Paint It Black by P.J. Parrish

Old?”
    Vince shrugged. “Hard to say. There wasn’t much, but it could have washed off. You want me to send it out?”
    Wainwright nodded, lost in thought. Louis was looking again at the corpse. If there was black paint on the mutilated, mottled body he sure couldn’t see it.
    â€œDid Tatum have paint on him?” Louis asked.
    Vince’s blue eyes met his. “Not a trace.”
    â€œYou’re sure?” Wainwright asked.
    â€œOf course I’m sure. After I found the paint on this one, I went back and checked. No paint on Tatum.”
    Wainwright shook his head. “Damn.”
    Vince snapped off his gloves. “Well, I’m done here. You guys wanna go for coffee and bagels?”
    â€œThat’s it?” Louis asked.
    â€œOh, no,” Vince said, taking off his scrub shirt. He was wearing a gaudy Hawaiian shirt beneath. “Octavius runs the gut.”
    They followed Vince Carissimi out into the hall. The large black man was still there, reading a paperback copy of Edith Hamilton’s The Greek Way .
    â€œHe’s all yours, Octo,” Vince said. “Don’t forget to tie off the subclavian. I don’t want to get a call from some pissed-off mortuary jockey in Ohio.”
    The man grunted and went into the autopsy room. Vince saw Louis watching him.
    â€œOctavius is the diener,” Vince explained.
    â€œWhat’s a diener?” Louis asked.
    â€œIt’s a German word that means servant, but he’s really an assistant. Octo’s been here forever. Sometimes I think he knows more about carving than I do. Experto crede . . . trust one who has experience.” Vince turned to Wainwright. “So, breakfast or lunch?”
    â€œAlready ate, thanks,” Wainwright said. “You go if you want, Kincaid.”
    Louis shook his head.
    Vince looked disappointed. “Well, next time you make it over to the mainland, my treat.” He held out a hand to Louis. “Good to meet you.” The ME disappeared, trailing Hendrix after him.
    â€œStrange guy,” Louis said.
    â€œVince knows his stuff,” Wainwright said. “Likes to try to impress you though, with the Latin shit.”
    Louis looked up at the sign above the door. “ Mortui vivos docent ,” he read.
    â€œ ‘The dead teach the living,’ ” Wainwright said. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
    They walked out into the bright sunshine toward the parking lot. It was about seventy-five and the breeze had a briny tang even though they were miles from any water. Louis pulled the air deep into his lungs, trying to clear his head of the smells from inside. He watched a small airplane lift off from nearby Page Field and hover like a balsa glider until it disappeared into the clouds.
    â€œYou need a ride?” Wainwright asked.
    â€œNo, thanks. I borrowed Sam Dodie’s car,” Louis said.
    â€œNice folks, the Dodies,” Wainwright said. “I met ’em at a Rotary party.”
    â€œYeah,” Louis said with a slight smile. “I’ve been staying with them.”
    â€œHow’s your ribs, by the way?”
    â€œI’m okay.”
    â€œI should have warned you about Levon,” Wainwright said. “He’s got a history of drug abuse. From the looks of it, I’d guess he was on something yesterday. Maybe PCP. Like I said, you’re lucky he didn’t kill you.”
    Louis slipped on his sunglasses. “You’re still convinced he killed Tatum?”
    Wainwright nodded. “Like I said, he’s got a history.”
    â€œHave you known Levon to ever carry a knife?”
    â€œHe had a switchblade on him last time we arrested him.”
    â€œBut these wounds aren’t from a switchblade.”
    â€œHe could’ve used a different one.”
    â€œBut why Anthony Quick? Levon has no motive for that.”
    Wainwright hesitated. “Like I said, Levon has a history. He’s