The tattoo/fang and claws parlor was located on the fringe of a lower middle-class commercial district in downtown Fresno. It was a ramshackle storefront, with an old dentist’s chair prominently displayed in the window. In the chair was a girl who couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen. She sat with her skinny, pimpled neck bowed toward her lap, wincing with each needle puncture.  On a tall stool beside her sat a young guy with a bright blue and yellow bandanna wrapped tightly around his head. He was applying the tattoo. He reached for a bottle of ink. The array of tattoo inks beside him reminded me of the spin art booth at a school fair.  I watched from the street for the next few minutes. I couldn’t help thinking about the role of physical pain in making tattoos, but also in the murders so far.
I knew the basic tattoo process and watched as the resident artist adjusted a gooseneck lamp toward the nape of the girl’s neck. He used two foot-operated tattoo machines: one for outlining, the other for shading and coloring. The round shader between the machines held fourteen different needles. The more needles, the more colorful the flash.
A middle-aged man with a crew cut was passing by on the street, and paused just long enough to mutter, ‘That’s nuts, and so are you for watching.’
Everybody’s a critic these days. I finally went inside and saw the result of the tattoo master’s art: a small Celtic symbol, green and gold. I asked him where I could get fangs and claws. He moved his
head, his chin actually, to indicate a hallway to his left. Never said a word.
I walked past display cases: tongue and navel studs, including glow-in-the-dark studs; massive knuckle rings; sunglasses, pipes, beaded thingees; a poster for two popular claws - Ogre and Faust.  You’re getting warmer, I thought as I entered the hallway, and then met the fang master face to face.
He was expecting me, and he started talking as soon as I entered his small shop.
‘You’ve finally arrived, pilgrim. You know, when you go to the most interesting, and most dangerous, vampire clubs, the ones in LA, New York, New Orleans, Houston, you see fangs everywhere. It’s the scene, and what a scene, my man. Goth, Edwardian, Victorian, bondage apparel, anything goes. I was one of the first to custom-make fangs out here. Started in Laguna Beach, worked my way north. And now, here I am, the Fresno Kid.’
As he spoke, I became aware of his teeth, elongated molars. Those teeth looked as if they could inflict severe damage.  His name was John Barreiro, and he was short, painfully thin, and dressed mostly in black, much like Peter Westin. He was probably the most sinister-looking person I had ever met.
‘You know why I’m here - the Golden Gate Park murders,’I said to the fangmaker.<............