The tattoo murder, p.1
The Tattoo Murder, page 1
The tattoo murder
by
BOB BRILL
Table of Contents
Title Page
The Tattoo Murder
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Who’ll Stop the Rain
Book cover composite by:
Richard Paolinelli/Bookcoverzone.com
INTERIOR PHOTO CREDITS: Paula J. Brill
While 'The Tattoo Murder' is a work of fiction, the photos are of places which are alive and well in Ventura.
The tattoo murder
Bob brill
Copyright © 2021, 2022 Bob Brill, all rights reserved.
This is a copywritten work of fiction, any unauthorized use, digital reproduction or printed copy of any of the material within is strictly forbidden without the specific and expressed permission from the author or publisher. Any resemblance of persons living, or dead is strictly a coincidence unless specifically noted in the text.
ASIN: B09MG9KC8L
Published by:
Tuscany Bay Books
Star, Idaho, Fruita, Colorado
www.tuscanybaybooks.com
Edited by: Jim Christina/Richard Paolinelli
First printing: 2021/2022
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I WANT TO THANK JIMMY C. for his help and encouragement in getting this book out there, to Dr. Carole for pushing me to get this book out there, to my daughter Julia who asked me “my dad wrote this?,” and to my lovely wife Paula who has the utmost confidence in me and believing in my many projects and whose encouragement keeps me going.
DEDICATION
TO THE PEOPLE OF VENTURA where I spent many years learning about life. To the people of Potenza, Italy my ancestral home and whose name I borrowed for my main character. Potenza means “Power” in Italian. And I would be remiss if I did not thank and dedicate at the same time this book to John Fogerty. With CCR, Fogerty’s inspiration comes as a songwriter, musician. His words bring us to the brink in making us take hold and pushing us toward understanding the human condition. I put you in Coach.
The base of Seaward Street Oceanfront facing the Ventura Pier and
downtown Ventura, California.
Some comments about
Bob Brill’s
The Tattoo Murder
“THE TATTOO MURDER ENTICES you to escape into another world,
where Detective John Potenza takes you on a roller-coaster ride
of surfing, sensual escapades and solving clues to murders. The
story will leave an 'indelible mark' on your heart.”
Carole Lieberman, M.D., M.P.H., America’s Psychiatrist and Award-winning author
“The Tattoo Murder entices you to escape into another world, where Detective John Potenza takes you on a roller-coaster ride of surfing, sensual escapades and solving clues to murders. The story will leave an 'indelible mark' on your heart.”
Carole Lieberman, M.D., M.P.H.,
America’s Psychiatrist and Award-winning author
“AN UNIDENTIFIED BODY, rival biker gangs, tattoo artists and a Bond style detective are just the beginning as you’ll soon find yourself deep into the dark world of a murder mystery that tests the skills of the local cops.
A great storyline, plot and characters with intriguing, well thought out and diverse personalities drives the “The Tattoo Murder.” Det. John Potenza is an absolute dream who doesn't suffer fools gladly and doesn't always play by the rules, but justice is paramount.
An intriguing introduction to the swiftly moving plot, sucks the reader in with highs and lows and lots of heart stopping moments. I highly recommend you envelop yourself in what I hope is the first in a series featuring the multifaceted Det. Potenza.”
Stuart Graham, retired police officer
CHAPTER 1
Beach at the end of Seaward Drive
Ventura, California
Thursday morning
March 23, 2012
7:15 a.m.
The bruised, battered and bloated body of a big man lay nestled up against the jagged rocks which formed the breakers along the central California coastline. The officers of the Ventura Police Department don’t usually get to see the bodies of victims pushed upon the shore by the powerful waves this far from Surfer’s Point. These types of crimes are usually reserved for their counterparts in the big cities of Los Angeles and San Diego. It’s not that Ventura doesn’t have crime; it does. Bodies washing up on shore, especially those battered as this one was, are highly unusual cases.
“Any idea who the stiff is?” The policeman asked the half-dressed man who had come out of his beach front home to see what all the fuss was about.
“No one I know,” the thirtyish man with the long scraggly hair and tattoos replied. “Of course, who could tell? He’s pretty messed up.”
The officer heard another patrol car approach and looked over his shoulder to see the back up units moving into place. A small crowd was beginning to gather. There were several coffee shops at the end of Seaward where it dead ended at the beach, just a couple hundred feet from the breaker. They were open for their usual morning business and police cars do draw crowds. Folks in hooded sweatshirts stretched their necks hoping to get a look at the body uncovered on the beach. Others held their latte laden silver mugs in hand trying to outguess the cops and put their own spin on the story before it even developed.
“Start putting up the tape, block this area off,” the first officer yelled to the others. “He’s got some pretty fancy artwork there, not unlike yours, heh?”
