Tattooed Man

Chapter 1

AT TIMES HE WAS both toreador and bull. But that was when he was actively pursuing his vocation. Now things had changed. Now he was retired. Now the red flag of the arena had been replaced by the white flag of retirement. But there were flashes of the old self. The audacious, self-assured personality typified by the motto of Napoleon’s Grand Army and Napoleon himself, Engage the enemy and see what happens. Yes, he had read, more exactly, plodded through, Clausewitz’s On War and understood that Napoleon was not always right, but, nevertheless, he adhered to the philosophy. The problem now was identifying the enemy. In the old days the enemy was the sadistic, ritual murderer, the international arms smuggler, the diamond thief, the domestic terrorist and so on ad infinitum. A never-ending battle against those who preyed on the innocent. But now the enemy was yet to be defined, let alone engaged. His challenge now was not only to define it but to identify it and destroy it. If my friend was anything, he was eccentric. Eccentric, that is, to the point of being shrewd and self-reliant. And I suppose that’s why, among other things, he got back into the game.

Chapter 2

IT WAS ONE OF those gray, eye-drooping, drizzly days in November. Chicago is known for them. Hitler Weather, Stone had often said. Battle of the Bulge stuff. Attack at dawn under the cover of the elements and disrupt the enemy. I was thinking of Stone and those very words when my phone rang. Looking out the 9th floor window of the Federal Building, gazing at the multitude of umbrellas whisking by, I listened to my old friend and mentor.

Mike, how are you? Still busy with all those unfinished cases I left you with? he asked somewhat coyly.

Of course. It will take me light years before I can make sense out of all that stuff, I replied.

The conversation drifted away from old Bureau work through a variety of topics, some political, some just plain inane, until Stone finally got to the point.

I’m working on something right now that appears to be significant. I’ve more or less sunk my teeth into it, so to speak. And I need help. Your help.

Before I go any further I should explain that my position with the FBI is that of an analyst. I depend upon Agents to provide me with the facts and background of a case including the most important aspect, informant information. And Stone was good at that. Informants, rats, sources, snitches, bean-spillers, you name it, Stone ran it. Stone was the penultimate performer in the game of HUMINT, Human Intelligence Gathering. And Stone buried me with everything from Macedonian counterfeiters to Armenian diamond smugglers. My objective was to take all this information and weave it into some meaningful result. Of course the better and more highly placed the informant, the better and more sensitive the data. Stone had the best informants because Stone understood human nature better than most, and that human nature was driven by revenge, sex and money.

So I knew I’d be hearing from him soon. Not just to see how I was faring, but from an innate interest in the subject matter to which he had been married for some twenty-five odd years.

So I asked him, You mean work for you?

Exactly, Stone said. Full-time.

So that’s how it went. That’s how I came to work for James Stone, former FBI Agent, my former mentor and friend. And that’s how we both entered the twisted and demented world of the subject we came to know as The Tattooed Man.

Chapter 3

I GUESS I SHOULD tell you a little bit about James Stone. His real name is W. Gray Stone. What the W stands for I know not. He never said. Gray was his mother’s name. That’s all I know about that too. To make things easier he adopted the name James years ago. Easy to say. Has a certain ring to it, don’t you think? he once asked me. And that was that.

Stone’s eccentric personality, coupled with his subliminal wit, has seldom met its match. Oh, yes, there was the anomaly of the cotton swindle in Tashkent with the resulting loss of millions of U.S. dollars back in 1998 and a year later the kidnapping of the Larson twins in Minneapolis that was never solved. But aside from these failures, there are few others. Lawyer, organic chemist, linguist, fluent in Russian and Georgian, Stone fathoms himself a modern day Sherlock Holmes. Never married, the Bureau and his varied interests occupied his time. And now, venturing out on his own, hanging out the shingle, as he said, he had even less time for the fairer sex. If he was lacking in anything it was his computer skills and that’s where my expertise melded with his intellectual prowess.

We met at Stone’s residence, a spacious apartment located at 34 Walker Place in the heart of the Gold Coast area of Chicago, on a Sunday evening in early December. The frigid air from my ten minute walk from the bus-stop hung around my face like a tired friend, as I entered and settled myself in front of the fireplace in Stone’s study, where Stone was stoking the dregs of the previous evening.

