by Elle Gray
I walk to the white board and grab the black marker, then start jotting some things down while they’re still fresh in my mind. There are some things that are just hitting me funny about this whole thing.
“What are you thinking?” Astra asks as I jot down some notes on the board.
“Not sure yet. It’s hard separating things right now, thanks to the forensic countermeasures,” I tell her. “But I keep coming back to the cut on the neck and the removal of the fingers.”
“What about it?” asks Mo.
“The incongruity,” I answer. “On the one hand, you have the sheer savagery of what was done to the guy’s face－”
“Which you said was a forensic countermeasure,” Mo says.
“Exactly. It was,” I tell her. “But the ME’s report said the wounds on the neck were precise. No hesitation marks－it was just one clean, precise cut he suggests was made with an instrument that had to be surgical. A scalpel, perhaps.”
“Okay, but anybody can buy a scalpel,” Astra notes.
I nod. “Right. But then there was the removal of the fingers. It was precisely at the first knuckle. The cuts were clean. Precise. They were done like an amputation.”
“So are you suggesting we’re looking for a doctor?” Mo asks.
“Not necessarily. Anybody with access to the internet can learn how to amputate a body part,” Astra chimes in, her tone disgusted. “It’s nasty and anybody pulling up those YouTube videos should probably be investigated for something, but the point is anybody can learn that… skill.”
“That’s true,” I acknowledge. “But it’s something we need to be aware of, I think. Something we need to keep in the back of our minds. Right now, we’re casting a wide net and we’ll whittle it down as we get more information.”
I know it’s early in the investigation and I can’t afford to jump to any conclusions just yet. There are still so many moving parts right now, it would be foolish to hitch my wagon to one theory just yet. However, I can’t help but think that piece of information is significant. That it’ll come into play at some point down the line. For now, I’ll put it on the back burner and let it simmer.
“Do me a favor,” I say to Mo and Rick. “Include surgical cuts and amputations into your search parameters when you go through the NCIC.”
“Yes ma’am,” Mo says.
“You got it,” Rick chimes in.
I turn to Astra. “Okay, ready for a field trip?”
“Thought you’d never ask,” she says, then turns to Mo. “I’ll see if I can get you a gift certificate for some free ink or something while we’re there.”
Mo’s lips twitch, but she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she turns to her computer and gets to work, not taking the bait. Astra shrugs and turns to me, giving me a shrug and a grin.
“Let’s roll,” she says. “But let’s stop by the coffee house. I need some caffeine.”
I laugh. “Fine. Let’s go.”
Ten
Anarchy Tattoo Parlor; Capitol Hill Neighborhood, Downtown Seattle
* * *
The hard driving guitars, pounding drums, and growling voice of the singer are blaring as we step into the waiting room of the tattoo parlor. It’s so loud, I have no idea how people can hear themselves think, let alone communicate in this place. There’s a distinct aroma of fish, incense, and weed in the air that’s entirely off-putting But if there’s one thing that can be said for the place, it’s that it’s clean. Like, immaculately clean. It just seems odd for a tattoo parlor to me.
We bypass the plastic chairs set up along the front and side wall, and step to the front desk that has a glass display case built into it. The case is filled with a wide assortment of rings and metal items meant for piercing any number of body parts. On a shelf behind the counter sits the stereo that’s pumping out the music currently assaulting my ear drums.
“This place is charming,” Astra says into my ear as she looks around.
The walls are black with red trim around the top and are covered in flash－drawings of the tattoos they have done, or can do. And I have to say, it’s quite the assortment. Some are more intricate pieces, some are classic retro style – I almost expect a heart with “Mom” on a banner in front of it. I see pop culture characters and symbols mixed in butterflies, unicorns, and assorted mythical beasts. On the shelves are stacks of books with more examples of their art, but one in particular catches my eye: it’s a little tiny black book, tucked so far underneath everything you’d almost think they were hiding it.
