Paint It Black

Chapter Eight

Louis woke to the smell of strong coffee. He grimaced as he sat up, the ache in his chest worse than it had been last night. He reached for the prescription bottle and gulped down a Percodan. Pulling on some clothes, he followed the coffee smell to the kitchen where Dodie and Margaret sat at the table, hidden behind sections of newspapers.

“Morning,” Louis mumbled.

Margaret’s face appeared around the edge of the newspaper. “How’s your shoulder this morning?” she asked.

“Better,” he lied. He had told Dodie about the episode with Levon but had told Margaret only that he had slipped on the dock. There was something about her that made him feel as if he were twelve years old and he didn’t want her fussing over him.

Louis settled into the chair opposite Dodie, who acknowledged him with a grunt from behind the Sports section.

Margaret put a mug of coffee in front of him. “You want some toast and eggs?” she asked.

“That would be great,” Louis said, rubbing his face. He glanced up at the clock above the sink. It was after ten. He hadn’t slept so long or so soundly in years. Probably the Percodan. He felt something rub his calf and looked down to see Issy. He gently pushed the cat away with his foot. It trotted away to the bowl of kibbles Margaret had set out by the refrigerator.

“Twins lost to the Yanks in ten,” Dodie muttered. He put down the paper and took a slurp of his coffee. “You wanna go see a spring training game? It’s right over in Fort Myers.”

“Sure. Why not?”

“I’ll get us some tickets. Margaret hates baseball. It’ll be nice to have someone to go with.” Dodie went back to his reading.

Louis hid his smile. It was strange, this new relationship with Sam Dodie. Dodie was only forty-five, but during the last week of living in his home, Louis sometimes felt as if the man was trying to play father to a long-lost son.

The kitchen filled with the smell of bacon. The sun slanted through the sliding glass doors leading out to the patio. Louis pulled the Lifestyles section out of the Fort Myers News-Press and tried to lose himself in the mundane tribulations of Dear Abby’s disciples.

“Jesus,” Dodie said suddenly.

Louis looked up.

“They found another body,” Dodie said.

“When?”

“Yesterday. Floated up out by Bakers Point.” He held out the front page. Louis took it and quickly read the story. It was a tourist, another black man, but the story didn’t say anything more other than that he was stabbed to death.

“Where’s Bakers Point?” Louis asked.

“South end of Sereno. It’s the tip of the key, part of Matlacha Wildlife Preserve. Might not be related.”

“Two stabbings in two weeks. Two black men. In a town that you say has never had a murder? Too coincidental for comfort, I’d say,” Louis said.

Dodie nodded grimly.

Margaret set a plate in front of Louis. “I can’t believe it,” she said quietly. “I mean, this place is so. . quiet.” She turned back to the stove, shaking her head.

Dodie looked at Louis, then returned to reading the story. Louis took a bite of bacon and rose quickly, going to the phone on the wall.

“Who you calling?” Dodie asked.

“Wainwright,” Louis answered.

Louis waited, eating the bacon, while the operator tried to locate Wainwright. Finally, she patched Louis through to the chief’s squad car.

“I thought you might be calling,” Wainwright said.

“Is it the same MO?” Louis asked.

“Come see for yourself. I’m on my way to the county morgue.”

Louis got directions and hung up. He picked up his coffee and took a quick drink.

“Where you going?” Dodie asked.

“Autopsy’s this morning,” Louis said as he put three pieces of bacon between toast. “Wainwright said I could be there.”

Dodie nodded at the food in Louis’s hand. “I’d forget about that if I was you.”

Louis looked at the bacon sandwich in his hand, then put it back on the plate.

It was past eleven by the time Louis got to the Lee County morgue, a squat municipal building on the edge of the Page Field airport. He found his way down the yellow-tiled hallway to the autopsy room. There was a large black man leaning against the wall outside, dressed in green medical scrubs. He took a sip from his Star Trek coffee mug and eyed Louis as he approached.

