Karen Olson - Driven to Ink

Detective Flanigan didn’t care about introductions. He stared past me at my Mustang Bullitt, its trunk gaping open. I stepped aside so he’d have a better view.

“So here he is,” I said, waving my hand over the trunk like Vanna White on Wheel of Fortune . Too bad Mr. That’s Amore didn’t win the washer and dryer.

Flanigan was already pulling on a pair of latex gloves. Willis was standing sentry, scowling at me. Tim had his hands on his hips as Flanigan started poking around inside the trunk. I stepped closer to Tim and asked in a low voice, “You’re not going to check it out?”

“Brett, this is my driveway. You’re my sister. Kevin’s in charge.”

As if on cue, Flanigan turned to me, taking only a second to indicate the two burly guys should start documenting the scene. One of them pulled out a little flashlight like they’ve got on those TV shows so he could see farther into the back of the dark trunk.

“Miss Kavanaugh? When did you discover the body?”

I took a deep breath and told my story: getting home from Red Rock, feeling something thump in the trunk, opening it to find Mr. That’s Amore. Flanigan opened his mouth at that point, and I knew what he was going to say, so I launched into the story about Sylvia and Bernie and That’s Amore Drive-Through Wedding Chapel, and how I’d lent them my car and they’d returned it a few hours later, before leaving for the Grand Canyon.

“So you don’t know this gentleman at all?” Flanigan asked, his eyes boring into mine. Even though he was younger than my dad, the way he looked at me made me wonder if he had teenage daughters who were into tattoos.

“I have no idea who he is,” I said.

He studied my face for a second before apparently deciding I was telling the truth, because he said, “Is there any way I can get in touch with this Sylvia Coleman and Bernie Applebaum?”

I was impressed. He had a little notebook out, but he hadn’t scribbled much of anything. Maybe he had some sort of weird mnemonic thing that helped him remember names so well.

“I’m not sure where they’re staying, but they’re at the Grand Canyon. I think there’s only a couple of hotels there, so they should be easy to find. I can give you Sylvia’s son’s phone number, and maybe he can tell you,” I said, rattling off Jeff’s name and number. Flanigan did write those down.

“So do you think he was strangled with the clip cord?” I asked, glancing over at the car, where Tim was chatting up one of the forensics guys.

“With what?” Detective Flanigan had been flipping through his notes, and now his head snapped up with surprise.

I probably shouldn’t have said anything, but it was too late now.

“It looks like a clip cord around his neck.” I explained how the cord attaches to the tattoo machine on one end and the power source on the other, providing the electromagnetic charge that causes the machine to run.

It was too much information.

I knew that the minute I started, but for some reason I couldn’t stop. As though I was trying to impress him or something.

Right.

I was trying not to give him the opportunity to ask how I came to ascertain that there actually was a clip cord around his neck. Because I wouldn’t have seen it or the bruise without peeking under his collar.

I didn’t tell him that the one around Mr. That’s Amore’s neck was pretty basic. It could’ve been from anywhere. Someone could’ve bought it off the Internet. You can get a custom cord made, just as you can get custom coils for the machines. Joel’s machine’s coils have skulls on them. Mine are plain. And all the cords at my shop are standard, nothing special.

Like this one.

“Miss Kavanaugh, did you touch the body?” His voice brought me out of my thoughts.

Flanigan had my number like Sister Mary Eucharista used to. It was a little disconcerting.

I shrugged and gave him a little smile. “Well, I may have moved his collar a little, you know, because I thought it was a clip cord, but I couldn’t be exactly sure without checking.”

“And you felt compelled to check?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“I’m a detective. It’s my job.”

And I’m a tattooist who should just shut up already. Okay, I got it.

“Kevin?”

I’d forgotten about Tim. I could only hope he hadn’t heard our exchange, although he was the only person I knew who could hear those whistles that only dogs are supposed to hear. At least that was what he told me when we were kids.

Tim was gesturing now, indicating that there was something enthralling going on in my trunk. As if we didn’t know that already.

Flanigan joined him over at my car. Not wanting to be left out, I sidled up next to them and hoped they wouldn’t notice.

But when I peered over Tim’s shoulder, I let out a loud gasp. I couldn’t help it.

Mr. That’s Amore’s wasn’t the only body in my trunk.

They had rolled Mr. That’s Amore over, and apparently the rat had been squished underneath his body. The guy with the camera was busy shooting pictures from all angles, obviously terribly excited that there was something new to the composition.

The rat had been dead longer than the man. The bits of fur that still clung to the carcass were matted with dried blood.

Needless to say, it was a bit gross.

I stepped back a little. Tim and Flanigan were mumbling to each other. I picked up a couple of words, but nothing useful.

Finally, Tim turned to me.

“Brett, we’re going to have to take your car.”

“What?”

“It’s evidence in a crime. You can use my Jeep.” He looked sorry. Although it was probably more because I was going to drive his beloved Jeep for an indeterminate period of time than that my car was being confiscated.

I looked from Tim to Flanigan, who was staring at me as if daring me to oppose this turn of events. It was the good cop-bad cop thing.

The coroner’s van eased against the curb next to the driveway. Maybe I should’ve made hors d’oeuvres.

“How much longer is this going to take?” I asked. All I wanted to do was take a shower and go to work.

Tim was surprised, probably because he thought I’d argue the car issue. But honestly, now that they’d found the rat, the whole thing was giving me the willies. I didn’t know why a dead guy was less creepy than a dead rat, but it was. So there.

“You can go in and get changed if you want,” Tim said.

I smiled my thanks and started toward the door, but Flanigan’s voice stopped me.

“We’re going to need your clothes.”

Not again. I’d had to give up my clothes once before after finding a dead body. If this was going to be a habit, I’d have to keep two separate wardrobes.

“I’ll put them in a plastic bag,” I promised.

But that wasn’t good enough. Flanigan told Tim to go in the house with me. I glared at him. As if I’d substitute this outfit for another one. As if I’d have some sort of crime evidence on me.

And now the forensics guys were looking at me the same way Sarah Palin looks at a moose in the woods.

I went into the house, Tim on my heels. Once inside, I turned to my brother.

“Can I go to work after this?”

He took a deep breath. “Flanigan’s in charge.”

“Does he think I had something to do with this guy and the rat?” I asked.

“I don’t think so.” But his tone wasn’t exactly reassuring. He started to say something else, then stopped himself.

“What?” I asked.

Tim shrugged. “Wondering about that clip cord.”

I frowned. “Wondering how?”

“Wondering whose it is.”

“It’s not mine. I don’t keep my equipment in the car.”