by Alex P. Berg
I received a bunch of nods in response. Part of me wanted to gather everyone into a huddle and clap as we dispersed, but I felt that would’ve been a little disrespectful to the dead.
35
The day’s light faded rapidly as we approached the precinct, and whatever god controlled the weather apparently decided we mortals deserved another dose. Wispy strands of mist crept lower and lower through the sky, befriending gargoyles and working their way into the gutters of the taller buildings, and the morning chill which had been banished returned with a vengeance. If not for the fog, I suspected we might suffer the first truly cold night of the season.
I parted ways with Shay at the front of the station. Though we’d found some additional clues on our survey of the Church of the Holy Oblivion—namely that someone had forced open the back door en route to Vo’s office—we hadn’t uncovered anything groundbreaking that exposed the innards of the case for all to see. While she took on the unenviable task of interviewing our sassy, oversexed pixie friend, Meriwether, on anything he might’ve overlooked, I helped move Lanky’s and Vo’s bodies to the morgue.
Luckily, Cairny hadn’t yet vanished. I found her sitting at a desk at the far end of the examination room, filling out forms.
She looked up as I and the herd of bluecoats under my wing entered, all of us stamping our feet and depositing debris over the clean floor.
She stood and shook her head. “Oh, no.”
“Hey, don’t give me that,” I said as I crossed the room to meet her. “You signed on for this. Don’t act frustrated because we brought in more work for you right around closing time.”
“I was more concerned about the fact that people keep dying,” said Cairny.
“Oh,” I said. “Well, on the bright side, one of them isn’t new. We found Lanky, our corpse from yesterday morning.”
The beat cops deposited Lanky and Vo onto a pair of adjacent exam tables, removing them from the heavy, black leather bags we used to transport them as they did so.
Phillips lingered among the bluecoat crew. As he left, I called out to him. “Phillips! Don’t forget to record the drop off on the clipboard by the door.”
The young guy shot me a familiar hand sign—his index finger and thumb pressed together into a circle and the rest of the fingers splayed out. It was either the universal sign for ‘You got it’ or a crude representation of a sphincter. I hoped he meant it as the former.
I clapped my hands and rubbed them together as I approached Vo’s body. “Alright, Cairny. Let’s do this.”
“Let’s?” she said.
“You know what I mean,” I said. “I need answers, and the sooner I get them the better. So…chop-chop.”
Cairny glided to a brushed steel cabinet on the side of the room, drawing open one of the drawers and extracting a pair of delicate white gloves. She slid them onto her hands before joining me.
“First of all, Daggers,” she said, “and don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m getting rather sick of seeing your face in my morgue. Don’t you have other avenues to pursue?”
“Do you really want me to answer that?” I asked.
Cairny proceeded as if I hadn’t spoken. “And second of all, you know it takes me time to perform my examinations. There’s no way I’ll be able to give you a report on both of the bodies before I head home for the evening. I’d need to put in serious overtime hours to finish one of them.”
“I know,” I said. “Just because I put in long hours doesn’t mean I expect everyone else to make the same sacrifice.”
Cairny peered at me with a narrowed eye and a raised brow. “That’s a joke, right?”
“More of a white lie,” I said. “I prefer to seed the work environment with rumors of my herculean efforts and productivity. Who knows? Maybe word of it will reach the Captain’s ears and he’ll buck the trend of handing me single digit salary increases at year’s end. The point is, I don’t expect you to stay here all night carving up bodies in the name of justice—although, let’s be honest, you’d probably enjoy it. I just need a few hints. Some clues to help me piece this thing together. You can do that right? Should be a breeze for someone as sophisticated and experienced as you.”
Cairny raised her other eyebrow. “So, since lying didn’t work, you’re trying flattery?”
She’d picked up on it. Apparently, dating Quinto had improved her social skills. “Hey, whatever works, right?”
“What do you need, Daggers?” she asked.
“Alright. First. This guy. His name’s Cornelius Vo.” I pointed at him. “We think he was strangled. Can you confirm?”