Damn, cold out there, isn’t it, Mike? Stone said, as he warmed his hands on the embers he had just brought to life.

Feels good to be back inside, I said, approaching the fire, the numbness slowly ebbing from my fingertips.

I laid my gloves on the hearth to dry out as Stone turned down the volume on the Gypsy violin music he loved.

We sat across from each other in front of the fire, which now had a life of its own, in antebellum style chairs Stone had acquired on a recent genealogical trip through Mississippi. Stone’s study was a self-image of the man. Every nook and cranny was crammed with some type of Civil War artifact, some of which he directly traced to his ancestors.

That one there, Stone pointed to what looked like an authentic photograph framed on the wall to his left. That’s the Steamboat Eagle. It worked up and down the Ohio River in West Virginia towards the end of the Civil War. It was called a packet boat and was used as a troop carrier for the North. Two distant cousins on my mother’s side were cabin boys on it. Just in their early teens, they had run away from home to get in the war.

It looks real, I said.

Oh, it’s real alright. Signed and everything on the back by the captain. And that one over there…

And so it went on for an hour or so, Stone pointing out the memorabilia in his study and expounding on the merits of each piece. A chess set whittled by a distant uncle during the lull in the siege at Petersburg, some of the pieces showing the results of charring from cannon and musket fire; a honey jar from the Shenandoah Valley found stuffed with mini-balls; a pistol here, a musket there and one of the authentic uniforms worn by Major General David Hunter of the Union Army.

Hunter, now there was a guy who made the Rebs about-face when he tore into the Shenandoah and forced Jubal Early to chase him down. Too bad he’s only an in-law.

Stone abruptly rose from his chair and picked up a folder lying on the small table he used as a catch-all. He approached me and handed me the folder, nodding for me to open it.

After a moment or so, as I looked at the photograph inside the folder, he asked, What do you make of this?

Well, it’s obviously a tattoo of a human eye with a needle through it. And there’s something below it, possibly a cup or a bowl.

Exactly. An eye, a human eye to be exact, with what appears to be a needle or a small lance, possibly a hatpin, running through it. And the cup you mentioned, I believe that could be a chalice. It appears to have an inscription on it. Here, take the magnifying glass. Do you see the tears?

He handed me the magnifying glass and I peered deeper into the strange tattoo.

Yes, four of them, right below the tip of the needle, dripping into the cup, or as you said, chalice.

Yes. Yes. Four teardrops. Interesting, isn’t it?

Stone motioned to the shelf on the north wall of the study. There, arranged alphabetically, were seven worn notebook-sized volumes. The frayed coverings and edges spoke of the time Stone had spent with them.

Tattoos, Stone said. Twenty-five years of working cases. Twenty-five years of tattoos.

Stone turned to me and frowned. It’s not in here.

Maybe it’s gang-related, I said. They’re coming up with new symbols and signs all the time. Maybe it’s just new.

Too intricate for gang stuff. No, this is something else. I’ve never come across anything like this before, Mike. It looks self-made, not from a pattern you’d find at Louie’s Body Illustrations. Not something that would be done in prison. It’s too intricate. The artwork is exquisite. This was done by an artisan, not an ex-con. An inmate wouldn’t have access to the tools needed, and the colors… well, they’re not to be found in any prison. It’s an odd type of bastardized magenta set against an ochre background. And the eye-drops are coal black. I’ve never seen anything that black, that… lifeless.

The colors were unique, I thought. Not the ordinary blue dye that is used on the typical tattoo, or the Navy tattoo from WWII, but several shades of red and violet and darker and lighter blues and greens, and an odd greenish-blue that covered and melded with the blackness of the eye, and the magenta of the chalice. No, this was certainly unique. This was not gangbanger stuff.

Any significance to the colors? I asked.

"Possibly. I’m not sure but it’s the inscription that’s got me puzzled.

The inscription on the chalice? I asked. I can’t make it out either.

Stone was lost in thought, not hearing what I was saying. He took the folder from me and seated himself again, staring at the tattoo.

How did you stumble onto this? I asked, my interest now being aroused to the point of the good old days when Stone would pop in on me with a ragged piece of cloth or half-spent cartridge and expound his many and varied theories as to how they related to some fantastic crime.

