ON THEIR FIRST DAY as partners Agent Kohen drove south on Highway 285 while Ramirez read through the list of tattoo businesses Ashley had compiled the night before. He noted their location on a map of southeastern New Mexico. "I can't believe some of these names, Ink Bomb Tattoos, Creepy Crawler House of Art, and Fat Zombie Body Etchings. I wonder what they were smoking when they dreamed those up."
Ashley glanced at Ramirez as she approached the city limits of Roswell where their concentric circle search pattern would begin. "Some of the names are strange," Ashley slowed to the posted speed limit. "It's a competitive business. A catchy name helps." She passed Wal-Mart and continued down Main Street. “What's the first name on our list?"
"The Vivid Dragon Tattoo. It's on West Second Street," Ramirez pulled the photograph of the rose tattoo out of his shirt pocket. "What do you say–I show the picture and you ask the questions. Okay?"
That proposal didn’t surprise Ashley. Gallantry still lingered in a culture that said a woman should be shielded from embarrassing moments, even by the likes of Ramirez. On some level she appreciated the gesture. "No way Jose," she said. "A potential witness is more likely to talk if knocked out of their comfort zone. A good start is a woman showing them a picture of a guy's genitals in one hand, and an FBI badge in the other."
Displaying a wide grin, Agent Ramirez shook his head. "Okay, I'll remain the strong silent type."
The Vivid Dragon Tattoo shop shared walls with a thrift shop and an auto parts store on the west edge of town. The wood frame building with faded orange trim needed repair. A weathered painting of a giant green dragon breathing fire covered the front window. When Agents Kohen and Ramirez opened the front door, the jingle of a tiny bell announced their arrival. From behind a beat-up wood and glass display case that served as a counter, a man wearing black leather pants, a vest and no shirt raised his head. He offered a grin displaying several missing teeth. His face turned sour when Ashley flipped open her ID.
"Good morning, I'm Agent Kohen and this is Agent Ramirez with the FBI. We're investigating a missing person and have a few questions." She noticed a barbed wire tattoo around the man's wrist and assorted red, green and blue designs decorating each muscular arms. "What's your name, please?"
"Sam. Samuel Jones. I don't know nothing about no missing person."
Ashley remained positive. "I'm told you are the best tattoo artist in town, and we thought you might be able to help us. Have you been in operation long?"
"Sure. Well, for a while. I have a state license." He pointed to a crooked frame hanging on the wall. "I been in body art for years. I run a clean business. No complaints from nobody."
Ramirez leaned on the glass display case. "As Agent Kohen says, we're seeking a missing person. We need your cooperation." He made direct eye contact with Sam.
Sam nodded. "Okay. Is it a guy or a gal?"
Ashley slipped the photograph out of her pocket. "Will this help you identify this person?" She placed the photo on the counter.
Sam squinted at the picture, his eyebrows pinched together. “I don't do private parts. That's sick and a piss-poor job, too. I'm professional."
"I'm sure you're are," Ashley said. "This is a unique tattoo in an uncommon location. We are searching for the identity of its owner." She pulled the photo back and started to pocket it.
"Wait a minute. Let's see that again." Sam took a magnifying glass from under-the-counter and studied the picture. "That's done freehand. Nobody does that any more. It's all done with electric tattoo machines that are fast, safe and clean."
Hoping to shorten their list of interviews, Ashley asked, "Who does this work by hand?"
"Nobody in Roswell, that's for damn sure."
"Are you saying someone without a license did this work?'"
Frowning, Sam paused and tilted his head from side to side. "I know all the artists around here, and none of them would touch this job or those people, if you know what I mean." The corners of his mouth turned down. "I don't mean no disrespect to you all, but this is a queer job."
"You mean a strange job?" asked Ramirez, knowing exactly what Jones meant.
"No. I mean only a fairy would get a rosebud tattoo on the end of his dick." Sam hesitated and stepped back. "I guess that ain't a politically correct way to put it these days, but it's true. I know all about faggots and I got no tolerance for that way of life."
Ashley ignored the crude language. "I appreciate your candor Sam, and you have a right to your opinion, but it doesn't answer our question. Who did this work?"
Sam leaned against the wall behind him. "It's not like I talk to the cops all that much, but when it comes to homos, well that's different." Ashley raised an eyebrow at Ramirez, who winked back at her. "There's a place in the mountains that does crotch jobs for a price. They ain't licensed, neither."
"Mountains?" Ramirez asked. "There are many mountains west of here. Can you be more specific?"
"Mayhill."
"Mayhill?"
"Yea, it's a little town west outa Artesia. It's behind the general store, in the woods. Low-Down Tattoo they call it. Two guys run it. A big one and a little one. There’re real good 'friends' if you know what I mean." He smirked. “Little guy does the work. Big guy, well, you gotta watch him."
Ashley put the picture back in her pocket. "What do you mean by 'got to watch him', Mr. Jones?"
“He's big, dumb and mean as a rabid dog in heat. Not nobody you want a mess with. Everybody goes there with cash and nobody gets off the table till the jobs done."
"Do you have a name for us?"
The artist clamped his mouth shut.
Ramirez placed his hand on the counter. "We'd like to know what we're getting into. You’ll be protecting us so we can continue to protect you."
Jones thought about that a moment. "Butch Cassidy."
"You're serious?"
"Butch is what he goes by. George is his real name. George Cassidy. His picture is in the newspapers a lot. Bar fights and the like. Enough said."
