Tattooed (14 page)

Or I can make you the target of public controversy.

Your choice.

She fished her phone out of her purse. She speed-dialed
N
.

Nat picked up on the second ring.

Her takedown of Harry Owen was about to begin.

14

K
enzie hummed under her breath while she broke down her station. She had a little breather before her next client. Time to take Foo out for a pee. She clipped on his leash and headed to the entrance of the studio. It was buzzing with clients—looked like a bunch of university students celebrating their admissions with new tattoos.

“Will be back in fifteen,” she told the pierced receptionist.

“Did you hear about that body they found?” a girl said to a friend, right behind her.

“Yeah. It was really freaky. Right out of
CSI
.”

The receptionist appeared transfixed by the kids’ gossip. She jumped right in. “They said it was perfectly preserved. Right down to the toenails.”

“What time is my next appointment?” Kenzie interrupted, trying to get the receptionist’s attention.

“It’s probably a hoax,” another guy with a brow piercing said.

The receptionist glanced at the screen. “At four,” she replied without even looking at her. Kenzie bit her tongue. The receptionist was oblivious to the pissed-off vibes Kenzie sent her, staring right past her to the skeptic. “It’s no hoax.” She held up a newspaper. On the front page was a large photo of an area Kenzie had hoped never to see again, surrounded in crime scene tape.

Kenzie’s insides liquefied.

“The body was found in a peat bog,” the girl read from the paper. She looked up at the guy. “They have preservatives and shit in them.”

Kenzie thrust Foo’s leash at the receptionist. “Take him for a minute, please.” She rushed back through the studio and into the ladies’ room. Ten minutes later, she emerged, shaking and sick to her stomach.

“You okay?” Yoshi called from his workstation.

“Yeah. Fine.” She exhaled slowly through her mouth and gave Yoshi a wobbly smile. “Must have eaten some bad food on the plane.”

“Your client is here.”

“Right.” She straightened.

“You up for it?”

“Yes. No problem.” Her hand was steady. She could do it.

Her next client wanted a skull tattooed on his calf. She couldn’t help but wonder if it was a message from the universe.

Or, more to the point, from Heather Rigby. Whom, she guessed, McNally had left to rot in the peat bog.

Probably only minutes after Kenzie had put a bullet in her heart.

15

M
cNally awoke in full arousal, his heart hammering, his fingers clenched. His sheets were sticky. The dream about Kenzie had come back.

The neon clock dial on his bedside table showed it was morning. He jumped out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom. His eyes were still glued with sleep as he groped for the shower dial. The water was cold. He let it run down his body, angling his head until it hit the death’s-head on the back of his bristle-covered skull.

Ten minutes later, he turned off the water and stood, naked, in front of the mirror.

His skin was ruddy. His flesh numb.

But that was as far as the dousing had gone.

He dressed quickly, having augmented his prison discharge garb with several new pairs of khakis, three T-shirts and a hoodie for the cool May weather. There was a small convenience store in the basement of the building, and he put on the coffee and a pot of oatmeal, hurried down to the store and bought every newspaper that made mention of the “bog body,” including yesterday’s leftovers. When he returned to his apartment, the smell of brewed coffee hit his nose. His stomach rumbled.

He threw the papers on the table and poured himself a large mug of coffee. It was a dark roast, the tribal design of coffees: bold and edgy and dynamic, with an intense aftertaste that left deep strokes on his tongue. Man, he loved the tribal energy. It kicked into his bloodstream almost immediately—reminding him that he was starving. He gave his oatmeal one final stir, scraping the bottom of the pot. Steel-cut, with fresh milk. Thick and heavy. He needed something that would hold his hunger at bay. He could be waiting for Kenzie outside the tattoo studio for hours. He set a bowl of blueberries and strawberries on the place mat by his juice glass. It was strange how all those old habits had come back to him after he was released. They were strangely comforting.

He poured the entire contents of the pot into a deep bowl, loaded it with brown sugar, and added cream. Then he sat down, dug his spoon into the steaming porridge, and picked up the first newspaper. He wasn’t disappointed. The reports provided vivid detail about the crime scene, with an in-depth interview of Rebecca Chen, who had found the body. He studied her picture. She was about the same age as Heather Rigby had been. But with black hair, dark eyes…

Disappointment stabbed him. Cute. But not his type.

She clearly relished the media attention. Every other paragraph provided an extensive quote about her traumatic experience of finding a dead body while trying to get an A in her biology lab.

But it was her description of tearing her fingernails ragged to dig out the “rock” that transfixed him.

There had been a plank thrown behind the bunker, and he made Lovett drag it down to the peat bogs while he dug under the hummock. The must of decaying earth filled his nose, blocking the sharper metallic tang of Heather’s blood. He breathed deeply. Anger and adrenaline, combined with cocaine, had ramped up his heart rate and his chest could barely contain the raging muscle.

His fingers ripped out a handful of roots and dirt.

It was Kenzie’s hair.

Another handful.

Kenzie’s skin.

He scrabbled deeper and pulled out a mass of peat. It was moist.

Kenzie’s heart.