Cairny pressed a hand to Vo’s chin, tilting his head to the side so she could better gaze upon his neck. “I’d say choked, but yes. Whether or not it killed him is another matter.”
“Choked?” I asked. “Is there a difference?”
“From a semantic perspective, no,” said Cairny, still looking at the bruising. “But to me, strangulation implies the use of a cord or wire or other object, whereas choking is most often performed with the hands, as was clearly the case here.”
“I suppose that makes sense,” I said. “So what can you tell me about it?”
“Whoever strangled him had large, strong hands.”
“Come on,” I said. “Don’t be snide.”
“I’m not,” said Cairny. “Daggers, you seem to think I’m a miracle worker, but that’s not how I operate. Are you even familiar with the scientific method?”
Not wanting to be lectured, I ignored her and plowed forth. “Do you think you could pull prints off his neck?”
Cairny scrunched her lips. “Doubtful, but I can try. Body heat, moisture, and excreted oils all tend to deteriorate the quality of a fingerprint, making it exceptionally hard to pull one from skin. Your only saving grace may be the age of the print. I’m guessing this man didn’t die more than, what…a couple hours ago?”
“Something like that,” I said.
“Right. So with luck, I might get something.” Cairny cleared her throat. “Assuming, of course, that I get some peace and quiet in which to work.”
“Hey, I can take a hint,” I said. “Just answer me one quick question about Lanky before I go.”
I moved over to the exam table on which the tall guy lay and rummaged underneath it for the evidence bags I’d seen the bluecoats deposit. I found the one I wanted and slid the contents out on the table beside Lanky’s corpse.
“This is a letter opener we found at the scene,” I said. “It looks as if it was used to stab Lanky’s corpse at least two dozen times.”
Cairny eyed it as she stepped to the side of the table. “And?”
“Well, can you confirm the wounds were inflicted by this letter opener? And that they’re post mortem?” I don’t even know why I added that last part. I hadn’t peeked under Lanky clothes yesterday, but I think I would’ve noticed the holes in his shirt.
Cairny took a glance under Lanky’s vestments. “Yes. Due to blood coagulation, the wounds are clearly post mortem.”
Cairny looked at me as if that answered everything—which, to be fair, it did. At least what I’d specifically asked.
I stared back. “So…why would anyone stab a corpse? Is there such a thing as necrosadism, where people get pleasure out of defacing the dead?”
Cairny tilted her head and stared at me. “Daggers, this is the part where I tell you to go do your job and leave me alone to do mine.”
I snorted. “Fine. But no screwing around with Quinto tonight. I want full reports on these two by tomorrow morning, because if we don’t solve this thing soon, I think we’re all going to get a crash course in sadism thanks to the Captain.”
Cairny didn’t seem moved by my appeal, probably because she was the precinct’s only coroner and the Captain never applied the coals to her feet. Nonetheless, I knew she’d have the reports for me on time, for inscrutable reasons. Professional pride or some other nonsense, probably.
I made myself scarce and le
t her get to work.
36
As I reached the top of the stairwell, I spotted Shay back at her desk, sipping on a cup of tea. I headed in her direction, but a shadow flitted across my field of vision, followed closely by a snap like that of a snare drum. I turned my head toward the lounge room, where I caught the aftermath of Meriwether ricocheting off the glass. He seemed not to notice, as he kept buzzing around the room pell-mell in wide circles.
I kept my eyes on the pixie as I settled into my desk chair. “What in the world’s gotten into him?”
Shay shrugged sheepishly. “He, uh…found the coffee.”
“Don’t tell me he’s never had any before?” I said.
“Apparently, pixies brew it differently. Like, without the beans.”
“I can see why.”
I shifted my gaze to Shay as she took another sip of her leaf juice. The steam drifted lazily into the folds of her scarf, which she’d neglected to remove following her arrival at the precinct.