My instincts suddenly ping at me to check it out, so I kneel down and pick it out from behind the shelf. And what I find makes me absolutely sick.
Every page in this book is littered with Iron Crosses, grinning skulls with Nazi helmets, swastikas on flags, and plenty of other artwork that incorporate the numbers, “88” or “14.” Some of the designs even cleverly incorporate both numbers, which is nothing more than garbage white supremacist code.
The “8” refers to the eighth letter of the alphabet, which is “H.” In white supremacist circles, the 8-8, or H-H, symbolizes “Heil Hitler.” The “14” refers to the fourteen words that are a motto for white supremacists everywhere: “We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children.” It’s a disgusting code for those who want to keep their racist views on the down-low.
I nod to get Astra’s attention; she looks down and nods. I put the book back where I found it, making a mental note to inform the hate crimes unit of the SFO. If this shop caters to Nazis and white supremacists, I’m absolutely certain members of said groups hang out here, possibly even plotting their next moves. We may need to send a few undercover agents in here to bust them up.
I step behind the counter and turn the stereo off, and the silence that immediately descends over us is startling. As my hearing comes back, I can hear the electric buzz of tattoo guns. They all fall silent like the music, and a moment later a woman bursts through a curtain over a doorway to the right of the counter.
The woman can’t be more than twenty or twenty-one, has bright green hair, deep black circles of eyeliner around her blue eyes, and skin so pale she could be mistaken for a corpse. She might be pretty, but it’s really hard to tell between the collection of metal piercings she’s got in her face and the tattoos that run all the way up her neck to her chin. She’s got the profile of a tiger tattooed on the side of her face, and what I can see of her arms are covered with ink.
“What the hell? You can’t be behind the counter,” she snaps. “And you sure as hell can’t be touching the stereo. Who do you think you are?”
Astra and I both flash our badges. “SSA Blake Wilder. Special Agent Astra Russo,” I say. “We need to speak with Monty.”
“Why? What did he do?” she asks.
“What’s your name, miss?” Astra asks as she steps closer to the woman.
It’s a common intimidation tactic we employ. Closing the physical distance and asking for somebody’s name automatically puts them on the defensive. Most people, whether they did something or not, don’t want the close scrutiny of law enforcement and will happily throw somebody else under the bus to get out from under it. And predictably, the woman shrinks back, pointing to the curtain.
“He’s back there,” she says. “Second room on the right.”
“Thank you,” I say.
Astra and I push the curtain aside and step into a long hallway. There are three rounded arches on the left, three on the right. We pass the first one and it’s empty, save for the dentist’s chair in the middle of the small room. The walls in the room are also plastered with still more flash, and there’s what looks like a rolling toolbox pushed up against the back wall, which I assume is where the tattoo artists keep their gear.
We stop at the second door on the right and stand on either side of it, looking in at Monty. There’s a large, bearded, burly man in the chair, getting a new tattoo on his left bicep. It looks like a coiled snake with the Earth clamped in its
jaws, the fangs puncturing the planet. I have no idea what that is supposed to symbolize, nor do I think I want to know, but I have to say that the artwork really is gorgeous. I may not be one for getting inked, but Monty is a talented artist.
I keep in mind the book I saw earlier and decide to hold onto that in my back pocket. I’d like to see how he reacts to FBI presence in his shop before turning the screws.
Monty gets to his feet and pulls his black horn-rimmed glasses off and set them down on top of his toolbox. To say he’s not what I expected would be an understatement. He’s about five-nine, thin, and no more than twenty-three or twenty-four. He’s got shaggy black hair that falls to his shoulders and brown eyes, and a babyface that makes him look like a kid. What surprises me the most is that there isn’t a single tattoo on him, nor a single piercing, that I can see.
“Montgomery Denson?” I ask, trying to keep the shock out of my voice.
“Monty, yeah,” he says and flashes us a grin. “Let me guess. A butterfly on your wrist? A peony on your shoulder? Sorority letters? Maybe a Bible verse in the shape of an infinity?”
