just have fun tonight and celebrate the fact that we’re all together tonight.”
Annie’s frown deepens for a moment, then finally fades away and her expression softens. She looks to Maisey and pats her hand.
“You’re right. I’m sorry,” she says, then turns to me. “And I’m sorry, Blake. I just worry about you. The work you do is so dangerous…”
Her voice tapers off and I reach across the table and take her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. I offer her a smile as the tension that’s hovering over the table slowly begins to dissipate.
“I know, Mom. I know you worry and I appreciate that,” I say softly. Annie always said that she could never replace my mother, but if I ever needed one, she’d be there. Sometimes I even call her Mom. “I’m as careful as I can be, but this work needs to be done.”
“That’s what scares me,” she says, her eyes shimmering with tears. “That’s what your mother and father, for that matter, always used to say. And look where that got them.”
Her words send a familiar lance of grief through my heart, which automatically makes my anger rise. I look down at the table and tell myself to not be angry. For all of my grief over losing a mother, I sometimes forget that Annie lost a sister. Her grief is as deep and bitter as mine.
“This is different, Annie.”
She holds my gaze, her eyes burning with intensity. “Is it though, Blake? Is it any different? When you hunt monsters, they sometimes hunt you. Letting that sort of evil into your life eventually catches up to you.”
I frown and look down at the table, not really sure what to say to that. Not sure there is anything I can say to that.
Nine
Criminal Data Analysis Unit; Seattle Field Office
“All right, so I’ve been doing some digging on that tat signature,” Mo starts.
“And what did you find?” I ask.
“That signature belongs to a guy named Monty. Montgomery Denson. He operates out of a parlor called Anarchy Ink in Capitol Hill,” she says.
“Is that where you get your ink done?” Astra asks.
Mo’s lips twitch like she wants to smile but won’t let herself. Ever the proper and stoic FBI agent. Astra grins wolfishly at her. She obviously enjoys taking jabs at Mo, partly just because that’s who she is, and partly because she’s trying to get her to loosen up. And the twitch in Mo’s lips tells me she’s not quite there yet, but she’s starting to crack. Astra just has a way about her that can pull the stick out of the tightest backside. It worked on me and I’m thinking she’ll be able to draw Mo out of her shell. In time, anyway.
“No. I get my ink done at Apocalypse,” Mo says.
“Do all tattoo parlors sound so bleak?” Astra asks.
“It’s the culture,” Rick chimes in. “It adds to the whole rebellious, counter-culture mystique of getting tatted up.”
Mo turns and glares at him. “It beats sitting around a fair trade, all-organic coffee house in our vintage thrift store clothing, debating whether 8-tracks or vinyl records sound better, hipster boy.”
“For the record, vinyl always sounds better,�
� Rick fires back.
“How did this hipster d-bag ever get into the Bureau?” Mo mutters.
“Because when it comes to all things tech, I am a god,” Rick boasts. “And the Bureau recognizes that the boy’s got skills.”
“Did they recognize that you had such a personality deficit when they hired you?” Mo asks.
“No, I don’t think they did. Too late now, though,” Rick replies with a laugh.
“He actually came highly recommended,” I interject before things can go any further off the rails than they already have.
“By who? Somebody who secretly hates you?” Mo spits, clearly on a roll.
Astra and I exchange a glance, and though we try to bite back our laughter, we can’t quite manage it, and we both guffaw loudly. It’s the first bit of a hint of sarcasm and wit I’ve seen from Mo and I find it hysterical. Even Rick is chuckling. Everybody is laughing but Mo, who’s looking at us like we’ve lost our minds, though there are traces of a self-satisfied grin curling the corners of her mouth upward.
Eventually, the laughter fades and we get back down to business. Which seems to suit Mo just fine.
“All right, so I guess we need to go talk to this Monty,” Astra says.
“Right. That’s on the to-do list. Rick and Mo, while we’re gone, I want you to go through NCIC and see if there are any murders that match this MO. I want to see if there’s any pattern to this, or if it’s a one-off,” I say, referring to the National Criminal Information Center, which catalogs a host of crime related information. “And please, try not to bite each other’s heads off.”
They both nod, seeming to be glad to have an assignment. Something tells me this isn’t part of a larger pattern. I don’t think the person who murdered our mystery man is a serial. In my experience, serials take pride in their work. They display their kills and want people to see them. They want the names of their victims on every newscast and in every newspaper. They want to strike fear into people and show them that nobody is safe. The removal of the fingertips and the obliteration of the victim’s face tells me he doesn’t want the vic IDed. But why?
