The Inquisitor glanced around the alleyway, though it was still dark. The meager light from the lanterns did little to illuminate the long alley. He stared into the darkness past Veronica’s body as another lance of pain rolled across his forehead.
Detective Sugden and Luthor merely watched, unsure if their assistance was wanted, much less needed. Simon stared down the alleyway for some time as though entranced.
“Should we do something?” Sugden quietly asked, so as not to disturb the Inquisitor.
“What, pray tell, would you have us do?” Luthor replied curtly, his only concern for his friend who was doing all he could to contain the obvious devastation he was feeling. “Is there something you can think of that a Royal Inquisitor could not?”
The detective frowned sharply at Luthor and turned away, walking brusquely back toward the awaiting police cars. The apothecary glanced over his shoulder, feeling guilty for his treatment of the detective. He hadn’t intended to be so harsh, but he could equally feel the tension of Veronica’s death. Luthor didn’t want to be in the alley, standing over the corpse of Simon’s fiancée. Truthfully, he didn’t even want to take the Inquisitor home. Mattie had been taken to the hospital, having been severely beaten. Despite knowing that her werewolf metabolism would heal her far quicker than a normal human, he couldn’t help but feel great concern for her well-being. Not only was she injured, but healing too quickly might also draw unnecessary attention from the hospital staff. It was best if she was retrieved from the hospital to convalesce at their shared townhouse.
A man stepped up beside Luthor. For a moment, the apothecary merely assumed it was Detective Sugden, returned from his brooding. As he turned, however, he realized the man was far taller and skinnier than the robust detective was. Doctor Casan’s gaze was locked ahead, watching Simon at work.
“Forgive me for interrupting your thoughts,” Casan said. “You seemed thoroughly lost in them.”
Luthor shook his head. “There’s nothing to forgive. Better I don’t spend too much time alone with my thoughts right now.”
Casan watched Simon, who remained transfixed in place. “Detective Sugden stopped me as I entered and warned me that you knew the victim personally?”
“In more than a passing fancy,” Luthor replied. “She and Inquisitor Whitlock were recently betrothed.”
Casan glanced around Simon, who was blocking the victim from sight. The doctor’s mouth opened slightly as his brow furrowed. He quickly leaned back to Luthor’s side. “That’s Miss Dawn?”
Luthor nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
“You have my condolences; you both do.”
The apothecary nodded but had nothing else to say. He removed his bowler and ran a hand through his sweaty hair. The night might be cool, but the entire situation left him hot and bothered.
“What is he doing?” the doctor asked, gesturing toward Simon. The Inquisitor had slid forward, oblivious to the discomfort as his knees scraped across the cobblestone pavers. Simon appeared to be examining the ground near Veronica’s head.
“He’s conducting an investigation,” Luthor replied matter-of-factly.
Casan stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Is that wise, considering his personal involvement?”
Luthor gestured toward the Inquisitor. “You’re more than welcome to try to dissuade him.”
“Luthor,” Simon said, his voice growing progressively more unsteady. “I need your assistance.”
The apothecary hurried to his mentor’s side. “What is it, sir? Have you found something?”
Simon shook his head. “I haven’t, and I fear my time of rationality is dwindling rapidly. Miss Hawke was severely beaten during the altercation. No normal man could have committed such a crime, which leads me to believe that the owner of that oversized footprint was involved in this crime as well. Search the alleyway and surrounding streets to the best of your ability. Take samples of anything you may find, no matter how seemingly insignificant.”
“And you, sir? What would you like to do? I can escort you home, if you’d like.”
“No,” Simon adamantly replied. “No, I will accompany the coroner back to the police station and assist in the autopsy. If this is the same killer, the proof may still very well be on her… remains.”
Luthor appeared ready to argue, but Simon glanced past him toward Doctor Casan. “Doctor, if you’re ready, I believe we can now remove the body.”
“Of course,” Casan replied. The doctor gestured toward a pair of constables, who hurried forward with a gurney.
“Find whatever you can and then meet us at the precinct,” Simon said before following the sheet-covered body toward the awaiting horse-drawn wagon.
The apothecary watched Simon climb into the back and the door swing closed behind him. He knew what had been requested, but his friend temporarily stupefied Luthor. His fiancée had just been slain and another good friend badly beaten. A normal man would have collapsed to his knees and wept like a child and, as far as Luthor was concerned, rightfully so. No one would have thought less of Simon had he cried, the tears justified after so traumatic a loss. Yet Simon didn’t cry. He spoke only haltingly at times, as though the human emotions existed within him but were so foreign he didn’t know how to cope with their swelling to the surface. The apothecary had thought Simon an automaton before, an unfeeling, uncaring mechanical creation no more human than an automobile, but tonight made him think his simple jest held far more truth than Luthor would have liked.