I let my eyes linger on her for a moment as I wondered what to do. We hadn’t had a moment alone since the interrogation room incident, and I felt as if I should say something. Apologize, perhaps, but for what exactly? Or should I try to convince her of my worth, as a friend, as a partner, as something more? My stomach clenched, paralyzed by my indecision.
I took the easy route out and skirted the problem altogether. “So…did you get anything useful out of Meri before he whacked himself out on caffeine?”
“Surprisingly, yes.” Shay spoke effortlessly, as if she had no inkling of my inner struggle. Then again, she probably didn’t. Why would she? “Once I got past his perfunctory come-ons, I found him reasonably agreeable. And boy, does he like to talk. I get the feeling he was acting tough in front of you and Quinto, because after I got him alone, he really opened up about Vo. I think he’s pretty bent out of shape about his death.”
“Did you ask him about Vo?” I asked.
Shay smirked and lifted an eyebrow at me.
“Let me rephrase that,” I said. “Surely you asked him about Vo. What did he have to say?”
“Well, he said he was very quiet. Very reserved. A kind person, and staunchly devout.”
“And what does that entail in their religion?” I asked.
“We didn’t go into too many details—thankfully,” said Steele, “but I got the impression their theology centers mostly around reason, logic, and a sense of fatalism. The idea that life is final and solitary and whatever we do during our time on this earth is the grand sum of our accomplishments.”
I snorted. “That doesn’t sound like much of a religion. Rather, it sounds like the exact opposite. I think most of us would call that life and death.”
“Well, you can go talk to Meriwether if you want,” said Shay, “but I gathered what distinguishes their religion from atheism is they feel there’s a driving force that acts to nullify existence, and it can’t be avoided. That’s the Holy Oblivion.”
“I’ll pass on the one-on-one pixie time, thanks,” I said as I watched him continue to zip around the lounge room ceiling. “What else did you get out of him, though? Did he say if Vo had any odd habits, or if he was up to his gills in misdeeds? Maybe he hung around in bad circles?”
“Not really,” said Shay. “According to Meriwether, Vo didn’t spend almost any time away from the church, and was practically a recluse. At least, he was following the passing of his wife.”
“I could imagine that would be pretty rough for someone who espouses fatalism as a religion,” I said. “When did she die?”
“About a year ago.”
“And how long has Meri been living at the church rent free?”
“I think about two years, give or take a few months,” said Steele.
Another shadow crossed over me, but unless our coffee-addled pixie friend had grown about six feet and added three hundred pounds to his frame, it wasn’t him. I looked up to find Quinto standing nearby, a chair in one hand and a couple folders in the other.
“Hey, bud,” I said. “Did you have a fruitful trip?”
“You could say that.” He parked his chair at the intersection of Shay’s and my desks and sat. “I heard you mention Vo’s wife. According to the documents I picked up at Public Records, her name was Tabitha Vo.”
“Hold on,” I said. “You already read through that stuff?”
“I took a rickshaw back here so that I could, yes,” said Quinto.
“You’re married to this job, you know that?” I said.
“Don’t act like you’re not curious about what’s in here,” he said. “And also…shut up. I have important information to share.”
I ran my fingers across my lips and flicked the invisible key into the air.
“As I was trying to say, “ said Quinto, “Vo’s wife Tabitha, who he married roughly three years ago, did die recently. But not about a year ago. She died exactly one year ago. To the day.”
“What?” I said. “Let me see that.”
Quinto passed me her death certificate. I scanned my eyes to the appropriate box, which listed today’s date one year prior. Then I found the cause of death.
My eyes widened. “Hold on. She committed suicide?”
“That’s what it says,” said Quinto.
“Hand that my way,” said Steele, as if my and Quinto’s two sets of eyes couldn’t be trusted.
I obliged her as I turned back to Quinto. “What else did you uncover?”
“That’s the only juicy bit,” said the big guy. “Apparently, Vo lived at the church. Didn’t pay taxes, but that’s some sort of religious loophole, I think. Other than that, nothing popped out at me. No mental illness or anything like that.”
