David Jackson - Marked

This isn’t right, thinks LeBlanc. He’s terrorizing the guy.

He calls out: ‘Cal!’

But Doyle doesn’t stop. Proust bounces around while Doyle puts all of his strength into ripping that shirt right down the middle. And when he is done, his face looks to be burning with the effort and the heat of his anger.

‘There,’ says Doyle, gesturing toward the man he has just attacked. ‘What do you think of that? Pretty cool, huh?’ Proust himself is a sad spectacle. His frame is slumped in defeat and humiliation. His shirt is in tatters, with a hoop of material remaining like a slack noose around his sinewy neck. His panting chest is hairless and concave, and his ribs are clearly visible beneath the thin skin.

But that’s not what LeBlanc focuses on. It’s not what anyone would focus on right now.

Not when there’s an image like that to look at.

It makes it look as though Proust’s chest has been torn open. A pair of hands pulls aside the ragged flesh, and a head pushes out through the bloody opening. It has Proust’s own face, but it is contorted in pain. Its mouth is open in a scream, and the eyes have rolled back into their sockets. And it’s all so lifelike. It looks three-dimensional, like there really is a copy of Proust desperately trying to escape from inside his own body.

For a moment, LeBlanc forgets what events have just caused that picture to be put on display.

‘Jesus,’ he says. ‘That’s. . that’s awesome.’

‘Told you,’ says Doyle. ‘This man is a genius. He did this all by himself. Can you believe it? He can tattoo anything you like, wherever you want it. So tell me, Stan. What other examples of artistic brilliance could you share with us? What are you most proud of out of the stuff you did recently? Why don’t you show me? Are they in these books of yours?’

He reaches out and grips the back of Proust’s neck, then forces his head down to look at the books on the counter.

‘Show me, Stanley. Tell me what’s good in these books.’

Doyle opens a book at random, flicks through its pages of photographs.

‘What about this? Do you like this one?’

He tosses the book aside. It slides off the counter and crashes to the floor. He pulls another book across.

‘How about this book? Would you say these are better than the other ones? I’d say so. Look at that picture of Marilyn Monroe there. That’s terrific, it really is. And this one of a Corvette. That’s a peach. But you know what I don’t see here, Stan? I don’t see any angels. Where are the angels? Are they in one of these other books here? Could you show me, please, Stan? Because I like angels. They’re my favorite. And I’m sure you could do a real good angel if you tried. What do you say, Stan?’

Proust suddenly slaps Doyle’s arm away and takes several steps backward, out of arm’s reach. Doyle closes the gap again.

‘Get off me, man! Leave me alone! I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why are you here?’

‘You know why I’m here, Stan. I’m here about an angel. The one you did recently.’

‘What angel? I haven’t done an angel for months. What is this?’

‘You did one a few days ago. On a girl. And now she’s dead.’

Proust shows his palms again. ‘Now wait a minute, Detective. Don’t do this to me again, man. I know you don’t like me, and I don’t know why. But I’m not a killer. I’m an artist. I do tattoos. That’s all, man.’

‘Oh, I like you, Stan. I like you for the murder of Megan Hamlyn. Sixteen. That’s how old she was. Just sixteen years old.’

Proust looks across to LeBlanc, as if hoping for a more receptive ear.

‘Ah, well, there you go. She couldn’t have been a client of mine. You have to be eighteen to get a tattoo in this state, and I always insist on ID. No way would I have-’

The slap he receives from Doyle resounds around the room.

Proust brings his hand to his cheek. Tears well in his eyes.

‘Don’t fuck with me, Stan,’ says Doyle.

LeBlanc feels he has to cut in. He says, ‘Cal, don’t you think-’

And then suddenly he’s the target of a finger aimed in his direction, behind which is the face of a man who looks like he could pull the trigger if it were a real gun.

‘Stay out of this, Tommy,’ says Doyle. He turns back to Proust. ‘Where were you last night, Stan?’

‘Last night? I was here, man. I’m always here. I live back there, behind the shop. I don’t go out much.’

‘What about Saturday night?’

‘Saturday? Here. I’m always here.’

‘Can you prove it? Anyone who can vouch for you?’

‘N-no. I live alone.’

‘Tell me what you did last night.’

‘I. . I watched TV.’

‘What did you watch?’

‘Well, actually it was a DVD. The Transformers movie.’

‘ Transformers ? Exactly how old are you, Stan?’

‘Twenty-eight.’

‘Uh-huh,’ says Doyle, as though that makes his point. LeBlanc feels faintly embarrassed. He enjoyed the Transformers movie himself. What’s so wrong with that?

‘You didn’t go out at all?’ Doyle asks.

‘No, man. I told you.’

‘So if we ask around, nobody would’ve seen you out on the streets last night?’

‘No. How could they?’

‘What about the rest of the time between Saturday and now? Did you go anywhere?’

‘I guess.’

‘You guess what? You did or you didn’t?’

‘I went out. Sunday night. I got a pizza at Oscar’s on the next block, and then I called in at the liquor store.’

‘And that’s it? You didn’t go anywhere else in that time? Not even for your lunch?’

‘No. I make my lunch here. A sandwich and fruit. Every day.’

‘So we’re not gonna find anyone else who says different? Nobody who saw you in the subway or taking a cab, or in a different part of town? Is that what you’re telling me?’

‘Yeah, man. Like I said.’

‘Jesus, you’re a real hermit, aren’t you, Stan? You don’t go out. You don’t see anyone. .’

Proust shrugs. ‘It’s how I am. I’m not good with people.’

‘What about girls? Are you good with them?’

Proust hesitates before he answers. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Sure you do. A young guy like yourself. You got all these girls coming in here, getting undressed, asking you to put pretty pictures on parts of their bodies they wouldn’t let any other stranger see. Must be pretty tempting, Stan. Must be quite a turn-on.’

‘It’s my job. It’s like being a doctor. I don’t look at them in that way. All’s I see is a canvas for my art.’

Doyle nods without conviction. ‘You got a girlfriend, Stan?’

‘No. Not at the moment.’

‘Had any girlfriends since the last time we met?’

‘I. . I don’t have the time.’

‘So that would be a no. Any particular reason for that? I mean, where’s your outlet? All that sexual tension building up in you over these young semi-naked girls, and you don’t have an outlet? Christ, that must be really frustrating.’

‘I told you, man, it’s not like that.’ He turns to LeBlanc again. ‘Can he do this? Can he ask me these personal questions? I haven’t done anything. I swear. Please.’

LeBlanc finds himself wanting to come to this guy’s aid. He wants to say something in his favor. It’s not that he’s never seen a cop come down heavy on a perp or a skell before. He’s often had to get in people’s faces himself. The worst thing you can do in the street is show weakness, because one thing the scum out there excel at is spotting the vulnerable and pouncing on them without mercy.

But this is different. This is a one-on-one in the guy’s own place of business. Actually, it doesn’t even feel like a one-on-one, given the differences in size, strength and ability. It seems more like an army-on-one. And even that can be okay in the right circumstances. For some perps, it’s the only approach that gets through to them.