‘Keep at it.’
‘You bet. I’ll have some answers soon.’ He turned his gaze to Rhyme. ‘Hopefully.’
‘Hopefully?’ Rhyme frowned.
‘Yep. I’m filled with hope that I don’t get any more damn grammar lessons from you, Lincoln.’
237 Elizabeth Street
Victim: Chloe Moore, 26
— Probably no connection to Unsub
— No sexual assault, but touching of skin
Unsub 11-5
— White male
— Slim to medium build
— Stocking cap
— Thigh-length dark coat
— Dark backpack
— Wore booties
— No friction ridges
COD: Poisoning with cicutoxin, introduced into system by tattooing
— From water hemlock plant
— No known source
— Concentrated, eight times normal
Sedated with propofol
— How obtained? Access to medical supplies?
Tattooed with ‘the second’ Old English typeface, surrounded by scallops
— Part of message?
— Task force at police HQ checking this out
Portable tattoo gun used as weapon
— Model unknown
Cotton fiber
— Off white
— Probably from Unsub’s shirt, torn in struggle
Page from book, true crime?
— Probably torn from Unsub’s pocket in struggle
— Probably mass produced hardcover 1996–2000
ies
that his greatest skill was his ability to anticipate
— On next page:
the body was found.
Possibly used adhesive rollers to remove trace from clothing prior to attack
Handcuffs
— Generic, cannot be sourced
Flashlight
— Generic, cannot be sourced
Duct tape
— Generic, cannot be sourced
Trace evidence
Nitric oxide, ozone, iron manganese, nickel, silver beryllium, chlorinated hydrocarbon, acetylene
— Possibly oxy-fuel welding supplies
Tetrodotoxin
— Fugu fish poison
— Zombie drug
— Minute amounts
— Not used on victim here
Stercobilin, urea 9.3 g/L, chloride 1.87 g/L, sodium 1.17 g/L, potassium 0.750 g/L, creatinine 0.670 g/L
— fecal material
— Possibly suggesting interest/obsession in underground
— From future kill sites underground?
Benzalkonium chloride
— Quaternary ammonium (quat), institutional sanitizer
Adhesive latex
— Used in bandages and construction, other uses too
Inwood marble
— Dust and fine grains
Tovex explosive
— Probably from blast site
CHAPTER 11
‘Hey, dude. Take a seat. I’ll get to you in a few. You want to check out the booklet there? Find something fun, something to impress the ladies. You’re never too old for ink.’
The man’s eyes alighted on Lon Sellitto’s unadorned ring finger and turned back to the young blonde he was speaking to.
The tattoo artist — and owner of the parlor (yeah, parlor, not studio) — was early thirties, scrawny as a crab leg. He was wearing well-cut and pressed black jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt, white, immaculate. His dark-blond hair was pulled back in a long ponytail. He had a dandy beard, an elaborate affair that descended from his upper lip in four thin lines of dark silky hair that circled his mouth and reunited on his chin in a spiral. His cheeks were shaved smooth but his sideburns, sharp as hooks, swept forward from his ears. A steel rod descended from his upper ear down to the lobe. Another, smaller, pierced each eyebrow vertically. After the facial hair and the metalwork, the full-color tattoos of Superman on one forearm and Batman on the other were pretty tame.
Sellitto stepped forward.
‘A minute, dude, I was saying.’ He studied the cop for a moment. ‘You know, for an older guy, a bigger guy — I don’t mean any offense — you’re a good candidate. Your skin isn’t going to sag.’ His voice faded. ‘Oh, hey. Look at that.’
Sellitto had grown tired of the ramble. He’d thrust his gold shield toward the hipster in a way that was both aggressive and lethargic.
‘Okay. Police. You’re police?’
The tat artist was sitting on a stool next to a comfortable-looking but well-worn reclining chair of black leather, occupied by the girl he’d been speaking with when Sellitto walked in. She wore excessively tight jeans and a gray tank top over what seemed to be three bras or spaghetti-strap camisoles, or whatever they were called. Pink, green and blue. Her strikingly golden hair was long on the left and crew cut on the right. Pretty face if you could get past the skewed hair and nervous eyes.
‘You want to talk to me?’ the tattoo artist asked.
‘I want to talk to TT Gordon?’
‘I’m TT.’
‘Then I want to talk to you.’
Nearby another artist, a chubby thirty-something in cargo pants and T, was working away on another client — a massive bodybuilder — who was lying face down on a leather bed, like a masseur would use. The man was getting an elaborate motorcycle inked on his back.
Both employee and customer looked at Sellitto, who stared back.
They returned to inking and being inked.
The detective shot a glance at Gordon and the girl with the unbalanced hair. She was upset, really bothered. Gordon, though, didn’t seem fazed by the cop’s presence. The owner of the Sonic Hum-Drum Tattoo Parlor had all his permits in a row and his tax bills paid, the detective knew. He’d checked.
‘Let me just finish up here.’
Sellitto said, ‘It’s important.’
‘This’s important too,’ Gordon said, ‘dude.’
‘No, dude,’ Sellitto said. ‘What you’re going to do is sit down over there and answer my questions. Because my important is more important than your important. And, Miss Gaga, you’re gonna have to leave.’
She was nodding. Breathless.
‘But—’ Gordon began.
Sellitto asked bluntly, ‘You ever hear about section two sixty point twenty-one, New York State Penal Code?’
‘I. Uhm. Sure.’ Gordon nodded matter-of-factly.
‘It’s a crime to tattoo minors under the age of eighteen and the crime is defined as unlawfully dealing with a child in the second degree.’ Turning to the client. ‘How old’re you really?’ Sellitto barked.
She was crying. ‘Seventeen. I’m sorry. I just, I didn’t, I really, I mean …’
‘You want to finish that sentence sometime soon?’
‘Please, I just, I mean …’
‘Lemme put it this way: Get outta here.’
She fled, leaving behind her vinyl leather jacket. As both Sellitto and Gordon watched, she stopped, debated then snuck back fast, grabbed the garment and vanished again, permanently this time.
Turning to the owner of the store, Sellitto was enjoying himself, though he was also noting that Gordon still wasn’t cringing with guilt. Or fear. The detective pushed harder. ‘That happens to be a class B misdemeanor. Punishable by three months in jail.’
Gordon said, ‘Punishable by up to three months in jail but production of an apparently valid identification card is an affirmative defense. Her license? It was really, really good. Top-notch. I believed it was valid. The jury’d believe it was valid.’
Sellitto tried not to blink but wasn’t very successful.
Gordon continued, ‘Not that it mattered. I wasn’t going to ink her. I was in my Sigmund mode.’