Detective Sugden noticed Luthor standing at the mouth of the alleyway and hurried over. “Forgive me, Mister Strong, I didn’t realize you were still here.”
Luthor’s gaze followed the retreating coroner’s wagon for a moment longer before he replied. “We’re all a bit surprised by my continued presence here.”
“Then you’ll completely understand when I tell you that your presence isn’t needed?” Sugden asked, though it was hardly a question.
Luthor frowned. “I made a promise—”
“You made a promise to a man who had no jurisdiction to investigate this crime in the first place,” Sugden interrupted. “I was ordered by his superiors to deliver case files, not to invite him into my investigation. You, being an underling for the Inquisitor, have even less right to disrupt my crime scene. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must brief the actual crime scene investigators. By the time I return, I assume you’ll be gone?”
Luthor’s frown deepened. He had known since the beginning that Detective Sugden wasn’t a stupid man, but he hadn’t pegged him for being so abrasive. The detective turned away. Luthor sighed and glanced around cautiously, ensuring no prying eyes were looking. The constables had done a remarkable job dispersing the inquisitive crowd. Only a few hangers on were still watching from a distance, though much too far away to see anything as discreet as what Luthor intended. Using just his index finger, Luthor traced a symbol into the air between the two men. It flashed silver for a moment before fading completely, leaving just an afterglow in the apothecary’s vision.
Detective Sugden stopped, only a few paces away from Luthor. The detective shook his head slowly before turning around. “Forgive my rudeness. I don’t know what came over me. I know how personally attached you are to this case and welcome your assistance. Would five minutes be enough time before I bring over the constables?”
“More than enough,” Luthor quietly said, feeling heavily taxed after expending his magic.
As Sugden turned away once more, Luthor’s shoulders sagged. His spell gently nudged Sugden’s thoughts in a more amicable direction, but the effects wouldn’t last long. Within the hour, the detective would be sitting in his office, wondering what possessed him to allow the apothecary to stay. With the fading of the spell would come a bit of resentment, as though the apothecary had made him do something against his will, which in fact he had, though Sugden would never know exactly how. Luthor very much doubted the next meeting between the two of them would go so smoothly.
�
�Excuse me, Detective, but would you have any vials or containers with which I might collect samples?”
The detective retrieved some glass vials along with a pair of tweezers and handkerchiefs that Luthor could employ. He happily handed them to the apothecary, as though sending gifts to a long-lost friend.
As the detective departed once more, Luthor turned toward the alley. Retrieving one of the nearby lanterns, he held it aloft as he walked into the alleyway. He avoided the rivers of blood that were still seeping between the stones, soaking into the dirt and mortar along the narrow path. Like most other alleys in Solomon’s Way, garbage littered the ground; some contained within bags but more often than not just piled freely. He also smelled the unmistakable scent of human waste. It stung his nostrils and forced him to stoop lower as he walked, watching carefully for undeterminable piles of refuse.
He could see nothing worthwhile near the mouth of the alley or even a few feet into the gloom. Simon was right that the large accomplice had to be present at the crime scene. Mattie had been naked when she was recovered, which meant that she had transformed during the fight. No normal man would have withstood the full wrath of a transformed werewolf, especially when caught unaware. Knowing the larger monster had to be present did little to help his investigation. There were no obvious footprints that he could find near where Veronica had been found, even when he pushed aside piles of garbage.
Luthor knew time was short. His five minutes would pass quicker than he’d like. He wasn’t concerned about constables entering the crime scene. He was more concerned about the magical effects he had placed on the detective wearing off sooner rather than later. Sugden had shown himself to be just as strong-willed as Simon at times, which was a precursor to a man shrugging off the effects of the spell quicker than anticipated.
Walking deeper into the alleyway, Luthor continued to search the ground for clues. It felt like a hopeless endeavor, his lantern light bobbing and splashing against the raised stones but revealing nothing. Near the far end, Luthor came across a manhole cover. Steam rose from the small vent holes, a white cloud of putrescence that made the apothecary’s eyes water. He started to turn away when something caught his eye. Beside the cover was a smear of dark brown, nearly black mud. Pressed firmly into the mud was the toe print of an abnormally large shoe.
Smiling excitedly, Luthor crouched and removed a vial. Using a handkerchief, he pushed a pinch of the mud into the glass container. As he withdrew the cloth and placed a stopper into the bottle, Luthor frowned. The handkerchief was nearly black from the mud, but the edges of the stain were marred a dark red, as though mixed with old blood.
Hearing the constables’ footsteps quickly approaching from the far end of the alley, the apothecary stepped out, exiting from the end opposite the crime scene. As the sun began to crest over the tops of the nearby buildings, Luthor hurried toward the police station.
Doctor Casan grasped the top of the sheet covering Veronica’s head, but his hand paused. He glanced toward Simon, who stood a good distance away from the metal slab on which her corpse had been placed, clearly unnerved by the situation.
