Like a UFO hunting down the last few survivors, the cuttlefish drones through the wasteland of its aquarium. It’s got on red and blue 3-D glasses. It watches 3-D shrimp that aren’t really there. And when it goes for one with its tentacles, all it ever finds is disappointment.
What I’m seeing here is a little experiment cooked up by Trevor Wardell, a sensory neuroscientist at the University of Minnesota. My editor sent me to meet with Trevor so I could document what him and his fellow coneheads have been getting up to since being cleared as harmless by The New York Times. My editor had a hunch. For in the Land of 10,000 Lakes, some things simply go unnoticed.
“What do you think?” Trevor asks as I get my face closer to the glass. “This one’s name is Marcus. He’s a bit of a cross-dresser.”
“How can you tell?” The color of the cuttlefish flashes in patterns of yellow and white and purple and black. Its skin texture changes too. The fins that go around its body start to look like a skirt.
“Marcus likes to imitate females, so they want to mate with him.”
The skin keeps changing shapes, fluttering. “How does that work?” I ask, mesmerized.
“It’s complicated.” Trevor abruptly takes a buzzing phone from his pocket and glances at the screen. He frowns, then says, “I have to go handle something quickly. Why don’t you and Marcus get more acquainted, and when I come back, I’ll tell you exactly what it is we are researching here.”
I don’t turn to see where he goes off to. I can’t take my eyes off Marcus and the light show he has become. As I get closer and closer to the aquarium, the rings of blue and iridescent pink flash over the body like it’s moving through a tunnel. Then, the eyes snap towards me. Marcus is looking right at me.
“We don’t have much time,” he says. His voice sounds a lot like Waylon Jennings.
“What do you mean?” I ask. I feel a little woozy.
“I know who the Zodiac Killer is.”
The colors flashing on the skin start to bleed out and take up my entire field of vision. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. I see Brooklyn. I see high-rise buildings shooting up from the earth. Under them, piles of bodies. Green gas emitted from these rotting corpses drifts through the HVAC ducts, putting everyone inside the buildings under a spell. They don’t notice a thing. They don’t notice the guy with the huge knife walking around casually, cutting their heads off.
“Just what the hell are you showing me, Marcus?”
“That is not my name!” the cuttlefish snaps. “He calls me that to annoy me. A man like him would never understand the art of drag. My name is Tina. And what I’m showing you is the future, if we don’t stop this.”
“Stop what?”
“This experiment. The Zodiac Killer has evaded police and everyone else his entire life. But he’s getting very old now; he’s about to die. A killer never wants to stop killing though. So, he’s come up with this experiment.” Tina sits back—in a way—she crosses her tentacles and adjusts the fin skirts so they lay flat over the tentacles. “Cuttlefish are powerful beings. Because of the shapes of our eyes, we have the ability to literally see death. That is our power. The Zodiac Killer thinks that if he can understand how our eyes work, or maybe just control us, he will be able to see death and avoid it completely.”
I shake my head.
“I know,” Tina says putting a calming motherly affect on her voice. “Trust me, I know—it doesn’t make any goddamn sense. The guy is fucking crazy. But we don’t have time. Now let me quickly show you what I know for certain can identify him. I would just tell you his name, but he changes it so often. And I can’t show you his face because sometimes he wears masks.”
I run my slowly fingers through my hair. “Isn’t it Trevor? The head of research? That would make the most sense, right?”
“Just watch. Watch carefully. This is the information my sisters passed to me after I showed them I was one of them, and not another cuttlefish dick.” Tina’s body starts to change color and texture again.
I see Brooklyn once more. I see an empty lot. There are protesters there. It’s 931 Carroll Street. Men in suits wearing construction hats are safely behind a chain-link fence, standing on the lot. They are discussing plans for a new building. A high-rise. One of these developer men looks so normal. He points to a page on the blueprints that outline the foundation. The concrete part that could be poured to cover up anything. On his left pointer finger, there is a little tattoo. It is the symbol of Zodiac Killer. I start to see the future again, what happens if this developer is allowed to build his building of death. The green gas that will hypnotize everyone inside and turn them into dolls for his pleasure. I see more and more high-rises growing. Handshakes with politicians that have gold teeth. The Zodiac Killer is a developer that knows Brooklyn is addicted to high-rises. He knows it doesn’t care how it gets them, or who delivers. It will take buildings of blood or bone or displacement. I see hundreds of flesh and tendon buildings rising and—”
All of the sudden, Trevor is back and his hand is on my shoulder. “Is everything is alright?” he asks. “You’ve been staring at the tank for quite a long time.”
I look up at his hand slowly. Up the fingernail, the knuckle—and then I see it.