Astra’s mouth falls open and her eyes widen. “Do I really look like the kind of girl who’d get a freaking Bible verse in an infinity shape?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, you kinda do.”
She turns to me. “Can I shoot him? It would probably be considered a justifiable homicide, right?”
I laugh softly and badge him. “Mr. Denson－”
“Monty,” he cuts me off.
“Mr. Denson, is there somewhere we can speak?” I ask. “Privately?”
He frowns but pulls off his black latex gloves and drops them into the trash can beside the chair. He pats the big, burly man on the shoulder.
“Hold up, Alvin,” he says. “I’ll be back.”
Astra glares daggers at him as he steps out of the room and leads to the end of the hall. He opens a door at the end of the hall and steps aside, flashing Astra a toothy grin as she passes him.
“Ladies and sorority girls first,” he says.
“Don’t push your luck, kid,” I say. “Astra is a very good shot.”
“And I know how to dispose of a body. Trust me, you’ll never be found,” she says, pure venom in her voice.
Monty laughs as he closes the door and directs us to a pair of chairs in front of his desk as he circles around and drops into the plush office chair behind it. I look around for a moment, noticing that the office is as immaculate as the front of his shop. There is not a thing out of place and not a speck of dust to be seen anywhere.
“Couldn’t help but notice your book of Nazi flash,” Astra starts. So much for my plan of keeping it in my back pocket. “You a white supremacist, Montgomery?”
He chuckles. “Honey, I’m a businessman. The only color I care about is green,” he says. “People come in here and want all sorts of crazy stuff inked on their bodies. And as long as they have the money for it, I’ll do it up right for them.”
“Why would you knowingly tattoo white supremacist garbage like that?” I ask. “You allow them to just run through your shop?”
Monty shrugs. “How else am I going make a living with a degree in fine arts?” he asks. “Personally, I think these white supremacist jagoffs are idiots, but their money spends as well as everybody else’s. Just because I ink it, that doesn’t mean I endorse it.”
“Some might say otherwise,” Astra presses.
He leans forward. “Tell me something, Special Agent,” he says, his eyes boring into Astra. “Do you agree with what the FBI did at Waco? Or at Ruby Ridge?”
“That’s a stupid question,” she says.
“It’s actually not,” he counters smoothly. “Answer the question, do you endorse the Bureau’s actions at Waco and Ruby Ridge?”
“It’s not the same.”
“I’m going to go ahead and take your non-answer as an answer and assume that you don’t endorse what the Bureau did when they killed all those people. And yet, you still show up to work every day, and continue to draw a paycheck from the FBI anyway,” he says.
I want to chime in with the substantive differences between what it is we do and what it is Nazis do – and the fact that while the Bureau doesn’t have a perfect history, it would take quite some time before we’re anywhere near as bad as the Nazis, but I can’t allow this to spiral out of control. If I’m leading this investigation, it means keeping that control.
I file it away, though. Either Monty really is genuine in his disdain for white supremacists, or he’s been confronted on this so often that he’s become excellent at lying about it. I’m almost tempted to say it doesn’t matter. Whatever amount of money these monsters are bringing in is nowhere near enough to be complicit in what they do.
Yeah, I’ll definitely be sending some undercover agents here.
“Is that why you’re not covered in tattoos yourself, Mr. Denson? You don’t endorse that lifestyle and culture?” I ask.
“I don’t need to be covered in ink to be a good tattoo artist. Besides, the fact that I don’t have any tats or piercings makes me an oddity to some. Helps with my image, I guess. Whatever it takes to bring people through the doors, right?” he asks. “But I doubt you’re here to talk to me about my political and social views, or about how many tattoos I have or don’t have. So, what can I do for you, Agents?”
Monty is right. He’s an oddity in a lot of ways. Obsessively clean and tidy. Obviously intelligent and has no tats or piercings. Not that I know any tattoo artists or anything, but he seems to be different from the stereotypical image.
