“Initial cuts in place, my friends. My dernier—assistant—is waiting. If you will? You don’t have to be here, but if it is your desire, it is time to get moving.”
They hurried down to join her. While the room where the autopsy was taking place was sterile, it wasn’t private. Two other autopsies were taking place at the same time; LA County certainly was busy with the care of the dead.
“Sophie told you I did the prints last night?” Doc Priss asked. When Vining and Bryan nodded, she swept a hand through the air over the body and continued, “We are looking at a man who had been in his prime. Fine muscle tone, every organ in his body in great shape. Except, of course, for where the bullet ripped through his gut, where it tore out chunks of liver and lung.”
She clicked a little button on a wire around her neck; the rest of what she had to say would be recorded. “Ripped through his gut” not being a medical term, she had apparently chosen not to record until after she had said the words.
She went on in detail that was fit for the recording, noting colors and temperatures and the weight of the heart and what she believed to be the remnants of a hamburger and fries in his stomach. The contents would be tested later.
“Hamburger,” Vining said, shaking his head.
“Hey,” Manning protested. “This is LA—that could have been one expensive hamburger!”
“Exactly. Expensive hamburger joints have sprung up everywhere. I doubt if we’ll get a real take on where he’d been from some half-digested chopped cow.”
“Barely digested cow,” Doc Priss corrected. “Our John Doe here had a meal not more than an hour and a half or two hours before he was killed.”
Doc Priss went on. She was thorough and clear. In the end, however, not many of the details were helpful.
The man had been in his mid to late thirties. He hadn’t been a drinker, nor had he abused drugs. He had most probably attended a local gym—if not, he had a home gym or played an active sport such as soccer or football.
Bryan didn’t believe the weight of the victim’s brain was going to help them at all. If only they could narrow down a restaurant where he’d had his last meal, they might trace his steps the hours before and up to his death.
And if they were able to find his identity through fingerprints, that would be an amazing step in the right direction.
Bryan waited patiently for Doc Priss to finish.
Once outside with Manning and Vining, he put forward his theory.
“I believe the dead man killed Cara Barton,” he said.
“You mean he was killed by the man who killed Cara Barton,” Vining corrected.
“No, I mean, I believe this guy was a hired killer, and he killed Cara Barton.”
“Why would you think that?” Manning asked, frowning.
“The person in the Blood-bone costume at the convention was about our John Doe’s height and weight, or so I would judge by the video I’ve seen and what I’ve heard. The dead man was in really good shape. I watched the videos. The killer could move and wield a sword well. He was obviously someone who was very fit. I think he somehow failed in what he was supposed to do to, or he then refused to cooperate or went against whoever hired him to do the killing.”
“That’s pretty vague,” Vining said.
“It’s a theory. Nothing but a theory.” Bryan thought about telling them he also believed a man dressed as Blood-bone had killed the man who had previously worn the costume. But Vining didn’t seem at all sure Bryan’s theory was in any way plausible.
He could hardly try to tell him that a ghost claimed to have seen Blood-bone kill the man they had found in Marnie’s pool. He’d need proof, and the only way for that was to get out on the street and canvas as many neighbors as he could.
“So, what is your plan?” Manning asked him.
“I’m going to see if I can find anyone who saw anything,” Bryan said. That was the truth.
“We’ll head back to the station,” Vining said, watching Bryan closely. “I hear we’re going to get official help from the FBI—and it’s something you already know all about,” he added.
“A joint task force is going to be formed,” Manning said, watching him, too. She looked as if she would have said more—or flatly asked him why it would seem he had been involved with the federal government coming in on their investigation, especially when it didn’t appear anyone was crossing state lines or that a serial killer was at work.
There was no reason not to tell them everything—everything that he could tell them. “The director for a special unit was good friends with my folks. I have worked with a few members of their team. They all knew I was coming out here.”
“You must have some pull, then. It’s expensive, sending agents all over the country.”
Bryan thought Vining was a good guy, a policeman through and through, wanting the best outcome. Now the detective was really curious about him.
“Friendship can go a long way,” Bryan said.
“I guess so. Anyway, we’ll call you if we’ve got something. And, of course, we expect the same,” Vining said.
Manning stood silent, watching him. He smiled at her. “I appreciate that,” he said quietly.
“One of your friends is at Marnie’s place now, right?” she said.
He nodded.
She looked at Vining. “Told you he wouldn’t leave her alone. Dog or no dog, alarm or no alarm.” She turned to him again. “So, are you convinced the killer meant to get to Marnie, not Cara Barton?”
“Maybe Cara was the target. But since Cara died, someone has tried to break into Marnie’s place. And then someone was killed in her swimming pool. I can’t just see it all as coincidence.”
“I can’t either,” Manning said.
The detectives headed off.
Standing in front of the morgue, Bryan put through a call to Jackson.
Everything at the duplex was fine. “Do we expect you soon?” Jackson asked him.
“I’m going to be in the neighborhood, but I’ll be out knocking on doors. Maybe I will come by and get George. Walking a dog might be helpful.”
Jackson agreed. “People are less suspicious of a dog walker than they are of a man knocking at their door.”
“Let’s just hope some of the neighbors are out, and they have dogs. Or, at the least, come out for their mail or something,” he said. “I hope to hell someone saw Blood-bone running around.”
“That won’t give us a clue to the guilty party. What about the dead man? Did you get anything off the body?”
“No revelations. He ate a hamburger and fries before he died. Was in great shape. Anything happening there?”
“Miss Davante is lovely.”
“Yeah,” Bryan agreed. “So all is well?”
“It is.”
“See you soon. I’ll be multitasking. We get to find out if an actual living witness saw a Blood-bone, and George gets a nice walk around his new neighborhood.”
*
Marnie had to admit that if you were possibly being stalked by someone intent on homicide, she was being protected by the right people.
Jackson Crow was very professional—he was also down-to-earth, approachable and didn’t mind answering any of her questions. She learned the Krewe had been formed in New Orleans when a congressman’s wife had been pitched over a balcony. Jackson had met his wife—Agent Angela Hawkins—on that first case. The team had grown substantially since that time.
In turn, he asked her about Dark Harbor, about her fellow cast mates and all those related to her work in the past—and what she wanted to do in the future.
“As I understand it, Cara Barton is the first of the dead to speak to you?” he asked.
Marnie stared at him.
“Yes,” she said softly.
“I know it’s scary at first, but I can’t imagine a life without them now. Ironic, I suppose—maybe not. The living have always needed the dead. The dead are our pasts. They are our mutual history as human beings. I think it’s unsettling for some, often downright terrifying, but...” He paused and shrugged. “They help,” he said. “They see what we don’t. Sometimes they want nothing but to move on. Others...others want to stay. They don’t mind that they’re here—such as they are.”