Now I was anxious to know, to understand the meaning of the tattoo, to learn it’s sad history because, after all, that’s why Stone was back in the game.

Chapter 4

STONE AGAIN GLANCED TOWARD the worn volumes on the wall.

Twenty-five years I’ve been cataloguing tattoos, Mike. The Maltese Cross of the Macedonian counterfeiter, Ademm Gashi; the skull and crossbones of Sarah Wilcox; the Goathead Gang. You’ve seen them all. But this one puzzles me to no end.

Yes, I recall those cases, Sarah Wilcox being an extraordinarily vicious woman, as I remember. Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy, wasn’t it?

Killed three of her children. Violent bitch. You remember correctly. But, I’m afraid to say, I suspect even more viciousness in this matter at hand.

Stone folded his hands, leaned forward and explained how he had set up a website on the Internet through the help of an acquaintance. Calling in a marker, so to speak, he said. And had advertised his expertise on tattoos hoping to generate some business or to simply add to his collection some new or odd design.

Last Friday evening I received an e-mail from the Netherlands Federal Police. An individual purporting to be Isabella Strauss, Assistant Inspector, International Crimes Unit, Amsterdam Division, wanted to send me a photograph of a tattoo. Apparently it was involved somehow in one of her investigations and she was seeking help in identifying it. I honored her request and she e-mailed me a copy of the tattoo as an attachment. The very same tattoo that I showed you earlier, Stone said.

We really should get a better copy, a true photograph, I said.

It’s on the way, Mike, and so is Isabella along with it.

What?

That’s why I asked you here today. Never meet a woman alone the first time. It’s always better to have a witness.

So you don’t trust her?

I don’t know her. I don’t know anything about her or her case for that matter. All I know is that she’ll be coming through that door at any minute, Stone said, nodding at the front door to his apartment.

Stone continued his story.

On the following day, Saturday, I happened to be at the Union League Club downtown doing some research on Civil War maps in the library. As I was leaving the club, I stopped in the washroom next to the barbershop on the first floor. I passed a man who was at the sink washing his face, his sleeves rolled up. On his left hand was the very same tattoo I showed you. The very same one! Stone exclaimed.

It was in the crevice between his index finger and thumb on his left hand. I tried not to stare as the man continued at the sink, splashing hair tonic on his long, shoulder-length blonde hair. I attempted small talk and learned that he was attending a function being held in the second floor ballroom, a testimonial to a Doctor Emil P. Cardenas. I later confirmed this from one of the attendants who knows me as a regular at the club. Before exiting the washroom, I ventured to ask the tattooed gentleman about his hand, intimating that I was a connoisseur of tattoos, that I was writing a book and would like to include him and his tattoo in it. He responded that it was not a tattoo, that it was a body illustration. A body illustration, he said, is unique, is purposeful, breathes a life of it’s own, has a meaning known only to a selected few. He was breathing heavily as he recited this litany, appearing to me to have recited it numerous times before. I then inquired as to the meaning of the bleeding eye. His pupils, watery and as dark as the eye of the tattoo, pulsated in a sea of yellow as he spoke. The meaning, he said, was personal as was the artwork. With that said, he rolled down his sleeves and departed, ostensibly returning to the reception for Doctor Cardenas.

So you got a real good look at him? I asked

A look I’ll never forget. His face was blanched and puffy. His skin was as white as his pupils were black. He had a small scar in the shape of a half-moon under his right eye. Possibly self-inflicted. It almost looked painted on. His eyes were close-set and uneven, giving him the appearance of someone who was squinting to read small print. His nose was average. His long hair hung over his ears and was knotty at the ends. He appeared tall but he was wearing dark boots which may have accentuated his height. Average build. Slender not muscular. He looked like a rock star on dope or a carnie selling tickets at ring toss.

Did you stay awhile and try to observe him?

Too chancy. So I returned to my friend, the attendant. Juan is his name, and informed him of my interest in The Tattooed Man and twenty dollars later a small piece of paper with a license plate number scribbled on it was in my hand.

He drive it, Juan told me in broken english.

And?

It comes back to a 2006 BMW, 7 series, sedan, black in color, registered to Larissa Cardenas, 4 Dorchester Place, Chicago, Illinois.

