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- Zombie drug
- Minute amounts
- Not used on victim here
Stercobilin, urea 9.3 g/L, chloride 1.87 g/L, sodium 1.17 g/L, potassium 0.750 g/L, creatinine 0.670 g/L - fecal material
- Possibly suggesting interest/obsession in underground - From future kill sites underground?
Benzalkonium chloride - Quaternary ammonium (quat), institutional sanitizer
Adhesive latex - Used in bandages and construction, other uses too
Inwood marble - Dust and fine grains
Tovex explosive - Probably from blast site
* * *
CHAPTER 11
'Hey, dude. Take a seat. I'll get to you in a few. You want to check out the booklet there? Find something fun, something to impress the ladies. You're never too old for ink.'
The man's eyes alighted on Lon Sellitto's unadorned ring finger and turned back to the young blonde he was speaking to.
The tattoo artist - and owner of the parlor (yeah, parlor, not studio) - was early thirties, scrawny as a crab leg. He was wearing well-cut and pressed black jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt, white, immaculate. His dark-blond hair was pulled back in a long ponytail. He had a dandy beard, an elaborate affair that descended from his upper lip in four thin lines of dark silky hair that circled his mouth and reunited on his chin in a spiral. His cheeks were shaved smooth but his sideburns, sharp as hooks, swept forward from his ears. A steel rod descended from his upper ear down to the lobe. Another, smaller, pierced each eyebrow vertically. After the facial hair and the metalwork, the full-color tattoos of Superman on one forearm and Batman on the other were pretty tame.
Sellitto stepped forward.
'A minute, dude, I was saying.' He studied the cop for a moment. 'You know, for an older guy, a bigger guy - I don't mean any offense - you're a good candidate. Your skin isn't going to sag.' His voice faded. 'Oh, hey. Look at that.'
Sellitto had grown tired of the ramble. He'd thrust his gold shield toward the hipster in a way that was both aggressive and lethargic.
'Okay. Police. You're police?'
The tat artist was sitting on a stool next to a comfortable-looking but well-worn reclining chair of black leather, occupied by the girl he'd been speaking with when Sellitto walked in. She wore excessively tight jeans and a gray tank top over what seemed to be three bras or spaghetti-strap camisoles, or whatever they were called. Pink, green and blue. Her strikingly golden hair was long on the left and crew cut on the right. Pretty face if you could get past the skewed hair and nervous eyes.
'You want to talk to me?' the tattoo artist asked.
'I want to talk to TT Gordon?'
'I'm TT.'
'Then I want to talk to you.'
Nearby another artist, a chubby thirty-something in cargo pants and T, was working away on another client - a massive bodybuilder - who was lying face down on a leather bed, like a masseur would use. The man was getting an elaborate motorcycle inked on his back.
Both employee and customer looked at Sellitto, who stared back.
They returned to inking and being inked.
The detective shot a glance at Gordon and the girl with the unbalanced hair. She was upset, really bothered. Gordon, though, didn't seem fazed by the cop's presence. The owner of the Sonic Hum-Drum Tattoo Parlor had all his permits in a row and his t
ax bills paid, the detective knew. He'd checked.
'Let me just finish up here.'
Sellitto said, 'It's important.'
