BLACK NOTICE. PATRICIA CORNWELL

He captured the image onto his hard drive and began to process it, the software making it possible for us to see some two hundred shades of gray that we couldn’t detect with the unaided eye:

Lapointe worked the keyboard and mouse, going in and out of windows, and using contrast, brightness, and enlarging, shrinking and adjusting. He eliminated background noise, or trash, as he called it, and we began to see hair pores, and then the stippling made by a tattoo needle. Out of the murk emerged black wavy lines that became fur or feathers. A black line sprouting daisy petals became a claw.

“What do you think?” I asked Lapointe.

“I think this is the best we’re going to get,” he impatiently said.

“We know anybody who’s an expert in tattoos?”

“Why don’t you start with your histologist,” he said.

21

I found George Gara in his lab, retrieving his bagged lunch from a refrigerator posted with a sign that read No Food Inside were stains such as silver nitrate and mucicarmine, in addition to Schiff reagents, none of which was compatible with anything edible.

“That’s not such a great idea,” I said.

“I’m sorry,” he stuttered, setting the bag on the counter and shutting the refrigerator door.

“We have a fridge in the break room. George,” I said. “You’re more than welcome to use it:’

He didn’t respond, and I realized that he was so painfully shy he probably didn’t go into the break room for a -reason. My heart ached for him. I couldn’t imagine the shame he must have felt when he was growing up and couldn’t talk without stuttering. Maybe that explained the tattoos slowly taking over his body like kudzu. Maybe they made him feel special and manly. I pulled out a chair and sat down.

“George, can I ask you about your tattoos?” I asked.

He blushed.

“I’m fascinated by them and need -some help with a problem:’

“Sure,” he said with uncertainty.

“Do you have someone you go to? A real expert? Someone very experienced in tattooing?”

“Yes, ma’am,” hereplied. “I wouldn’t go to just anyone.”

“You get your tattoos locally? Because I need to find a place where I can ask some questions and not run into bad characters, if you know what I mean.”

“Pit,” he immediately said. “As in pit bull, but Pit’s his real name. John Pit. He’s a really good guy. You want me to call him for you?” he asked, stuttering badly.

“I would be grateful if you would,” I said.

Gara pulled a small address book out of his back pocket and looked up a number. When he got Pit on the line, he explained who I was, and apparently Pit was very agreeabIé.

“Here.” Gara handed me the phone. “I’ll let you explain the rest of it.”

That took several efforts. Pit was home and just waking up.

“So you think you might have some luck?” I asked.

“I’ve seen pretty much all the flash out there,” he replied.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what that is.”

“Flash’s the stencils, I guess you could call them. You know, the design people pick out. Every inch of wall space I got is covered with flash. That’s why I’m thinking you might want to come here instead of me coming to your office. We might see something that gives us a clue. But I will tell you I’m not open Wednesdays or Thursdays. And payday weekend just about killed me. I’m still recovering. But I’ll open up for you, since this must be important. You bringing in whoever’s got this tattoo?”

He still didn’t quite get it.

“No, I’m bringing the tattoo,” I said. “But not the person who goes with it.”

“Wait a minute,” he said. “Okay, okay, now I’m hearing you. So you cut it off the dead guy.”

“Can you handle that?”

“Oh, hell, yeah. I can handle anything.”

“What time?”

“How ’bout as soon as you can get here?’

I hung up and was startled to see Ruffin in the doorway watching me. I had a feeling he’d been there for a while, listening to my conversation, since my back was to him as I’d taken notes. His face was tired, his eyes red, as if he’d been up half the night drinking.

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