His hands dug farther and deeper under the hummock, creating a tunnel into which he would bury the gullibility that had led him to this moment.

She had betrayed him.

She had betrayed his trust. His love. His hope for their future.

Mist crawled under his clothes.

The longer it took for them to get rid of Heather’s body, the farther Kenzie could get.

His muscles trembled.

She had ruined everything.

He still couldn’t absorb the extent of her betrayal. He wanted to destroy something, hurt something, something more than the dead girl who lay next to him.

Something like Kenzie.

His eyes refocused on the newspaper’s interview of the girl who had discovered Heather’s body.

The body, according to our sources, is still intact.

“Shit.”

The bog had played a cruel trick on him and Lovett.

He wondered if the police had found the tattoo gun… .

The oatmeal became leaden in his gut.

There is nothing to connect you to that. Nothing. The water would have destroyed any fingerprints or blood.

He shoved the newspaper aside, and grabbed the next one on the stack. It was the local paper—the
Halifax Post.

The
Post
speculated that the bog body could be “missing university student Heather Rigby who had mysteriously disappeared on the night of Halifax’s final Mardi Gras.”

Yup. You got it. It’s Heather.

He grinned. All those police officers and doctors and journalists—they thought they were so smart—and yet none of them knew what had happened to poor little Heather.

McNally hummed under his breath.

And they wouldn’t find out.

He was sure that the bog would have erased all traces of blood and semen from Heather.

How could they ever connect her to him? Or anyone else who had been there that night?

They’d gotten away with murder.

He picked up his coffee mug, savoring the strong brew as he scanned the other headline on the front page.

The Body Butcher Killings: Are They Connected?

He had heard about this case. All the guys on his unit had talked about a serial killer operating in Halifax. He could imagine how well that went down with the old establishment of the South End. Especially when the bodies were dumped in their own backyard.

Make that
dismembered
bodies. He’d forgotten that part. Cool.

One of them was a judge’s daughter?
Holy shit.

It made his own kill seem tame in comparison. Heather Rigby had been a nobody.

Had that Body Butcher guy killed all those women by himself?

He wondered if the Body Butcher had tatts. He pictured the ones he would ink on him: a series of pinups, each one more broken than the last—

Then he read the next paragraph: “The killer had been killed by one of his intended victims.”

The would-be victim stared at him from the front page, her face bruised, her eyes haunted. Brown hair, brown eyes.

Jesus. Christ.

He read the caption underneath the photo: Halifax lawyer Kate Lange kills the infamous Body Butcher in self-defense during his final, crazed killing spree.

The universe had just sent him another sign.

Kate Lange had killed a serial killer.

And he was going to kill her.

He imagined the headlines: Killer of Serial Killer Found Murdered.

You bet that would make news all over the world. Not just in the
Halifax Post.

And if her death was a replicate of Heather Rigby’s…

What would that make him?

The best.

This, more than anything else, would convince Kenzie that he meant business.

Kenzie would know he was all-powerful.

And that she could never leave him again.

Or, more precisely, he would never let her leave him again.

16

T
he team had assembled in the war room at the station. Ferguson stood by the whiteboard, which was covered in black, red and blue scrawls, diagrams and arrows. A large map of Chebucto Head had been tacked next to it.

“We’ve had a positive identification,” Ferguson announced, smiling broadly, holding an extra-large cup of Tim Hortons coffee. Ethan could sense her relief. Cold cases usually stirred up considerable media interest, but this case went viral because of the “bog body” angle. Reporters from all over North America and Europe had descended on Halifax—and thus, on the crime scene—to report the finding.

As the sergeant overseeing the investigation, Ferguson had her hands full maintaining security of the site, and ensuring that none of the remaining holdback evidence about the crime—namely, the bullet and the tattoo—had been leaked. The stress was wearing on her, on all of them.

“Ethan, can you debrief the team on the dental records?”

“We were lucky that the teeth were intact on the body. We had a positive match with the dental records. The victim, as we all suspected, was Heather Rigby, last seen at the Mardi Gras in 1995.”

It was always a strange mix of feelings to get a positive ID on a cold-case victim. There was triumph and satisfaction in succeeding to piece together the evidence to make an identification; there was a sense of closure in resolving an unanswered question that never let you rest; there was sorrow that the hope for the family was now gone.

In Heather Rigby’s case, the feelings ran stronger, deeper. The case had haunted the police and the city for years. To know the manner of her death made it even more terrible. “We’ve notified the family, and I’m going to interview them after this meeting,” Ethan added.

“I’ve asked Detective Liscomb to brief us on the FIS results as soon as we get them,” Ferguson said. “I need some volunteers to canvass the houses in the area to see if they can remember anything about that night.” Ferguson looked around at the team.

“Volunteers?” Lamond asked. “What happened to patrol?”

“Thanks to the media attention,” Ferguson said, “I’ve had to use my quota to secure the crime scene. We are going to have to do the footwork.”

Lamond exhaled. “I’ll go.”

“When I finish talking to Rigby’s family, I’ll join you,” Ethan said. “I’ve got a list of old contacts you can start with.”