“Wainwright’s in there,” he said in a flat voice, jerking his head toward the door.

Louis looked through the glass to the autopsy room. He could see Wainwright’s broad back in its black uniform. There was another man in green scrubs and a white apron on the opposite side of the waist-high fiberglass table, his face hidden behind what looked like a large grocery scale. On the table between them was the body, though Louis could see only the corpse’s legs sticking out. He noticed a small sign above the door: MORTUI VIVOS DOCENT. Pulling in a breath, he went in.

The smell hit him square in the face, a nostril-numbing brew that immediately conjured up things and places that he couldn’t quite remember. He resisted the urge to cover his nose and mouth.

Wainwright turned. “Kincaid. You’re just in time for the fun part,” he said.

Louis slowly approached the table. The corpse’s chest had already been cut open, the Y-shaped incision running from the front of each shoulder to the bottom of the breastbone and down to the genitals. The skin, muscles, and tissue had already been peeled back, the largest flap of skin pulled upward, hiding the face.

Louis stared at the red cavity of the rib cage. A memory bubbled up from childhood, a woman’s back to him as she worked at a chipped white sink and the sight of freshly skinned rabbit. And the smell. . he could suddenly place that. Dead rats in summer, caught in the walls of their house.

He looked up and saw Wainwright staring at him with a slightly bemused look.

“First time?” Wainwright asked.

“Yes,” Louis said.

“Breathe through your mouth,” Wainwright said. He nodded to the man in scrubs. “This is Vince Carissimi, the ME. Doc, this is Louis Kincaid. He’s working private.”

Vince Carissimi was about thirty-five, tall and blue-eyed with shaggy salt-and-pepper hair. A pair of earphones hung from his neck attached to the Walkman on his belt. Louis could hear the tinny music. It was Jimi Hendrix.

“Welcome to my realm,” Vince said. “Call me Vince. It’s Vincenzo, actually, but only my mother is allowed to call me that. Call me Vince. Please.”

Louis glanced around. The room looked unnervingly like a kitchen. He noticed a sign on the wall. HOUSE RULE NO. 1: IF IT IS WET AND STICKY AND NOT YOURS, DON’T TOUCH IT!

Louis’s gaze returned to the corpse. He had seen dead people before, but not like this. The man’s limbs were bloated and mottled, like smooth pale marble. There was a gaping black hole in the left thigh just below the groin.

“How could you tell he was black?” Louis asked, without looking up.

“The anatomic position of the mandible relative to the zygomatic bones indicates a Negroid skull structure,” Vince said.

Wainwright sighed. “He’s bullshitting you. We found the guy’s wallet.” He pulled a paper from his pocket. “His name is Anthony Quick. He’s from Toledo, Ohio. Forty years old. Wife and two kids.” He paused. “I called Toledo PD. They’re sending someone out to the house this morning.”

Louis nodded. He had pulled “messenger duty” often as a rookie with the Ann Arbor force. He knew the drill: We have some bad news, ma’am. Your husband is dead. We’re sorry for your loss…. Gentle but direct was the best way. But it never made it easier for them or you.

Wainwright handed Louis a file. Louis scanned the dossier and then looked at the copy of the license picture. Anthony Quick was a good-looking man, light-skinned with close-cropped black hair and dark eyes that stared out with the slightly irritated look of a man who had waited a long time in line to get his renewal. Louis had a sudden image of two kids waiting at the window for Dad’s car to pull up.

“We found a Holiday Inn key in his pocket. Sheriff’s guys are checking it out.”

“Sheriff?” Louis asked.

“It was from the hotel over in Fort Myers Beach. Separate city, so it’s county jurisdiction,” Wainwright said flatly.

Louis watched Vince use what looked like pruning shears to cut away the rib cage. “The newspaper said he was a tourist,” Louis said.

Wainwright shook his head. “Not really. A computer software salesman. In town for a convention. Had a schedule in his pocket.”

