Floyd folded back the top and set it on the ground. He pushed the three or four shirts aside with the tip of a pencil and noted a few rust-colored specs on a pair of sneakers that were jammed in alongside the shirts.
“Can I keep this bag of clothing?”
“It’s garbage,” Karen replied with a shrug. “But why would you want it?”
“Let’s just say I’m a pack rat,” he replied as he pulled the bag closed and tied the top shut. “Do you recall when Kenny drove back to Missouri?”
“How could I forget? It was December, 1998, and the President had just announced there was going to be a troop surge in Iraq. I hoped they wouldn’t call Kenny so soon after his return from Korea. He’d only been home two weeks when he got the call.”
CHAPTER 5
Floyd drove back to the drugstore and parked a half block away. The mild morning temperatures had given way to a hot, humid afternoon. He overheard a white-haired couple standing next to their Cadillac complaining about the heat and humidity, then grinned when he noticed the Florida license plate. After hearing about the sub-zero Minnesota winters, people from the South didn’t anticipate the sauna-like heat of summers.
Barb Dupre was examining a negative under a magnifying glass until she saw Floyd walk up to the counter. She reached to the side of the processing machine and picked up a large envelope.
“You’ve been a lot of bother,” Barb said as she opened the envelope and slid out some enlargements. “I hope Gordy doesn’t know how much time I’m putting into this project for you.” She spread the three 8x10-inch photos on the counter and leaned over them to look more closely. “I studied these on the computer screen and I think the guy sitting on the far left in the fourth picture might be the same guy who’s tied to the tree. Any idea who he is?”
“His name is Aaron Roberts, and he was reported missing the day after this picture was taken and hasn’t been seen since. I’m reopening the case and chasing down all the leads I can find.”
As Barb leaned over, Floyd was startled by the large amount of cleavage exposed. “How do the little old ladies feel about you showing so much flesh?” he asked.
Barb looked up without straightening up. “I don’t lean over the counter for the little old ladies, just for the men.” Then she cracked a smile. “I don’t get the tips I used to make as a waitress, but they sure like to hang around and talk. It makes the days go by more quickly.”
Floyd shook his head and looked at the photos. “What did you do to get the pictures to look so different? This first one looks like the original small print you made up, but these other enlargements have a lot more color and definition.”
“I called up a photo lab in Colorado. Rocky Mountain Film specializes in handling old film and they are one of the few places in the U.S. that have the equipment to develop some odd types of film. They said I should have developed the film differently, but since it was already developed, they suggested some tricks using the computer. It doesn’t help the color balance much, but makes everything a little darker. I’d show you on the computer screen,” she said, looking around the store, “but I don’t want to scare the customers.”
“This picture looks like a still from the Blair Witch Project,” Floyd said. “It’s dark and grainy.”
“It was obviously taken outside with a flash,” Barb said. “You can see how the penetration of the flash diminishes as you get past the tree he’s tied to. Look at this second one,” she said, pushing it closer to Floyd. “I tried to adjust the colors to get more blues. This probably is the most realistic color balance. It looks like the blood on his chest is fresh, and you can see the cuts more clearly.”
“It’s hard to make out,” Floyd said, picking up the photo and trying to get the light to hit from different angles. “But, I think the cuts might have a pattern. The last one seems to be an ‘O.’”
“I thought so, too,” Barb said as she stepped away from the counter. “So I made a blowup of just the chest. It just came out of the printer.”
She set the new print on the counter. “This captures the area from his chin to his waist. You can see some of his hair dangling into the bottom of the print.”
“It’s awfully grainy,” Floyd said, studying the print. “The blood dribbling down from the cuts makes it hard to see if there’s a pattern.” Floyd took the picture and held it at an angle to the overhead lights, reducing the glare.
“Biker’s cut members who fall out of good standing with their gangs. You get the club tattoo when you’re accepted, and they cut it off if you piss them off or try to quit.” Barb’s words were a statement made without judgment. Floyd looked at Barb and realized that in the tougher part of her life she might have witnessed things more gruesome than he would’ve guessed.
“I hear,” she added, “that some Asian gangs cut people up to extract information from them. I read that in the old days Chinese emperors had this punishment they called the death of a thousand cuts. The executioner made long slashes on a guy’s body. They weren’t very deep, but they must’ve hurt like hell. They’d slice and dice the guy until he looked like hamburger. Eventually the guy would die of blood loss or shock, but not until he’d endured hours of agony. I guess the really good imperial cutters could make the punishment last for half a day while the emperor watched his revenge being exacted on the prisoner.”
“I saw that in the movie The Sand Pebbles,” Floyd said, “but it sounds like you did a lot deeper research on it.”
“I went through a ‘torture is interesting’ phase of my life. Living with Butch, the biker, kinda took the glamour out of it.” Barb turned somber, apparently recalling the abusive relationship with her ex-boyfriend.
“Cutting somebody up is tough punishment,” Floyd said as he slipped all the photos into the envelope. “Even if you were crazy enough to do it, why would you take a picture of it?”
“You don’t have to be crazy,” Barb said, “just high or drunk. Sometimes guys get off on it because it really sends a message about how ‘bad’ they are.”
“You talk like it’s matter-of-fact,” Floyd said. “It’s hard to believe that your life was that hard before, yet you turned it around and rejoined society.”
“Hey, you meet a nice guy who treats you well and you learn to live with the boredom,” she said with a shrug.
“Your life is boring now?”
Barb hesitated. “It’s not an adrenaline high every night,” she said. “On the other hand, I’ve got a feeling of security now and regular meals. A girl can get used to those after a while, especially when you’re never experienced them before.”
“But you still miss the adrenaline.”
“There’s hardly any rush that matches the feeling you get when you think you’re going to die.” Sensing disapproval, she added, “You know, like racing a cycle down a wet highway at a hundred-miles-an-hour without a helmet.”
“That speed scares the hell out of me when I’m in a police car with the seat belt buckled.”
“Sandy loves it. Don’t you?”
“I guess I’ll miss it when I retire someday.”
“Sandy said that you’re dating the woman from Pine Brook Floral. He thinks that she’s really nice.”
Floyd smiled. “She is really nice, but I don’t know that we’re dating.”
Barb studied his face. “You were so sad after your wife died, I was worried about you,” she said. “You have a sparkle in your eye again. I think she’s good for you.”
“I think so too.” Floyd took the envelope under his arm and added. “Thanks for all the work you did to improve these. You will bill the department.”