Tattooed (11 page)

Dr. Hughes pointed to a spot almost at the base of the corpse’s neck. “There. Do you see that mark, Dr. Guthro? It’s not dirt.”

Dr. Guthro picked up a magnifying glass. He frowned. “Looks like a very crude tattoo.”

Ferguson threw Ethan a look.
Did Rigby have a tattoo?

He did a mental run-through of Heather’s description in the dog-eared missing-persons file, and gave a subtle shake of his head.

No, she did not.

11

Y
oshi, her old friend and owner of Yakusoku Tattoo, had told her to park in the back of the building. He hadn’t mentioned that finding the driveway would be so difficult. All these old buildings were connected. Kenzie slowed her car and peered through the side window.

There. Three buildings over, she spotted the narrow carriage lane that led to the parking lot. She eased her car between the brick buildings, careful of the rental vehicle’s side mirrors. The lane was barely wide enough for her car. But, she discovered to her surprise, the parking lot behind the buildings was actually quite big—one of those strange lot divisions from earlier times.

She glanced at her watch. She was early. Hardly surprising, since she hadn’t slept last night. God, she felt like hell. She grabbed her Americano, slung her kit bag over her shoulder, and led Foo down the carriage lane to the front entrance of Yakusoku Tattoo. The tall buildings had protected her from the weather, but as soon as she reached the sidewalk, heavy drizzle dampened her skin.

Ugh.
She wasn’t used to this chill damp anymore. She craved warmth and sun.

One more reason she should have just flown in and out again.

I shouldn’t have let Yoshi talk me into this.

This was supposed to be a quick trip, but when Yoshi heard she was coming to Halifax, he asked her to do some guest spots.

He wasn’t someone to whom she could—or would—say no.

Yoshi had been the tattoo artist to design the arm sleeves and koi design on her back. Whenever he was in her neck of the woods, she would book off a few days and have him work on her. He had finished the final section of her tattoo a year and a half ago. No, she could never say no to Yoshi.

She’d never been to his studio before. They had met eight years ago when she was in Tokyo at an international tattooing conference. He had been demonstrating the technique of
tebori,
something she had always wanted to learn. Not only had Yoshi been willing to share his vast knowledge of traditional woodblock designs and the art of
tebori,
but while she was in Japan, he had been instrumental in making an introduction to the famed Horifuyu, one of the great masters of the art of Japanese tattooing. It had been a lifetime ambition for Kenzie to meet him, and she was beyond thrilled when he tattooed a crane taking flight around her ankle.

Four years later, Yoshi had created a tattoo studio that was known across North America. His clients, who were willing to invest the time and money into the art on their bodies, booked vacation to come to Halifax to have their tattoos done.

And now, here she was—about to ink clients in a studio owned by a Japanese artist in good ol’ Halifax. If someone had told her seventeen years ago that she would be doing this, she would have laughed. But her life had many strange twists. This, fortunately, was one of the more pleasant ones.

There were already a few clients hanging around the waiting area when she shouldered open the door. They all turned to stare. She gave a quick smile, and scanned the room. It was exactly what she expected Yoshi’s place to be: cool, eclectic, immaculate. The room had an urban industrial vibe, the tall ceiling crisscrossed with venting and pipes, the slightly uneven floor finished with distressed concrete. It was all gray. But serene gray. Zen gray. On the walls hung Hori’s designs in the most brilliant, breathtaking colors. Dragons, koi and serpents curved with sinuous grace. Above the counter were designs and flash from the other artists at the studio: skulls, hearts, pinup girls, Celtic and tribal. She eyed a Celtic cross. Nicely done but a bit mechanical.

“
Yookoso,
Kenzie.” Yoshi walked around the front counter and gave a small bow. She bowed back. It was a little ritual they had, from one professional to another. Then she reached over and gave him a hug. He was shorter than she, stocky in build. A soft goatee contrasted with the thick stubble bristling his head. “How are you?” he asked, stepping back.

“Good.” She flipped her hair off her shoulder and stretched.

He scrutinized her, his gaze concerned behind the tinted John Lennon–style glasses. “You look like shit.”

She shrugged. “I went to my old house yesterday.”

“How’s your mother?”

“Dying.” She took a big gulp of her espresso. “So, what’s my schedule like today?”

Yoshi took the cue and sat down at the computer behind the counter. “Let me see… Your first client is in ten minutes. You’ve got a full day ahead of you.”

“Great.” She needed that. She needed to take her mind off her mother. “Where’s my station?”

Yoshi led her to a far corner with an exposed brick wall, and a bonsai garden in a gray bowl on a shelf. Kenzie was pleased to see that the tattoo chair was fully adjustable and hydraulic. She placed her kit bag next to the metal-and-glass workstation, and gave it a quick check. Thermal paper, green soap, inks, ultrasonic cleaner, razors, Vaseline, surgical gloves. Good. She had her own needles, power supply, needle tubes and sketch pad in her bag. “Nice place, Yoshi.” Perfect for zoning out and tuning in to inking her clients.

“Gracias.”
Yoshi grinned. “Glad you like it.”

“What does Yakusoku mean again?”

Yoshi’s eyes gleamed. “It means the promise one has between a customer and the tattooist.”

“Cool.” She liked that. The client trusted the tattooist in so many ways: to perform a safe procedure, to create the design they want, to not hurt them. But the biggest promise was to create something they would be satisfied with for the rest of their lives.