MAYHILL WAS IN the foothills of the Sacramento Mountains. Barely a town, it straddled Highway 82 with a general store, a gas station, a small well-appointed post office, and several broken-down structures in serious need of repair. Most people traveled to the area to enjoy the cool summer air and three RV parks nearby.
Ashley felt a man should ask for directions to the tattoo shop considering their usual cliental. In the car Ramirez removed his coat, shoulder holster and necktie before climbing the well-worn wooden steps that led to the front door of the Mayhill Cafe and General Store.
A gray haired woman stood behind a counter and greeted the stranger with a grumpy expression. She held an ice cream scoop in her hand. Two kids sat at a nearby table licking cones. The air smelled of fried food.
"Good morning. I'm new to these parts. I hear there's a tattoo shop here in Mayhill. Wonder if you could direct me?" The women put the scoop down and stepped back distancing herself from the outsider.
"Yea, we got a tattoo place for certain people." She gave Ramirez a probing gaze. "County Road 69 back that away." She pointed east. "Take a left. It's about two miles in the woods. They got a sign. Can't miss it if that's what you want."
Ramirez thanked the woman. The two kids with ice cream cones giggled as he passed. He crossed the highway and climbed into the car. "No problem finding out about the Low-Down Tattoo. It's well-known around here." He adjusted his shoulder holster and coat.
Ashley nodded. "Little town. Everyone knows everybody’s business. Which way?"
They took a left onto County Road 69. After 200 feet, it turned into a rutted dirt path barely wide enough for two cars to pass. Their tires created a plume of dust as they bumped along at twenty miles an hour, steadily climbing uphill. The few cabins they passed appeared deserted.
Before leaving Roswell, Ashley had checked the onboard computer for priors on "Butch" George Cassidy in Chaves and Otero Counties. Cassidy had a string of aggravated assault charges and two DUI's. No jail time.
Ashley pointed, "There’s a tattoo sign on the left. I'm going to drive by to get a feel for the surroundings." A shabby two story wood frame house served as the shop and living quarters. Ashley remembered the warning about the 'big guy' and wished she had bought an ankle holster and revolver last week. She promised herself to do it when she got back to Albuquerque.
After passing the house they turned around and parked the car near a rusty pickup truck in the driveway. As they approached, Ashley saw a curtain move in the front window. "We're being watched."
Ramirez unbuttoned his coat. In a low voice he answered, "By the numbers."
Ashley knocked on the door, then stepped to the side. Ramirez stood back three feet at an opposite angle. No answer. She knocked again, and waited. She saw Ramirez rock from one foot to the other. "Mr. Cassidy, we are the FBI," she shouted. "We want to ask you about one of your customers." She heard hurried talk on the other side of the door.
The latch clicked and the door opened an inch. An eye appeared. "Whatcha want?" The voice sounded like a woman.
"Someone told us you may be able to help us in a missing person investigation. We have a few questions," The door opened wider and a short man peeked out.
"Who told you what?" The man, no more than five feet tall wore a T-shirt with a faded peace sign on the front, worn-out jeans and no shoes. The shape of a large man loomed behind him in the shadows of the room.
Ashley advanced to the threshold. "We believe one of your clients is missing. I need to identify him. May we come in?"
"Sure. Okay, I guess for a minute." Over his shoulder he asked, "Is that all right, Butch?"
Before the man could answer, Agents Kohen and Ramirez stepped into the room. Ashley addressed the small man. "This will save us both time. No search warrant. No state police." Ashley then turned to the big man. "You're George Cassidy, what's your friend's name?"
Before Cassidy spoke, the little man answered for him, "My name is Barry. Barry Malinowski."
Cassidy stepped into the light. A spider tattoo covered his thick neck which supported a shaven head. He held an enormous hunting knife in his beefy fist. Ramirez dodged to the side. "Edge weapon," he shouted and drew his gun. "Drop the knife, now!"
"You gonna shoot me, asshole?"
"If I do you won't know about it after the first slug rips a hole in your chest."
Malinowski started to cry. "Don't hurt Butch, he's my friend."
Ashley moved next to Barry while staying out of the line of fire. "Don't be stupid, Cassidy. Technically you are about to assault a Federal Agent. That's jail time. Drop the knife. We just want a few answers to some questions, and we'll go. You're scaring your friend."
The 9 millimeter gun held steady. The knife clunked when it hit the wood floor.
Ramirez kicked the knife away and shouted, “Hands on your head. Sit on the floor. Do it!"
Cassidy didn't move. Barry pleaded with him. "Do what he says, Butch. I don't want a go to jail." With a scowl on his face Cassidy got down. Ramirez walked over and stood behind him, holstered his weapon and said, "Stay put."
Ashley went to Malinowski. "It's all right, Barry. Butch will be okay. Calm down." She scanned the dingy room. A sofa with sagging cushions divided it in half. She went to it. "Sit over here, Barry. A couple of questions and we're gone." She patted the cushion next to her. He joined her.
"We are trying to identify a missing person. We know this person has a tattoo. We have a picture I'm going to show you. Tell me what you know about it." Ashley handed the photograph to Malinowski.
"Don't tell 'em nothin," Cassidy growled.
Ramirez slapped him on the bald head. "Shut up."
Malinowski looked at the picture and started to cry again. He dropped the photograph on the floor and buried his face in both hands. Overwhelmed he sobbed, hardly able to breathe. "No," he wailed, rocking back and forth. "No."
Ashley put a hand on his shoulder. "Barry, what's the matter. Do you know something we should know?"
In a high-pitched voice he screamed. "That's my brother!"