Vince was now carefully cutting away the last of the tissue holding the chest plate. The organs lay exposed now, an amorphic mass of pink and white. Louis stared at it, fascinated.

“Where’s his heart?” he asked.

Vince pointed with his scalpel. “It’s covered by the pericardial sac.” He smiled. “Doesn’t look like you thought it would, does it?”

“You said the MO was the same as Tatum?” Louis asked.

Wainwright nodded. “Shot in the leg, stabbed, then beaten. Show him, Doc.”

Vince pulled the flap of skin off the face. Louis almost gagged. The face was bloated from being in the water but the right side was completely flattened.

“Horribile dictu,” Vince said.

“We figure he was thrown in the water right after that,” Wainwright said.

“So he died of the stabbing, like Tatum?” Louis asked.

“Actually, it was asphyxia,” Vince said. “The guy drowned.”

“Doc thinks he was still alive when he was dumped in the water,” Wainwright said.

“Barely,” Vince said. “If he hadn’t been thrown in the water, he would have bled to death.”

“Was he killed on the shore of this reserve?” Louis asked.

Wainwright shook his head. “There is no shore, no beach. Out there, just mangroves. Bakers Point is pretty isolated. There’s one entrance road and no other way in except by boat. Not much of a tide there, kind of swamplike.”

“Who found him?” Louis asked.

“Fishermen. He was in the water for a couple of days.”

“Probably two,” Vince said. “Skin and fingernails separate after about eight days.” He held up one of the hands. “He had defense wounds on his hands. I suspect he was cut trying to ward off the knife. He might have even tried to grab the blade at one point.”

Louis was staring at the gashes on the bloated left hand. He could see an indentation on the ring finger where Vince Carissimi had apparently cut off a wedding band.

“You match the knife yet on Tatum?” Wainwright asked, from behind Louis.

“Nope,” Vince answered. “I thought at first it was one of your garden-variety kitchen Henckels. Found a butcher knife in my catalog with the same twelve-inch blade. But Tatum’s wounds indicate the blade has an upward curve to it. It looks like these wounds are similar.”

“So it’s not your run-of-the-mill switchblade or pocketknife?” Louis asked.

Vince shook his head. “Not even close.”

Wainwright sighed. “Shit. Well, keep looking.”

Louis’s eyes traveled the body, coming to rest on the wound on the thigh. “Do you know what gauge shotgun he used?” he asked.

“The shooter used blanks,” Vince said.

Louis felt Wainwright come up behind him. “Blanks?” he said. “Damn. It looks like a real gunshot.”

“The explosion of gases leaves a wound just like pellets,” Vince said. “Tatum was the same, by the way. No pellets. Just the hole.”

“Why the hell would he use blanks?” Wainwright murmured.

“Maybe he just wanted to disable him first,” Louis offered.

Wainwright looked at him and nodded.

Vince was slicing open a thin membrane in the chest. “Oh, by the way, I found something else strange. He had minute traces of paint on him. In the pores on the neck and face.”

“Paint?” Wainwright said, blinking. “What kind of paint?”

“I don’t know. It was black.”

“New? Old?”

Vince shrugged. “Hard to say. There wasn’t much, but it could have washed off. You want me to send it out?”

Wainwright nodded, lost in thought. Louis was looking again at the corpse. If there was black paint on the mutilated, mottled body he sure couldn’t see it.

“Did Tatum have paint on him?” Louis asked.

Vince’s blue eyes met his. “Not a trace.”

“You’re sure?” Wainwright asked.

“Of course I’m sure. After I found the paint on this one, I went back and checked. No paint on Tatum.”

Wainwright shook his head. “Damn.”

Vince snapped off his gloves. “Well, I’m done here. You guys wanna go for coffee and bagels?”

“That’s it?” Louis asked.