I open the file I’m carrying and slide the close-up shot of the signature on the tattoo and hand it over to him. He takes the photo from me and looks at it, his face completely neutral.
“Is that your signature, Mr. Denson?”
“Yeah. But I assume you already know that, otherwise you wouldn’t be sitting in my office right now,” he says.
“I know it’s a long shot, but can you tell what that tattoo is? And who you might have put it on?”
“In that mess?” he chuckles.
“As I said, I know it’s a long shot－”
“I’m assuming this dude is dead, yeah?” he asks.
I exchange a look with Astra and frown. I’d personally rather not discuss too much, but I know I have to give something to get anything. Astra turns to him.
“Yes. He’s dead,” she says. “And we’re trying to get an ID on him. So if you can tell us if you recognize the tattoo and perhaps who you might have inked it on, you’d be doing us a huge favor.”
Monty seems to sense the gravity of the situation, which I give him credit for. He pulls another pair of horn-rimmed glasses out of his desk and slips them on, then studies the picture closely. He holds the picture close to his face, and I can see him really trying to put it together. And then all at once, his face brightens.
“Yeah, I remember it. It was a Seahawks tattoo. At least, I’m pretty sure that’s the Seahawks tat. There are a couple of points I think I recognize. Dude went on and on about them. Was a total nut about his baseball team－”
“Football,” Astra cuts him off. “The Seahawks are a football team.”
He waves her off. “Whatever. Sports aren’t my thing anyway. But I designed a killer tat for him. A one of a kind thing. He was super stoked to get it. Dude was practically walking on air out of here when he got it. Begged me to retire the flash and never put this tat on anybody else. He paid extra for it, so I did him the solid.”
“That’s great,” I say. “Any chance you’d be able to dig up his name?”
“Yeah, maybe,” he says, turning to his computer.
Astra and I exchange a look as he bangs away on his keyboard. I start getting that excited churning in my belly as the pieces of a case start to fall together. It’s not much, but it’s a slight forward momentum. We could be one step closer to IDing our vic. And once we do, we’re a few steps away from IDing the killer. He’s proven to be elusive and w
ell-prepared thus far, but everybody slips up. Everybody makes a mistake. And once we found out who the dead guy is, we’re going to find out who the killer is.
“Ah yeah, here it is,” he says.
He turns the monitor so it’s facing us. On the screen is a photo of the tattoo he inked the man with, and I have to say, the artwork is pretty amazing. The detail is fantastic. Monty is a really fine, talented artist. I can see why his work is as sought after as Mo said it is.
“I’m not a football fan, but that’s pretty amazing work,” I say.
He smiles wide. “Yeah, it is pretty good, isn’t it?
“Your humility is awe inspiring,” Astra says dryly. “The name of the customer you put this Louvre quality work on?”
He chuckles and tips her a wink. “The customer is Brad Sunderland,” he says. “If that’s actually the same tat. Like I said, I only think it is. I’m not one hundred percent on that.”
“That’s fair. We’ll take it,” I say. “Can we get the address?”
“Yeah sure. No problem,” he says.
He gives me the vic’s address and I thank him for his time. He walks us out to the front of the shop, and as we’re about to leave, he flashes Astra a grin.
“You come on back and I’ll give you the sorority discount anytime, gorgeous,” he says.
She rolls her eyes and looks at me. “I’m seriously going to shoot him in the face right now. Seriously.”
I guffaw loudly as we walk toward the car, grinning like a fool and feeling that flush of excitement. The momentum of the case is beginning to build. Granted, it’s one piece of the puzzle, but it’s an important one. A piece we’re going to build out from and crack this thing. I just know it.
Eleven
Residence of the Unsub; Location Unknown
The warm water flows down over them, soothing his skin. He wraps his arms around her from behind, relishing the feeling of her soft, yet firm body pressed close to his. He closes his eyes and slides his hands up and down her body, savoring the swell of her hips and breasts beneath his fingertips.