The man looked at his arms covered with tattoos and glanced back down at the body. They were both covered in tats and while it may have given the officer pause for question the man shrugged it off.
“It’s Ventura man, everybody has tats,” the bystander offered back.
The man shrugged it off with a bit of disgust toward the cop and headed back to his house as another officer joined the first.
“That’s some pretty nasty shit, man, how long you think he’s been dead?”
The first officer approached the body and made a preliminary guesstimate not wanting to get too close and certainly not wanting to disturb anything. The only thing the cops could tell at the moment was the body was male, kind of heavy but due to the bloating who knew how much was a really heavy man, and how much was nature taking its course. The seaweed wrapped around his torso didn’t help and there was blood but that could have easily come from the rocks.
“Hard to tell, depends on how long he’s been in the water but that is up to the coroner,” the elder cop explained. “Anyway, this isn’t up to us anymore. Get a call out to Potenza’s cell. It’s his case now.”
The two officers just looked at each other and smiled. The second looked at his watch.
“He’s not gonna like this. It’s pretty early for him.”
“And he’s probably not alone.”
They both laughed as they headed back toward the squad cars. The younger officer put his cell phone to his ear slightly fearing the response he’d get when his party answered.
BEACH HOME OF JEN HOLMES
Ventura
Thursday morning
March 23, 2012
7:25 a.m.
The morning sun shining through the upper pain of glass was just enough to arouse the sleeping detective without the rude sound of the cell phone going off. Cell phones in the morning were never John Potenza’s favorite alarm, especially with a half naked and alluring lady lying beside him. A sheet covered the pair, hiding their cool bodies in the morning air. In today’s world however they were a necessary evil.
“Yea, uh um,” the detective moaned only slightly awake. “Yea, of course I know where it’s at. How long have I lived here?”
“What’s up baby?” The woman asked trying vainly to open her eyes.
“Nothing, I gotta go,” he replied looking at the real alarm clock on her nightstand. It said it was way too early to get up and while he didn’t want to, his job made it a must.
She knew the life of a policeman took its all hours turn on a 24/7 scale and she didn’t put up a fuss over his leaving in the morning after a late-night rumble in the bundle. She instinctively got up, went to the bathroom, and had hot coffee ready to pour from the pot before he had his pants buckled.
“You got time for a quick shower before you go baby?” She asked with a purr in her voice.
He grinned knowing he wasn’t going to be showering alone.
“Well, the stiff is dead and the body ain’t getting any warmer,” Potenza said smiling as he sipped on the mug full of hot black coffee.
He picked her up with one hand under her knees and the other behind her back and headed off to the small bathroom with a tub shower. It
Although she shared his bed the night before she knew it might be some time before they were together again. He had a case load and he HAD other ladies. She was content to be occasional. In actuality, she preferred it. A nice hot shower and a steamy bit of sex in the morning were just what the doctor ordered for her, and it kept the cop on his toes.
It was a short drive to the ocean for the officer who had lived in Ventura nearly all his life. He’d gone to Lincoln Elementary School, Cabrillo Junior High and finally Ventura High School before heading off to the military. Coming back was always a foregone conclusion. His friends, the small-town beach community atmosphere, and the beach. Oh yes, the beach and above all else the surf. For it was surfing he loved and could never get enough of. It was his relaxation away from the job, from home and from the rigors of daily life when it became mundane. The surf was what mattered.
The speedometer in his powder blue Corvette was rapidly rolling to the right. Detective John Potenza pushed the pedal harder. Even at eight o’clock in the morning the handsome cop had the top down to feel the wind through his curly hair. He was on his way to a murder case. A dead body had washed up on shore. Only moments earlier he was steaming his way through a hot shower with his lady of choice. He thought back to when the morning began. He had not anticipated this. A little over an hour earlier he was rudely awakened from a nice post-sex sleep.
Driving down Seaward Avenue toward the beach he could see the red and blue lights flashing from the patrol cars as he approached. They had encircled the cul-de-sac at the end of Seaward where it became a dead end. Local restaurants and a hotel along with some beach condos lined both sides of the area where it opened into pristine sand. The water so pure it could have made the Sierra Club jealous. This was Ventura at its best. The patrol cars indicated it was also Ventura at its worst.
The officers knew what to expect when they saw the powder blue rag top Corvette coming down the street. They knew the blond hair, the sunglasses, the Hawaiian shirt and the cargo pants hid the man they knew as C.B. Potenza, Detective John Potenza to anyone else. Cocky, easy going, smart, a dead on shot and oooh so good with the ladies. They all wanted to be him, but they knew his was a life few would ever know.
“What’s up boys?” Potenza asked with a smile which said, ‘what in the hell am I doing up at this hour?’
“Sorry to get you outta bed so early detective but this guy ain’t smellin’ any better,” the officer replied. “This way.”
