P. Parrish - Paint It Black

Vince lifted the sheet covering the body from the feet, leaving the face covered.

“The man sorely neglected himself,” Vince said. “Don’t imagine he’d been to a doctor in years, didn’t bathe regularly. He had a scrape that had been infected for weeks.”

“Unless the infection killed him, I don’t think we care about that,” Driggs said.

Vince looked over at Driggs, then went on. “He’s about forty, maybe less, no drugs, but a BAC of point-two.”

“I don’t suppose that killed him either,” Driggs said. “Get to the point.”

Vince didn’t even give Driggs the courtesy of a look this time. He lifted the corpse’s hand. “He had motor oil on his palms and on his clothing. Might give you a starting point for a pickup. Unlike the last one, he had no defense wounds. And I was right. No sign of a shotgun wound this time.”

Driggs sighed loudly.

“Eighteen stab wounds in the chest cavity and shoulders, but here’s the kicker, my friends. .”

Vince paused. “The wounds are different sizes,” he said. “At first I thought I was seeing two different knives, but upon closer inspection, I discovered the killer had broken his knife about halfway through his rage. Look.”

Vince pointed to a gaping split in the neck. “This was done with what was left of the knife. The wound depth is only three inches as opposed to up to twelve for the others. Those bruises were made from the butt hitting the skin.”

“He broke the knife and he just kept stabbing?” Louis asked.

“Apparently.”

Emily squeezed forward between Louis and Driggs. “Tell me we have the blade,” she said.

Vince turned and picked up an object wrapped in plastic. He opened it to reveal a thin, bloody blade, with an upward bow to its nine-inch length. “It was stuck in his spine. I believe the killer tried to retrieve it with his hand. I found massive injury to internal tissue that was inconsistent with knife wounds.”

Louis felt sick.

“You make the knife yet?” Wainwright asked.

Vince shook his head. “Not yet. But at least I’ve got the blade to send to the lab now. Ignotum per ignotius .”

“So he was stabbed to death,” Driggs said.

“Technically,” Vince said.

Vince lifted the sheet off the face. Louis tensed, feeling his stomach begin to swirl. Without the blood and seawater, the sunken face looked like a pile of week-old hamburger meat and mushy shredded wheat.

“The beating was postmortem, just like the others,” Vince went on. “And he was painted, as you can tell from the flecks still visible. Most of the paint washed away with the tide.”

“Same kind of paint?” Wainwright asked.

“Consistent with glossy black Krylon. He used satin on Mr. Quick.”

“At least that part of the pattern still holds,” Wainwright said.

“It didn’t match the boatyard paint?” Louis asked Vince.

“Nope. Definitely plain old Home Depot spray paint.”

“That still doesn’t eliminate Van Slate,” Wainwright said.

“Who’s Van Slate?” Driggs demanded.

Wainwright ignored him.

Driggs stepped forward. “Look, Wainwright, I don’t care if you bring in half of Quantico’s graduating class. If you’re holding out-”

“Could this wait, gentlemen?” Vince interrupted. “I moved this case to the top drawer for you boys and now I’ve got bodies stacked up like 747s at Newark. Let’s move on here.”

Driggs stepped back. Louis glanced at Farentino. She was staring at Driggs.

Vince cleared his throat. “Now, here’s something really interesting. I found nonhuman tissue in the chest wounds.”

“Nonhuman?” Wainwright asked. “Like what? Animal?”

“Don’t know yet. Give me a couple of days.”

Driggs scratched at his bald head. “So, what are you telling us? We got some kind of supernatural monster here?”

Vince smiled and Louis thought he detected a wink in Farentino’s direction. “I don’t speculate, Sergeant. That’s your job.”

Driggs slapped his notebook shut. “Send me your full report.” He headed for the door.

“Sergeant Driggs,” Farentino called out.

He turned impatiently. “What?”

“What kind of bullets you got in that gun?” she asked.

“Copper-jacketed hollow-points. Why?”

Farentino gave him a smile. “Maybe you should pick up some silver ones. And some garlic.”

Louis laughed. Driggs stared at Emily, then at Louis. He turned quickly and left.

Louis glanced at Wainwright. He wasn’t smiling. Wainwright’s radio went off and he turned away, moving out of earshot. Louis turned his attention back to Vince.

“You think the lab can match that knife to something in their catalogs?” he asked.

Vince shrugged. “It’s a really odd blade. I’m guessing foreign made. I’ll get you some photos of it so you can show it around on your end.”

“Kincaid.”

Louis turned to Wainwright.

“Some guy at the homeless shelter recognized the tattoo,” Wainwright said. “He says he doesn’t know who the man is, but he remembers seeing him hanging out at that soup kitchen on Fort Myers Beach.”

“The place run by The Saint?”

“Yeah. The guy says The Saint is there right now. But he says to hurry because he folds up his tent right after he’s done dishing out lunch.”

“I’m on my way,” Louis said, starting for the door.

“I’m going with you,” Emily said quickly.

Louis glanced at Wainwright. He couldn’t hide it. He looked glad to be rid of her.

“I don’t think Driggs appreciated your comment,” Louis said.

“Do you think he even got it?” Emily said.

They were in a Sereno Key squad car, heading toward Fort Myers Beach. They passed the turnoff for the marina where Louis had questioned the jumbo shrimp woman, and then went up over the bridge and onto Fort Myers Beach. Louis had to slow the car to a crawl on congested Estero Boulevard.

“Sodom and Gomorrah,” Emily said, eyeing the crowds.

“Good place for The Saint,” Louis said.

The Blue Heron was a mom-and-pop hotel with fading pink stucco that spoke of a heyday sometime in the late fifties. It was sandwiched between a 7-Eleven and a new Taco Bell. Louis parked in the convenience store lot and he and Emily set out for the beach.

As they waited to cross the street, Louis looked south down Estero Boulevard. Barely visible in the glare of the sun was the familiar green sign of the Holiday Inn, the site of Anthony Quick’s abduction.

On the beach, they spotted The Saint’s operation immediately, a couple of old card tables set up under a palm. About twenty shabby men milled around, trying to find some shade as they quietly ate sandwiches and drank coffee from Styrofoam cups. There were two men manning the line and Louis zeroed in on the older one, a gaunt, deeply tanned man of about sixty, with a white beard, wearing shorts and a Tampa Bay Bucs T-shirt.

“Excuse me, are you The Saint?” Louis asked.

The man peered at him with milky blue eyes. “Nope.”

“You know where I can find him?”

“Nope.”

Louis stifled a sigh. Emily stepped forward. “We’re trying to find someone, and we were told he might have come here.” Emily paused. “You are The Saint, aren’t you?”

The man slapped a bologna sandwich on the plastic tray. “Look, we’re not hurting anybody here. Why can’t you cops just leave us alone?”

“We’re not-”

The old man turned away to hand a cup of coffee to a man who had trudged up beside Louis. “Hey, Willie, where you been? Ain’t seen you around.”

“Was up in Jersey for the summer. Took me a while to get back this time. Good to see ya, Saint,” the man said. He took his food and moved away.