She had just settled Foo on his fleece blanket in the corner, and laid out her equipment when her first client arrived, a burly teddy bear of a guy who asked her to tattoo a portrait of his cat on his chest. “He’s been with me through some tough times,” he told her, handing her a photo of a fluffy gray cat with white socks and quartzlike eyes.

Kenzie nodded to Foo, who snored gently on his blanket. “I hear ya.”

His cat was cute, and Kenzie’s spirits lifted as she began the outline work of his tattoo.

An hour and a half later, she surveyed her work with satisfaction. “This is amazing!” her client declared, studying the tattoo of his cat curled on his chest.

After he left, she broke down her workstation, disposing of her single-use items, then cleaned and sterilized her equipment. She glanced at her watch. Her next client was due any minute, but hopefully he was late and she could grab a bite of the muffin she had packed in her bag. Foo watched her, knowing that his best chances of a treat were after her clients had left.

“Your next client is here,” announced the receptionist, with an impressive collection of piercings.

Any frustration at not having her muffin vanished at the sight of her new client. Tall, tanned (how could he get a tan in this weather? she wondered), well-muscled with an easy grin and shaggy blond hair, he was definitely an acceptable substitute for her muffin.

“Hi, I’m Kenzie.”

“Finn.” He shoved his hands in his front pockets.

* * *

“Can you tell how long the victim would have had the tattoo before she was killed?” Ethan asked Dr. Guthro.

Dr. Guthro shook his head. “No. Did your missing girl have one?”

Dr. Hughes threw a glance at Ethan.

He rubbed his jaw. “There is no tattoo listed under identifying marks.” And he certainly could not recall one from his university class. Back in the ’90s, a neck tattoo on a Halifax university student would have been memorable. But Heather had long hair. The tattoo was on the back of her neck, so it might have been covered. “But I’ll have to check with the family.”

“We are lucky that the teeth are intact. You don’t have to worry so much about identifying marks if we can get a positive match with the dental records.”

“May we have a look at the mark, Doctor?” Ferguson asked.

Dr. Guthro handed her the magnifying glass. Ethan and Lamond stood behind the sergeant. The mark on the victim’s skin was faint, just a blurry outline. “Looks homemade,” Lamond said. “It isn’t even shaded.”

“What do you think it is?” Ethan asked. “Some kind of triad?”

Ferguson shrugged. “Maybe.” Ethan knew from past experience that when she said “Maybe,” she meant “Not likely.” Ferguson glanced up at Dr. Guthro. “Is there any way to get an enhancement of this?”

“We can try infrared camera. If that doesn’t work, sometimes an amber filter on the lens will work. If the ink is black, it will absorb the light and darken the image.”

“When will you be able to look at that?”

“I have to check when our camera technician is in.” Dr. Guthro made a note of it on the whiteboard hanging by the autopsy table.

The rest of the external exam was completed without any more findings of note. With the exception of the victim’s neck, there were no signs of external trauma and no more unusual markings.

The body was rolled back onto its back. “Let’s remove the rope and see what we can find,” Dr. Guthro said. He worked the slipknot, trying to avoid damage to the rope and any evidence that might have survived. The homicide team knew it was extremely unlikely that fingerprints would have lasted in the bog environment, but they were hoping there might be blood or fibers caught in the rope.

A deep groove encircled the victim’s throat. Dr. Guthro leaned in for closer inspection. “Given the amount of force that would have been applied to create this kind of damage, some of the bones of her neck would have sustained small fractures. We’ll have a look under the skin at the end of the autopsy.” He gazed over the rim of his glasses at the onlookers. “Shall we break for lunch? Or keep going?”

“I’m all for retrieving that bullet, Dr. Guthro,” Ferguson said, her tone brisk.

“Me, too.” He gave a broad smile.

The morgue attendant set up the body, and Dr. Guthro began the Y incision. The skin was like leather, and he had a fine sheet of sweat on his forehead by the time he removed the chest plate.

The organs were surprisingly recognizable. “Don’t judge a book by its cover, heh.” Dr. Guthro chuckled. He studied the X-ray of the bullet, then examined the exposed lungs. “Hmmm… The entrance wound looks to be about…here.” He stuck his gloved finger in a tiny hole. “See?”

He peered down into the chest cavity. “Looks like it hit some large blood vessels—” he checked the X-ray again “—and is lodged in the muscles of the vertebral column. Let’s see if we can map the ballistic trajectory.”

The morgue attendant handed him a bright pink rod. He eased one end into the hole, and gently probed downward into the tissue. “Easy does it…” he murmured. “Yes, my initial hypothesis was correct.”

He removed the rod and dug his finger into the tissue. Everyone watched. No one dared breathe. “I can feel it… .” He grunted a few times. His face shone with sweat. “Hold on…here it comes…”

He hooked the bullet upwards with his finger, and placed it on a tray.

Ethan studied the bullet. “A .38 S&W would be my guess.”

“That narrows it down,” Lamond said.

Ethan gave him a look. “I was just about to add that it looks like a vintage bullet. Probably from the second World War.”

Dr. Guthro removed the organs, one by one. After he weighed and measured them, he placed a large hypodermic into a pool of fluid in the abdominal cavity. “We’ll see if the lab can run a toxicology screen on the decomposition fluid.”

Science never ceased to amaze Ethan. This corpse was in the bog for years, he guessed, and there was still a chance that they could test it for drugs.

The morgue attendant peeled back the skin on the skull, and removed the skull cap. Liquid streamed out of the skull onto a towel. Lamond wrinkled his nose. At the unspoken question in the homicide team’s eyes, Dr. Guthro said, “That was the brain.”