The pair walked across the warming sand with the cool breeze coming off the ocean. It was clear with a light fog a few miles out. The fog would roll in a few hours later but for now the sun shone above and it was the bluest of blue skies one could ever imagine. Aside from the bloated dead body they were approaching it was a near perfect day.
As they approached the man-made breaker Potenza couldn’t help but think back to his youth before the breakers when this was a super surfing beach. The breakers were designed to break those waves from carrying on up to the expensive homes which lined the shore if ever there was a powerful storm. He liked remembering back before the expensive homes.
Several other officers and the county coroner were standing on the other side of the concrete, all looking over the large body underneath the white sheet now sitting on the sand.
“Hey John, sorry to get you out here so early, but you look pretty refreshed for eight o’clock,” said Lt. Jim Vincent. “You look very refreshed. Did you have a good start to your morning?”
Vincent often worked with Potenza and the smile in his voice was meant to chide his partner to smile. Smile and maybe reveal a little about the steamy shower scene which he figured had to happen if Potenza arrived before eight o’clock content and with a smile on his face.
Potenza only looked back with a grin of acknowledgment which was all Vincent needed.
“Well anyway, we have a white male, late 30’s early 40’s, dead for a few days but we won’t know for how long until the coroner gets done,” Vincent began to detail what he had so far. “Looks like blunt force trauma to the head and lower back. No wallet, no I.D.”
“A lot of tattoos on the body,” Potenza pointed out pulling back the sheet. “Some fancy artwork too. Anything else?”
The officer looked up and down the dead man’s body. Leather and black clothes showed the man was probably a biker. He might be a bit older than the first impression. With the body so done in by time and water, it was going to be a few days before they could pin the age down. Then the coroner revealed the thing Potenza feared most.
“Yes,” the coroner spoke out. “Very unusual here. Notice the victim’s thumbs are missing?”
“Shit!” Potenza struck a chord as if he’d already solved the case and he didn’t like the answer. “Shit, shit, shit!”
The others in the group, the plain clothes guy, the coroner and the four patrolmen who watched the detective get unusually upset, could only stand by in amazement. He didn’t usually get this pissed off and he usually didn’t turn around and walk away from a crime scene, but he did now. He walked a good 10 yards away before looking out into the sea and turning around to come back.
“John, John, you want to let us in on something here?” Shouted Vincent, stopping the detective dead in his tracks. He quickly stopped as Vincent approached. In his tantrum he had not realized how far he had wandered off.
“Yeah, Stingrays!”
“Stingrays? What about them?” One of the officers asked thinking of the fish which occasionally patrolled the waters from Ventura to Santa Barbara to Santa Inez Island.
The detectives knew what Stingrays meant even if the rookie cop didn’t and none of them liked to think about what was coming next.
Stingrays is the name of one of the most notorious biker gangs of the past 40 years. They hadn’t been any trouble in the last 20 years mainly because they got old, they got wise, and they got sophisticated. They still ran drugs, guns on occasion and anything else they could make fast illegal money with. They still ran small things but mainly stayed out of the way of police and in some cases were upstanding members of the community.
They had their corporate, yes corporate headquarters in Ventura and even had a spokesman. They ran a charity motorcycle ride each year raising money. They even gathered toys for the Navy’s Toys for Children program. They pretty much had become edge of the law kind of guys.
“The thumbs being removed is a sign of a Stingray killing,” said the surfing cop. “It was a sign of humiliation back in the day.”
The patrol officers looked stunned as to why and what it meant. Potenza went on to explain about the importance of a thumb and how it separates humans from primates, from monkeys. And how the humiliation of it all was, without a thumb it made it impossible to do mundane daily things we all must do.
“Specifically, without a thumb it becomes very, very difficult to wipe one’s ass after having dropped a deuce to put it mildly,” the detective pointed out rudely.
The humiliation wasn’t lost on the Stingrays. They not only degraded their victims to animals, but they somehow tied the knot between the lowered human to a pile of feces. It was something some ancient cultures would do in their killing madness, and it was not lost on these bikers. As one man said they didn’t care because to care you had first to be human. Few considered these types of gangs to be human.
“It’s something I haven’t seen in oh, well let’s say a long, long time and something I’d hoped I would never see again,” Potenza said, head down, as he fidgeted with his fingernails. He didn’t bite them, but he reached into his pocket for a clipper and began using the fold out metal to clean them. It was a habit he’d picked up as a kid.
For Potenza the missing thumbs meant something more sinister than just a crime. If the Stingrays were involved, it could mean a revival of gang warfare or it could mean a new wave had come into the gang and was looking for a way to break out and up. The least of which, it might mean they were sending a message. This is what Potenza was hoping for, the least of three evils.
