She crossed her arms. “So take me to Rockaway. As I asked you to do in the first place.”

“You demanded it, actually,” said Fisk. “And besides, the bodies are long gone from Rockaway.”

Fisk slid his phone out of its dashboard mount and found Detective Kiser’s number.

CHAPTER 32

Detective Kiser shed his suit coat and his tie, his white shirt soaked with sweat. He looked exhausted.

Fisk said, “Appreciate you taking the time.”

“Are you kidding?” said Kiser. “I welcome the professional help.”

Fisk nodded. “If we’re right—and I’m not saying we are—but if we’re right, this has got an international dimension. And she supposedly knows more about the doer than anybody on the planet.”

Cecilia Garza returned from her phone call. “Nothing still.”

Fisk nodded. He understood her drive to keep moving ahead, to not dwell on the unknowns regarding her disappeared comrade, but to look for answers wherever she could find them.

Even if it was in the Queens Office of the Chief Medical Examiner.

Morgue floors were always shiny. They cleaned them every other night. A morgue attendant wearing a mask and gloves—dressed almost like a hazmat worker—pulled the wheeled tables out of the walk-in cooler. Each one held a zipped body bag.

Kiser offered Garza his three-ring binder. “We have everything photographed if you’d prefer.”

She shook her head, stretching latex gloves over her hands.

“I’d very much prefer . . .” said Kiser, his voice fading to nothing.

The attendant went about opening all the black rubber bags. Kiser pinched his nose.

“Everything’s been bagged and tagged,” Kiser said, nasally. “One guy’s got no feet. Where do you put a toe tag on a guy with no toes?”

If the attendant was aware the question was directed at him, he did not answer.

Fisk pulled on his own gloves. He waited while Garza made a careful inspection of all the bodies, helping the attendant flip them over so she could see their backs, too.

When she had looked at every single corpse she said, “Help me move these stretchers in order.”

Fisk said, “Order?”

“For narrative clarity,” she said. “These eight, here . . . this one here . . . this one down here . . .” When she was satisfied, she stood back. “There are three major drug cartels in Mexico at the moment. The Zetas are at war with the Gulf Cartel and Sinaloas. The Sinaloas are primarily a West Coast operation, while the Gulf is on the East Coast. The Gulf Cartel has been almost eliminated now, absorbed by the Zetas. So what’s left, mainly, is the Sinaloas, the largest and strongest.”

“Okay,” said Kiser.

Garza pointed at the first eight bodies. “Let us call these corpses one through eight. Fairly pedestrian tattoos, in my opinion. These are men with perhaps Mexican heritage, but so far as we can see, no evident gang affiliation.”

She moved to the next three bodies. “Here, I’m guessing these are all Mexican gang members or affiliates. Their tattoos include Santa Muerte—the Lord of Death—which is often believed to be derived from the Aztec god Mictlantecuhtli.” She pointed to a large tattoo of a robed figure with a skull for a face. “There, this one actually says ‘Sinaloa’ here, but there are various other symbolic references to the cartel which are a good deal more cryptic. Bottom line, though, these three are all almost certainly Sinaloa Cartel members, ex-members, or affiliates. As you can see, all of these men have all been tortured or mutilated or abused in one way or another.”

She went to the second-to-last body.

“Here we have a man covered with tattoos . . . but tattoos of a very different character. First, you will note from his skin tone and body hair color that he appears to be a Caucasian. Also, all of the words tattooed on his body are in English rather than Spanish. But more importantly, you will note that these are well-executed tattoos, composed in rich color, with complex and varied detail. I would go so far as to classify these as highly artistic, wouldn’t you?”

“If you say so,” said Kiser, still plugging his nose.

Fisk was impressed with her review of the bodies: crisp, well reasoned, and unflinching.

She continued, “And other than the head and fingertips being removed, there is no evidence of torture or desecration on this last body.”

“Other than the decapitation,” said Kiser.

“Yes—setting that aside for the moment.” She pointed at the last man. “Finally, we have this last body. Again, head and fingertips removed. His skin was apparently quite pale, even before death. And there is only one tattoo on his body.”

Fisk saw it. A black hummingbird.

“It’s him,” said Fisk.

“Taken together, these bodies constitute a sentence, a phrase, a grammar, a message. This message announces that an assassin is here, someone of substance, someone whose work must be taken seriously. Someone capable of sophisticated, ruthless, extreme violence. Moreover, the manner in which they were killed draws a connection to other killings in Mexico.

“Now, we turn to these two. Let us focus on this man with all the tattoos. These are of a higher artistic quality than the others. None of them are gang related in the least. No flaming skeletons, no broken chains, no skulls or AK-47s, no Blessed Virgins. Now, if you examine the orientation, several of them appear to be turned at peculiar angles.”

“What do you mean?” said Kiser.

“Just look. Normally a tattoo is intended to be viewed while a person is standing. But this one . . . and this one . . . and this one . . . are oriented sideways. So that if he were standing at rest, you would have to crane your head all the way to the side in order to look at them properly. Odd, right? But . . . consider this. If he crossed his legs, you see, this tattoo of the duck . . . it would be oriented toward his face. Now, here, this one is a Buddhist image known as Fudo Myo-o. The flaming bodhisattva with the rope and the sword. If he crooked his arm—as for instance laying it on a desk in front of him—this Fudo Myo-o tattoo on his forearm would also be oriented toward his face. And these oddly oriented tattoos are among the most intricate and beautiful on his body.”

Fisk nodded. “This guy did himself. He’s a tattoo artist.”

“Putting his best work on his own body. And not because he had to, by the way. A competent tattoo artist transfers a picture onto the skin and then just fills in the lines. Paint by numbers. No, he oriented them this way for his own enjoyment. He wanted to see the fruit of his own labor.”

Kiser said, “That’s something I can work with. And what about this last guy? The pale one. He’s got nothing except that bird.”

Cecilia Garza looked at the last corpse, the one with the small tattoo of the hummingbird between the shoulder blades. Her face momentarily showed . . . not sadness exactly, Fisk thought. But something close. More like a soul-deep weariness.

“I have seen this design before. Many times. This one was traced from an original design. Always drawn by the same hand. And this tattoo is a very accurate, careful representation of that design. It’s a faithful copy, if you see my point. It captures the gesture, the expressiveness of the original.”

Kiser looked skeptical. “I’m just following along, hearing what you’re saying. But I’m not sure I’m getting it yet.”

“He’s unusually pale,” she said. “No other blemishes. He is, if you will, a human canvas. See the sand from the beach still lodged in the design?”

Kiser cocked his head for a better look. So did Fisk.

Garza went on, “See where the hair was shaved, from just below the neck? A corona of redness beneath the skin around the design? That is not lividity. The blood has settled on the front.”