He looked as tired as the rest of us, with dark circles under his eyes and his hair mussed, as if he’d rubbed his hands through his hair and not smoothed it back down. As if to prove the point, he ran one hand from his nape, over his skull, and with the other hand, pinched his temples between thumb and fingers. When he dropped his hands, he leaned forward and placed his fingertips on the table like ten body stabilizers and focused on Jodi. “I’ve done as much as I can here. We’ll move the body to the morgue where I’ll do a full PM, though not until after I’ve had some sleep. For now—”
“No,” Kemnebi said. “There will be no postmortem, no desecration of the body. Such is not permitted by my people or by our religion.”
“Sorry, sir, but the police department will require a forensic autopsy to pursue a murder investigation. The Department of State isn’t likely to disagree,” Peter said. “And justice can’t be done without one.” When he spoke, I felt the pull of weak magic. Peter Richoux was not a sorcerer, but he had natural gifts of persuasion that were all his own.
“No,” Kemnebi said, implacable. And then I got it. Scientists had been trying to get their hands on a dead vamp to dissect for years. Marilyn Monroe’s body had mysteriously disappeared prior to hers, and no other research-based autopsy had ever been accomplished. The bodies of supernats always disappear before a single scalpel can be applied.
“Sir,” Peter said respectfully, casting his cousin a hooded glance that I wasn’t able to interpret, “I’ll have to leave that decision between you and DS. For now, I’ve collected a few samples from the bod—the scene, and we’ll get preliminary results back in a few days. Final results when all the tox screens are done. This isn’t TV, so we’re talking a couple of weeks. But I can give you a preliminary, presumptive COD now.”
Jodi pushed a rolling desk chair to him with her foot. He sat hard, and the chair cushion sighed, faster and harder than the matching sigh of exhaustion that Peter gave. “Anyone got coffee? I smell coffee.” Jodi signaled; a guy in technician blues went to a coffeepot in the corner and poured a cup of the three-hour-old brew. It smelled scorched and toxic, but it wasn’t my stomach. I watched as the man poured, something in his obsequious demeanor that drew my attention and repelled it at the same time.
Peter spoke and it pulled my eyes back to him. “The victim took two wounds and each appear to be equally mortal.” He lifted a finger. “One. A single bullet wound to the left front chest, midclavicular, ascending between the third and fourth intercostals. May be a nine mil or .385. The trajectory suggests that she was in the air or her attacker was kneeling. The bullet nicked either the ascending aorta or the subclavian artery. I won’t know until or if I get to open her up,” he glanced at Kemmy and back to Jodi.
“Though there should be an exit wound, there isn’t.” He took a sip of coffee, nodded gratefully to the man who brought the cup. “And so we should be able to get the bullet for comparison.” He lifted a second finger. “Two. Triple parallel wounds—maybe a blade, maybe a claw, severed her carotid arteries, external jugulars, her trachea, and esophagus, delivered from left to right, the killing strike likely delivered with the attacker behind her, though I may change that when I get a better look. It’s also possible that she was on her hands and knees and the attacker was over her.”
I instantly pictured a shape-changer trying to change forms, as if after a nearly mortal wound. Safia, in my imagination, had been shot and was bent over, kneeling on the floor as she tried to force a change to save her life. Kemnebi closed his eyes, his dark face ashen. His breath was slow, uneven; he shouldn’t have to hear this, but I could think of no way to exclude him.
“Barring anything on further analysis,” Peter said, “COD is likely to be from exsanguination from the throat wound. She probably bled out in a matter of seconds. Prior to that, she fought an attacker and displays several premortem defensive wounds and abrasions. Postmortem, she was mauled in what looks like an animal attack, similar to a scavenger. But I’ll have to verify all this back at the morgue. Again assuming I get the chance,” he said. I thought of Katie and the fresh blood that had fallen on her chest. Crap. Katie ate dead meat. Would that make her nutso longer?
“I’ve collected physical evidence, including fibers, dust, hair, and saliva from her postmortem attacker, and particulate matter, all of which already went back to HQ. I figure the DS techs, if they bring any, will want some sent to Quantico, so I collected a matching set for them, everything in duplicate, where possible. Jodi, I know that the crime-scene techs will take a lot longer at the scene. When they’re done, I’d like the rugs from the area around the victim.”
Jodi drummed her fingers on the table. “I’ll see they’re sent to you once CSI has a chance to go over them. And we’ll keep the room sealed until further notice. Thanks, Peter.”
The coroner stood and left the room, his empty coffee cup on the table. I had a feeling the caffeine wouldn’t keep him awake once he got home. A CSI tech poked her head in the room and located Jodi, a big grin on her face. “We found a shell casing in the office. It might be a match for that other case we’ve been working on.” The two women held gazes and my radar perked up. I didn’t know about another case, but if it intersected with this one, I wanted to know. “And Detective? We found another way into and out of the office. A doorway hidden behind an armoire. It has an antiquated locking system—lever and bolt—and there’s blood on it.”
Jodi spun her chair to Leo and leaned forward, forearms on her knees, her head jutted forward and her expression totally focused. If she’d been a wolf, she would have been hunting. “Mr. Pellissier, you didn’t think it relevant to mention that there’s another exit from the room where a murder took place?”