Credit: Justin Randall

THE CHINAMAN? OH YEAH, GREAT TATTOO artist, man, sweet work. I mean, look at this one here, see how perfect her skin is? He got her hair just that glossy blue-black, just like the sexy little china doll she should be." The voice is husky and deep, but cheerful. The kind of voice produced by a barrel chest, a lifetime of exposure to atmospheric pollutants, and an appreciation of the absurdities of life.

His language sits oddly in my ear. Though many still speak Archaic English, the accent and cadence have changed much over time, mixed as it is with my language. "Yeah, yeah, and check this one out, 'scuse me lifting my shirt like that. This dragon's my newest addition. Yeah, no kidding, had to lay on my stomach through eight packs of Marlboros. Worth it, though."

The door is as I found it, snapped off its hinges, lying at an angle against the concrete steps that lead upward to the surface. Two steel slabs protrude from square cavities in the wall, heavy doors open. Each holds a long place setting of ashy bones. There are four closed square doors; once white, now blackened. The acrid air is cold and still, inviting only explorers of history, like me.

"Who did the artwork? Hey, sorry, man. The Chinaman isn't in business anymore. Yeah, guess death puts an end to anyone's career, know what I mean?"

On a single metal table laced with holes, a steel box lies open. The machine and delicate ancient documents sit primly where I have placed them. Looking at the faces in the two-dimensional representations, I notice they haven't faded at all in this deep dark that they have occupied for so long.

It doesn't take much guessing to start the machine, though the fine motor skills required to hook the wires of my power pack to it are difficult. The small flat case of narrow black ribbon slots into the machine. Fumbling, pressing this switch and that one produces a voice speaking in the underground dimness.

"Heh, funny thing was, he wasn't even Chinese. Didn't look like it anyway, just a lanky guy with freckles. Like a college kid. I knew he was pretty heavy into tae kwon do, though. Spent his weekends breaking cement blocks in half. Pretty useful if you ever get attacked by cement blocks, you know?" There is a brief, uneven hiss-and-crackle from the noise machine. Accompanied by an echoing click, a lighter, feminine voice fills the room.

"I just saw Big Dog, like, three days ago? Sorry, I never called him by his real name, nobody did. Most people probably thought his folks named him Big Dog. Yeah, sorry, wow. He was sitting up there at the counter. Ordered pie and coffee. Cream, no sugar. He swore he had a sugar high from looking at me."

She giggles. There is a pause. Then her voice picks up its more serious tone once more. "There wasn't anything odd. I mean, he showed everybody that new tattoo he had all over his back. It was good. Real-looking, you know? Like the dragon had its claws stuck in him to hang on instead of being inked on with a needle. He must not have took care of it right because he asked for a band-aid later and I brought him one.

"No, Big Dog wouldn't hurt a woman. I don't know who did cut Doris up like that but it wasn't him. No way. I hope you find him OK; he's a sweetheart. He didn't do it, you'll see." Her voice cuts off and I study what might be her face on the document. The girl looks to be no more than 19 or 20 although I am terrible at estimating age.

Another segment of sound begins. "Recorded Thursday, 28 August 2008: Patient, Ingrid Jordan, white female, complained of an unknown skin condition. The dermis was free of lesions or inflammation but did show subtle dark splotches that blanched with the application of pressure.

"My expectation is that she suffered some trauma that caused deep bruising along her entire body. However, she has neither possible explanation nor complaints of any related aching but rather of a severe burning sensation.

"Prescribed topically applied cortisone cream and administered 800 mg of ibuprofen for pain..." The voice trails off for a moment, replaced by scuffling sounds. "What the...? Wendy, can you get me a band-aid? Surely it can't be that difficult to find a bandage for a small cut in a hospital..."