Not too far from here, I said.

The next building over, Stone said, pointing out his east window.

And Larissa? The good doctor’s wife?

Stone nodded.

Sounds like big bucks.

The biggest.

Interesting.

It gets better.

Doesn’t it always?

That very same evening when I got home I e-mailed whomever it was in the Netherlands who sent me the photo of the tattoo, detailing the events of the evening. I provided my phone number and requested a call. The response I received was immediate. Isabella called and we talked briefly. I gave her my address and she told me she would be on the next plane to Chicago and would meet me on Sunday evening.

That’s all she said?

"Just that and she hung up. I suspect she’ll be arriving shortly’’

What did she sound like, her voice I mean? Was it…

Before I could conclude my thoughts there was a knock at the door.

Stone stood up and gave me a thumbs up. He opened the door and welcomed Isabella Strauss with a stiff, formal handshake, as was his usual custom. There in the entranceway to Stone’s study stood the most beautiful woman on the face of the earth.

Chapter 5

AS SHE DUSTED THE spackling of snow off of her shoulder length, jet-black hair, Stone helped her off with her coat and ushered her toward the fire. She extended her hands outward near the flames, smiling. Her hands were models’ hands, her fingers delicate and long, and ringless. Her skin was olive, Gypsy-like. Her eyes, dark and beckoning, appeared mysterious, yet innocent, in a pleading sort of way. She wore red lipstick, not much, which accentuated her smile. She was dressed in a tight-fitting red dress and an even tighter blouse, off-white, that revealed little but left much to the imagination. Her age? Anybody’s guess but certainly not over forty. Her hourglass figure melded with her mood as she slowly moved away from the fire, introducing herself to me. A soft, sultry voice, subdued, like snow falling on cotton. An outstretched hand, a kitten’s smile, and the simple word Isabella.

Then she turned to Stone.

You didn’t tell me it was so cold in Chicago, she said.

Forgive me. The weather rarely concerns me in the winter, as I know it’s always going to be bad. Please, let me introduce my associate, Mr. Michael Pate, Stone said, as he nodded toward me.

She smiled again, as she seated herself across from the fire. I said something inane, not remembering exactly seconds later what I had uttered, caught up in her beauty, lost in her innocence.

Reaching into her briefcase she produced what appeared to be a videotape. Displaying the object to us she said, Of course we found drugs. Eight kilograms of cocaine to be exact, but we found this also.

The case containing the videotape was unmarked. It was black and resembled any generic case one would find in the run-of-the-mill video rental store. As she opened the case a hint of fear crept into her voice as she handed the tape to Stone and said, I’m sorry you have to see this.

Her form melded into the clutches of the armchair, swallowing her innocence, as Stone started the tape.

It started in an innocuous way as the screen faded from black, dissolving into a windowless room. Gray walls and a lone table in one corner. A young Hispanic woman, possibly in her mid-twenties, was seen in the back of the room dancing slowly. She was of average weight and height and as she approached the camera she announced her name as Dolores. Her features were plain, her expression flat, as if she were hypnotized. She wore only a white robe with no visible markings. She was barefoot and appeared to be missing one of her toes on her right foot. Latino rock music was faintly heard in the background.

As the camera panned across the room Dolores continued to dance, the music slowly rising. A figure was then seen to enter the room and approach the table as Dolores continued dancing. This dark figure had the features of a man, lean in stature, well over six feet tall. His head was covered with a black leather hood, having only openings in the form of stars for the eyes. He wore a black robe with long sleeves. A gold belt was tied around his waist and he was barefoot. He was carrying a small, black, leather bag. He placed the bag on the table and then motioned for Dolores to approach him. The music rose in tandem to her gyrations as she danced her way to him. Like a star orbiting a black hole, she was being sucked closer… closer… closer… to his outstretched arms.

She was totally naked now, dancing uncontrollably, the pitch of the music deafening. The man opened the leather bag and removed a small vial containing a white substance and a small, pocket-sized mirror. He laid the mirror on the table and gently sprinkled the white powder onto the mirror. Dolores leaned over and began snorting the powder. The music continued to play as the man took Dolores by his right hand, grasping the leather bag in his left. He led her to a doorway at the opposite end of the room. The second room came into full view as the camera zoomed in and Dolores and the man entered. In the center of this second room was a… large device in the shape of a… guillotine! It couldn’t be, but it was. A medieval guillotine!

