I peer at the dead man’s scalp. The quarter-inch cut we uncovered is exactly the right size for extracting a tiny chip.
At some point, the mining operation must have realized the danger of inserting them all in the shoulder—eventually one of the employees would notice.
There’s also a reason this man’s was implanted in his scalp. Because, when he’d come to work for them, he was likely bald.
In our initial examination, we’d noticed what seemed like an old scalp tattoo, as we’d searched for signs of a contusion. Now that his hair is gone, we can see the tattoo in full, along with two smaller and newer ones.
“I don’t understand those,” Dalton says. “I mean, I understand tattoos in general. Body art. If you’re bald, you might put them on your scalp. Also easy to cover up if you don’t like them later. But those are ugly as fuck.”
He’s right. One is a cross made from two simple lines. Another is three hatches. The largest is a very crudely drawn symbol that looks like a rune.
“These aren’t meant to be art,” I say. “Like Will’s, they can be symbolic.”
“Will’s tattoo shows he was an American soldier,” April says.
“Yes. I very strongly suspect this big one”—I point to the rune—“also signifies membership in a group. But definitely not the army.”
“Do you recognize it?” April asks.
“No, but I recognize the very basic style. I also recognize the way they were all done.” I glance over at Dalton. “They’re prison tattoos.”
“Which means we have a chance of identifying this guy,” he says.
“We just might.”
We have two more identifiers, as well. The fingers on the man’s right hand show arthritis that an X-ray reveals as two poorly healed bone breaks. He’s also had dental work that, again, was badly done.
We’d noted these things in our first postmortem exam, but since they hadn’t been a cause of death, we’d only filed them away. On their own, they wouldn’t identify our victim. Together with those tattoos, they might. He has several scars, too. We send all that information to Émilie.
“So he’s from the mining camp,” I say as I sit with Rory while Dalton helps April tidy up. “While he could be a guard, I’m going to guess he’s a miner.”
“Because of the prison tattoos,” April says. “He would be unfit for law enforcement.”
I make a face. “Being an ex-con doesn’t make you unfit for security work. I believe in rehabilitation, even if our prison system doesn’t always seem to. The rune tattoo suggests he was part of a prison gang, possibly white supremacy, which sadly doesn’t rule out security work. But the mining operation is so security conscious that, yes, I don’t think they’re hiring ex-cons as guards.”
“But they’d hire them as workers?”
“Good point. If I were running a mining operation up here, ex-cons wouldn’t be my first choice. There’s a security risk plus an increased risk of violence in an isolated community. But we’re talking potentially hard physical labor in less than idealconditions. Including ex-cons would widen your pool. I’d just be sure to not hire anyone convicted of violent offenses.”
“Former prisoners might actually make good miners,” Dalton says. “They’re accustomed to harsh conditions and hard work, right?”
I nod. “Yes, some countries allow penal labor, and it can be hard work under harsh conditions with a regimented routine. Okay, forget what I said earlier. As long as they weren’t convicted of violent crimes, I can see why they’d be hired. Ex-cons might be more likely to accept the conditions, and their employment options are limited. The mine could take advantage of that and underpay them.”
“It’d also explain the extra guards,” Dalton says. “And the chipping.”
“Yes and yes. Okay, so our victim is likely a miner. Either they specifically hire ex-cons or they just don’t mind hiring them. That would actually fit our former experience with the camp.”
“The pedophile.”
I scoop up Rory. “Rogers knew the guy’s background. He understandably thought it didn’t matter in an area without children. He also warned us about his workers, said they could be a rough bunch, and he didn’t like the idea of there being women and children nearby. That would fit with a camp of ex-cons. Let’s—”
Someone bangs at the outside door. April takes off her apron and folds it. Then she slips out, shutting the door behind her. From the next room, I hear Arturo’s voice.
“Someone watched her go in there this morning, and no one’s seen her since, so she must still be in there.”
“My sister is busy with a case,” April says. “She is not on duty. Nor am I.”
“So no one cares what’s happening out here? The rest of us are stuck on lockdown, getting cabin fever but obeying the rules, and Muriel is allowed to do as she pleases.”
