Balducci looked up, at a loss. “You’ve got ‘it,’” he said.
The Fed just looked at me, mouth quirking into a smile, at which point Balducci touched his head in a “senior moment” gesture, then hit the intercom. “Rogers,” he said. “You got ‘it’? Yeah. Bring ‘it.’”
After a moment, a tall, drawn man stepped out of a back door I hadn’t noticed, gingerly holding a large, white plastic envelope with the same Fed logo on it. The cadaverous man paused in the white light of the doorway for a moment, eyes twitching as he saw me— not unfriendly, but… in pity? Then I noticed a long plastic tray in the man’s other hand, and saw the padded envelope bulging with something.
I suddenly didn’t want to see ‘it.’
The Fed touched his left ear for a moment, then turned to go. “Aren’t you going to stay?” I asked nervously. I wasn’t quite sure why I was asking him for reassurance, but there it was.
He paused. “I’ve seen ‘it,’” he said, and stepped into the blackness.
The tray clattered against the table, shockingly close to my hands, and Balducci and I both leaned back a little. The evidence technician, if that’s what cadaver man was, put on a pair of blue gloves before opening the envelope and withdrawing a smaller, plastic-wrapped object. “Even though it is wrapped,” he said, putting it in the tray, “it would help if you do not touch ‘it.’”
My skin grew cold.
‘It’ was a ripped piece of human skin pinned to a stained wood board.
2. GODS FINEST CANVAS
I stared in horror at the scrap of human skin, stretched across the board like so much canvas. The braided wreath curved across the flesh, marred by a few small cuts that had been blacked out on the print copy. On most sides the skin curved over the board, but at the upper left, the skin was torn away, revealing both the bloodstained wood and a set of torn holes in the skin that indicated it had been stapled underneath, like a leather seat cushion.
Without another nod to Balducci, Rand took over, channeling Joe Friday.
“Do you know what this is?”
“It’s a tattoo,” I said, unable to take my eyes off it.
“Do you know what it means?”
“It’s a… magical ward.”
“To protect against evil spirits?”
“No, it’s… like a capacitor. It collects, or deflects, magical power,” I said. “Which depends on the intent of the wearer.”
“Do you know who inked this?”
I’d have to look closer at the design to tell that. I really didn’t want to do that. I looked up at Rand, eyes pleading. His face had gone cold, a bit stony; not unfriendly, but all cop. I leaned forward, looked through the clear plastic bag, at the wreath, the inking. The board exposed through the rip was smoothly polished and finely worked, despite the bloodstains. Suddenly I knew.
“Yes, I know the artist,” I said. “Not, I mean, personally. It’s Richard Sumner.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“Buried in Cincinnati,” I said. “Sumner was famous, but he died in… 2005, I think?”
“Hell,” Balducci said. “That rules out a suspect—”
“Do you know who this was inked on?” Rand asked.
“No,” I said, closing my eyes at last. That piece of skin had come from a living human person. I’d really been trying not to think of that. My mind cast around for anything else. “Sumner did thousands of people. You could email the Lancing Dragon in Cincinnati, though. Sumner took extensive pictures. They’re stored there.”
Rand smiled. “We’ll do that.” His smile faded. “Do you know of anyone who had a grudge against Sumner, or against any of his subjects?”
“No,” I said. “I mean, I don’t know anyone who has a grudge against anyone—”
“Really?” Rand said. “What about against other tattoo artists? Especially magical ones?”
“According to our newsletter,” I said sarcastically, “ ‘there are over two hundred licensed magical tattoo artists in the United States,’ so it’s a pretty big list—”
“Could we get a copy of that newsletter?” Rand asked.
I thought about it for a moment. “Yes.”
“Is there anything you would like to add?” Rand said.
“Yes,” I said, nodding at the skin-covered board. “I would like to add a what the fuck is that thing? “
“Tell her about the box,” Balducci said.
“What about the box?” I said, eyes drawn back to the thing on the table.
“We had a witness,” cadaver man said. “He didn’t live long enough to tell us much, but he mentioned… a box. A box covered in scraps of tattooed skin—”