Dolores began to dance again, rhythmically, sensually, as she approached the guillotine, the music blaring in the background, the man helping Dolores place her head upon the lunette. Her hands and feet were now shackled in place, the effects of the drug she had inhaled misguiding her. Misguiding his purpose. From the leather bag he produced a syringe and another small vial. Filling the syringe with the contents of the vial, with the care of a surgeon, he plunged the syringe into her buttocks. She lurched forward, restrained by the shackles. As she struggled, his robe dropped to the floor, the leather mask remaining over his head. Pinpoints of evil visible through the star eyes. Standing naked over her he was fully aroused now as he tied the gold belt around her neck. She was panting now, attempting to talk, but the frantic sounds emanating from her mouth were incoherent. He roughly entered her and began copulating in time to the high-pitched music. The camera panned left as he reached for the lever. The bleeding eye tattoo on his left hand almost jumped out of the screen as he released the lever! As the blade descended he ejaculated. The camera then panned to a full view of the room as Dolores’ head rolled gently off of the headrest to the floor. The music now was at a frenzied pitch as The Tattooed Man, partially covered in blood, continued to copulate with the headless corpse, itself covered with blood and semen. At that point the tape came to an abrupt end. All was black.

Stone continued to stare at the television monitor. His face betrayed the positive identification of The Tattooed Man. I had not realized that I was fully off of my chair in a half-crouch, almost standing. I sat back down. Nausea took over. Stone continued to stare. I looked at Isabella. Her head was in her hands. Her eyes were closed. She had not watched the tape.

Stone rose and removed the tape from the machine, gently placing it back into its original container, and laying it on the table next to him. He slowly sat down. Looking at Isabella, he said, A copy, I hope.

Yes, the original is safely stored in the evidence vault at Amsterdam Police Headquarters.

Good, said Stone starkly.

Silence held us hostage. Finally Stone spoke.

Isabella, let’s see if we can alleviate some of that jet-lag. Your assignment is to get a good night’s sleep. I’ve prepared the guestroom for you. In it you will find all of those feminine intrigues of which Michael and myself are completely oblivious. As you see, my sister, who is a strikingly beautiful woman in her own right, has assured me that all is in order.

Isabella rose, distancing herself from the tape that lay on the table.

This way please, Stone said, as he led her down a hallway ensconced with plaques, memorabilia and trophies, if you will, procured from his numerous forays against the criminal world.

When he returned he nodded toward the computer. Michael, as for you, I want to know everything there is to know about guillotines. Where they can be bought, who makes them, who has them, cost, style, antique vs. modern reproductions….

Gotcha’ boss, I cut him off. I’m on it.

As for me, that inscription on the chalice will consume my attention. It may be the key to all of this. All of this… all of this…

He was mumbling now, his words muffled pleas for justice.

Chapter 6

THE LAST THING I can remember before waking up slumped over the computer keyboard the following morning was Stone leaving the study with a stack of language books under each arm. He was still at work when I awoke. Stone could sleep for hours on end when he was bored, but give him an interesting problem and he could work all night and be fresh in the morning. As I squinted, attempting to clear my head, he glanced over at me.

Good morning. And a very good morning it is, he said.

So you’ve been successful? I asked.

Well, not completely unsuccessful. We have two problems. First, identifying the language involved and then the translation. That’s the first problem. The second problem is the meaning. A straight translation doesn’t necessarily give one the meaning. Follow me?

Like idioms. Jargon. Slang.

Exactly.

So what do we know so far? I asked as the cobwebs began to fade.

While you slept I reviewed an enhanced photograph of the tattoo given to me by Isabella shortly before she retired.

Stone displayed the enlarged photograph to me. It clearly showed the inscription on the chalice. Three words, or at least what appeared to be words, were visible. They were written in some type of script or hieroglyphics.

This photograph shows three distinct characters. Do you see them?

Yes, right there. I pointed to the inscription on the chalice.

It’s Georgian.

Georgian?

"Yes, one of the five original languages, along with Hebrew, Arabic, Armenian and Chinese, with all its various