“Oh, no,” Vince said, taking off his scrub shirt. He was wearing a gaudy Hawaiian shirt beneath. “Octavius runs the gut.”

They followed Vince Carissimi out into the hall. The large black man was still there, reading a paperback copy of Edith Hamilton’s The Greek Way.

“He’s all yours, Octo,” Vince said. “Don’t forget to tie off the subclavian. I don’t want to get a call from some pissed-off mortuary jockey in Ohio.”

The man grunted and went into the autopsy room. Vince saw Louis watching him.

“Octavius is the diener,” Vince explained.

“What’s a diener?” Louis asked.

“It’s a German word that means servant, but he’s really an assistant. Octo’s been here forever. Sometimes I think he knows more about carving than I do. Experto crede. . trust one who has experience.” Vince turned to Wainwright. “So, breakfast or lunch?”

“Already ate, thanks,” Wainwright said. “You go if you want, Kincaid.”

Louis shook his head.

Vince looked disappointed. “Well, next time you make it over to the mainland, my treat.” He held out a hand to Louis. “Good to meet you.” The ME disappeared, trailing Hendrix after him.

“Strange guy,” Louis said.

“Vince knows his stuff,” Wainwright said. “Likes to try to impress you though, with the Latin shit.”

Louis looked up at the sign above the door. “Mortui vivos docent,” he read.

“ ‘The dead teach the living,’ ” Wainwright said. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

They walked out into the bright sunshine toward the parking lot. It was about seventy-five and the breeze had a briny tang even though they were miles from any water. Louis pulled the air deep into his lungs, trying to clear his head of the smells from inside. He watched a small airplane lift off from nearby Page Field and hover like a balsa glider until it disappeared into the clouds.

“You need a ride?” Wainwright asked.

“No, thanks. I borrowed Sam Dodie’s car,” Louis said.

“Nice folks, the Dodies,” Wainwright said. “I met ’em at a Rotary party.”

“Yeah,” Louis said with a slight smile. “I’ve been staying with them.”

“How’s your ribs, by the way?”

“I’m okay.”

“I should have warned you about Levon,” Wainwright said. “He’s got a history of drug abuse. From the looks of it, I’d guess he was on something yesterday. Maybe PCP. Like I said, you’re lucky he didn’t kill you.”

Louis slipped on his sunglasses. “You’re still convinced he killed Tatum?”

Wainwright nodded. “Like I said, he’s got a history.”

“Have you known Levon to ever carry a knife?”

“He had a switchblade on him last time we arrested him.”

“But these wounds aren’t from a switchblade.”

“He could’ve used a different one.”

“But why Anthony Quick? Levon has no motive for that.”

Wainwright hesitated. “Like I said, Levon has a history. He’s got some mental problems. And the MO was the same.”

“Except for the paint.”

Wainwright looked at Louis. “Maybe the paint means nothing. Maybe Quick painted his house or something before he got here.”

“His dossier said he sold software for Novel,” Louis said. “You ever know a computer geek who got his hands dirty?”

“Look, right now I don’t even know if these two murders are related. Right now, I gotta find Levon.”

“Any sign of him yet?”

“No,” Wainwright said. “We got an APB out, and I have someone watching Roberta’s house and the store. Levon stayed in a room in the back sometimes. But he’s not coming back.”

“So what’s your next move?” Louis asked.

Wainwright was looking out at the airstrip again. “I don’t know,” he said tightly.

For several seconds, they just stood in the warm sun, soaking it in. Wainwright seemed absorbed in watching the planes.

“I came here to retire,” Wainwright said softly.

Louis waited, sensing Wainwright wanted to say something more. But Wainwright just let out a deep breath.

“Well, I gotta get back,” he said, turning.

Louis watched Wainwright walk toward his cruiser. He noticed he had a subtle limp.

Wainwright stopped and turned suddenly. “Hey, Kincaid,” he called. “I just thought of something. I think I know where Anthony Quick was killed. Wanna come along?”