“And don’t forget to find out whether they know who hangs out at that bunker—” Ferguson was interrupted by a knock at the door. A woman stepped inside, carrying a box with several folders piled on top. “Detective Liscomb, I see you’ve brought some goodies.”

Detective “Lizzy” Liscomb grinned, revealing an endearing dimple that Ethan knew had fooled many. “You guys are gonna love me,” she said. “First of all, remember that strange blob on the back of the victim’s neck?” She opened a folder and rummaged around in it. “It was definitely a tattoo.” She pulled out three 8 x 10 photos, which she pinned to the corkboard next to a map of the crime scene. “We used an infrared camera, which helped with some of the fainter lines.” Yet the outline of the tattoo was still incomplete. The lines faded and then grew bold. “This isn’t the fault of the technology,” Liscomb said. “The actual tattoo was crudely done, with an inconsistent depth of penetration by the needle.”

Ethan glanced at Lamond. As usual, his eyes reflected what he was thinking. In this case, it was exactly what Ethan was thinking:
How the hell do you know that?
And then he remembered what was in the box… .

Liscomb lifted the lid of the box and, with a gloved hand, removed the homemade tool that Dr. Hughes had uncovered at the bog. “This, my friends, is a scratcher’s tattoo gun. And the one we hypothesize was used to tattoo the victim’s neck.”

Liscomb held out the gun so the team could see it. “Usually the homemade guns use motors from electrical cars or VCRs, and then they are hooked up to a power supply, but this one is quite clever. Whoever made it used a rechargeable electric shaver, so it was completely portable.”

“And could be used in the bunker,” Ethan said.

“That’s right.” She pointed to the tip. “Instead of a needle, they used a guitar string, which we presume was attached to the button that Dr. Hughes found.”

“How exactly does that work?” Lamond asked.

“The button sits on top of the motor. The guitar string is threaded through a tube—in this case, the outer tube of a pen. The end that protrudes out of the tube is the needle. The other end is hooked into the button. When the motor is switched on, it rotates the button, which causes the string to move up and down in the tube.” She smiled. “
Et voila,
a crude but effective tattoo gun. Unfortunately, it is doubtful any DNA survived on the button or the guitar string, but we’ve removed the duct tape wrapped around the tube, just in case something was preserved in the layers.” She put the gun back in the box.

“So you believe this tattoo was made by that gun, correct?” Ferguson asked.

Liscomb turned to the photos of the actual tattoo. “Yes—the unevenness of the penetration into the skin suggests it was done by a homemade gun. What’s interesting is that the tattoo itself is quite well drawn.”

“How can you tell?” Ethan asked.

“We took it to one of the local tattoo parlors last night. A tattoo artist created a rendering of it, and filled in the details. When you see the finished product, it’s pretty good.” She pulled a sketch from the file folder and pinned it on the board.

“The tattooist thought it was a bird?” Ethan asked, studying the image. So much for his triad theory.

Liscomb nodded. “He was positive. And in fact, he said it was a raven.” She flipped open a notepad. “I did some preliminary research on its meaning. In Native American cultures, the raven is considered a symbol of transformation and light.”

Lamond raised his brows at Ethan. “Did Heather Rigby have Native American beliefs?”

Lizzy held up a hand. “Not so fast, guys. I haven’t finished. It also has meanings for other groups. Historically, it was considered a keeper of secrets and symbol of death in Europe, a bad omen in the Middle East and a creature of evil in the Bible.”

“So there could be a variety of angles on the tattoo,” Ferguson said.

“Yeah. Like Heather had a thing for birds,” Lamond said.

“Did the tattoo artist recognize the style of tattoo as belonging to someone?”

The FIS detective shook her head. “He couldn’t associate it with anyone. But there are many more tattoo artists in the Halifax area. Someone might recognize this as a signature.”

“As far as I know, Heather Rigby did not have any tattoos prior to the night she was killed,” Ethan said. “So presuming she got this the night she went missing—and she was tattooed with the tattoo gun that was found with her—then we can guess that it was done locally. And we know that tattoos weren’t as mainstream back then as they are now. There probably weren’t as many tattoo artists around… .”

“But there were probably more scratchers, working out of their basements, which means it might be harder for someone to identify this signature,” Ferguson said.

Ethan nodded. “True. I think we need to release this sketch to the public. See if anyone was in a tattoo shop on the night of Mardi Gras and remembers Heather Rigby getting inked.”

“Go for it,” Ferguson said. “It’s the best lead we’ve got.”

Ethan grabbed his notebook and headed out the door. His meeting with Heather Rigby’s family was at the top of his to-do list. He would verify their previous report that, other than a birthmark, Heather did not have any identifying markings, such as a tattoo, when she went missing. Then he would release the tattoo to the public and hope that they got some leads.

Adrenaline pumped through him. This case had haunted Halifax—and him—for over seventeen years. Heather had died a brutal death.

He wanted to be able to look Heather’s parents in the eye and tell them that her killer had been brought to justice.

He wanted to be able to look himself in the eye again. And, if he was honest, he wanted to be able to tell Kate about this case. He wanted to redeem himself in her eyes.

Have her respect him again.