Shay put the death certificate down. “So, let me get this straight. Someone kills Vo on the one year anniversary of his wife’s suicide? I find that one hell of a coincidence.”
“No kidding,” I said. “And what a way to go, too. Maybe the Holy Oblivion does exist, and it has its sights set on its most fervent followers.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Steele.
My old, grey-skinned detective friend sat there, tapping his enormous fingers against his chin.
“What’s on your mind, Quinto?” I asked.
He flicked his hand. “I don’t know. It’s just that, ever since I read through these files on the rickshaw ride back here, I’ve had this nagging feeling. Like I’ve heard that name before.”
“Who?” I asked. “Tabitha Vo?”
“Yeah,” he said.
I leaned back in my chair. Now that he mentioned it, the name did sound a mite familiar. Where had I come across it?
Shay eyed me curiously. “What…you, too?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
She smiled. “Maybe the two of you tried to pick her up at a bar.”
“A staunchly devout married woman?” I asked. “Right. Because that’s my type.”
I closed my eyes and tried to focus. At first all I saw was the back of my eyelids, but then my mind gave me some line. I saw a flash—a fraction of a memory. Me, standing in the halls of the precinct, with a cup of coffee in my hands. I was talking to someone. Detective Elmswood.
My eyes snapped open. “Elmswood.”
“What’s that?” said Quinto.
“Elmswood, from upstairs,” I said. “I remember him mentioning her in passing. I think he was investigating her death.”
Shay tapped the certificate in front of her. “Are you saying perhaps her death wasn’t a suicide?”
“Well, clearly he ruled it that way,” I said. “But I’m thinking it’s something we should ask him about.”
37
We stampeded up the stairs to the second floor and descended upon Elmswood’s desk, but as luck would have it, we found it empty. His partner Drake’s desk was similarly unoccupied.
I spotted Boatreng shrugging into his coat and flagged him down. “Boatreng! Hey, hold on.”
He sighed and dumped his satchel into his cha
ir. “What now? You finally locate a witness to one of your murders? Give me an address. Hopefully it’s on my way home.”
I eyed the man’s brown leather bag. Of course he wore a satchel. What else would an artist carry? “No, it’s not that. Have you seen Elmswood?”
“I think he left about ten minutes ago,” he said. “Why?”
I snapped my fingers. “Dang.”
“Let’s try the records room,” said Quinto. “We can find his old case file there.”
We bid speedy adieus to Boatreng and trampled our way back down the stairs, past the end of the pit, and into the station’s bowels. After fighting our way through walls of cobwebs and skirting past the desiccated remains of long-forgotten interns, we arrived at a locked gate. To the side of it stood a narrow kiosk, and inside that sat an overweight old man with a drooping white moustache that gave him the appearance of a walrus.
I skidded to a halt in front of his stall. “Goodman. Boy am I glad you’re still here.”
In some ways, I envied him. His gout and subsequent weight gain had made it impossible for him to continue his service as a beat cop, but he’d served the department so well for twenty odd years that they’d stuck him down here guarding the records room, where he could read in peace to his heart’s content, assuming the oil in his lantern didn’t run dry. Like me, he enjoyed mystery novels, and thanks to the distinct freeness of the public library system, he churned through about one a day. If only my duties allowed me the same luxury…
Then again, he was a fat sixty-some-year-old man with no friends to speak of and a leg that was twice its normal size, so I didn’t envy him that much.
He lifted his head from a book, one entitled The Hurly Boys: Stuck on Witch’s Hill. I was surprised he could read in his lantern’s flickering light. “Still here? Where else would I be? Dead?”
“I don’t think that poorly of you, Goodman,” I said. “I meant it’s getting late. We thought you might’ve already headed home.”
The fat old man glanced at his watch. “Come to think of it, it has been three thirty-five for some time now.” He jiggled his wrist, sending the loose flesh on his underarm bouncing along for the ride. “Damn it. Must’ve forgotten to wind the thing.”