“You don’t have to be here for this,” Casan offered. “I could just as well complete my report and bring it to you at a later date.”
Simon ran his tongue nervously over his lips but shook his head. He could feel the same beginnings of a headache that had plagued him since the alley. He knew he should be in bed recuperating. By all rights, he wanted to be in bed, sleeping away the wellspring of emotions that roiled through his body and settled in his chest. He wanted nothing more than to go home but being here, being with her during the autopsy, was too important.
“No, Doctor, please proceed.”
Casan stared at the Inquisitor a moment longer before his gaze returned to the sheet. He slowly drew back the cover until Veronica’s face and shoulders were exposed but revealed nothing else, maintaining her feminine decency, even in death. Her body had been stripped of clothing upon their arrival. Simon had wisely chosen to wait beyond the doors of the morgue during the procedure.
Stooping, the doctor felt Veronica’s hair and ran a gloved hand over the skin of her face. Gentle pressure smoothed the wrinkles on her forehead, clear marks that she had been under duress at the time of her death. He glanced cautiously toward Simon time and again, ensuring the Inquisitor wasn’t offended by his handling of her remains. The Inquisitor stroked his chin repeatedly in a nervous gesture but remained silent.
With a deep breath, Casan tilted the corpse’s head from side to side, feeling the initial onsets of rigor mortis and the resistance now evident in her muscles. He stooped even lower until his nose was only an inch from the flesh of her neck, and he could see his breath dancing through her hair.
“It’s here,” the doctor commented, staring intently at a red mark on her neck. “Much like our previous case, there’s a small puncture wound on her neck. It appears to be a low-gauge needle, judging by the diameter and inflammation around the injection site.”
Simon took an unsteady breath. “Is it Curare, as with Gloria?”
Casan straightened and shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll take a blood sample as part of the autopsy, but it’ll be a day or more before we can properly receive the results. Though it won’t be included in my professional report, I would say that Curare is a safe assumption in this case. There are… indications that she was alert during…”
The doctor faltered, unsure of the words to use. The clinical precision with which he normally spoke seemed heartless when discussing the death of Simon’s fiancée.
“I understand all too well,” Simon replied, saving Casan the discomfort.
“Of course.” The doctor turned away from the Inquisitor and retrieved a metal tray, on which surgical instruments had been arranged.
At the sight of the tools, Simon felt anguish piercing his temple, a headache the likes of which he’d never encountered before. Bile rushed into his throat as his stomach churned. He knew what was to come next, being well versed in forensic medicine. He had personally conducted autopsies in the past, but he approached those instances with the same clinical detachment he had maintained in his work as in Inquisitor. Bodies were faceless lumps of flesh, no longer housing the spark of life that made them unique. It was simple to draw a scalpel across their chests in the pursuit of the truth. They didn’t feel the pain; therefore, it meant nothing to Simon to conduct the autopsy.
Staring down at Veronica’s face, however, he knew the same wouldn’t be true this day. Her angelic face was at peace, the doctor having smoothed away the lines of discomfort. Her eyes were closed as though merely asleep. It was easy to forget she wasn’t just sleeping naked on the cold, metal slab. More than anything, Simon wanted to believe she was asleep. He wanted to believe that any moment, through a true miracle from the God she believed in so much, she would open her eyes, her body whole once more.
The scalpel that Doctor Casan lifted from the metal tray was the vessel that would make her death all too real. The second it touched her flesh, drew beads of whatever blood still remained in her exsanguinated body, her death would be real. He’d have to face the realization that the woman he loved, the only woman he’d truly loved, was dead.
His mouth felt parched as he swallowed down the mixture of acid and depression. He wanted a drink. No, he needed a drink.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Casan asked, his scalpel hovering inches over Veronica’s exposed collarbone.
Simon shook his head. “I’m most decidedly not all right. Forgive me, Doctor, I don’t believe I can stay for this. I—”
His words failed and he turned quickly, fighting strongly against the urge to vomit. Once clear of the room, Simon took a deep breath and wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. The cloth came away damp, but Simon maintained his composure as he walked toward the stairs leading to the police station’s main floor.
He met Luthor halfway up the stairwell, the apothecary carrying a glass vial full of an in
determinate viscous muck. Luthor started to give his regards, but Simon ignored him and continued his climb.
Luthor watched his mentor’s hasty departure. He wanted to stop him, to ask if he was feeling well. He couldn’t imagine Simon’s loss or how it might impact the man. The Inquisitor was strong, both physically and emotionally, but the expression on his face as they passed one another spoke of a man on the brink of crumbling.
Rather than follow his friend, Luthor turned toward the basement and finished his walk to the morgue. He opened the doors and entered but immediately regretted the choice not to announce himself. Veronica was lying on the metal slab, the skin of her chest peeled away, exposing the sinew and white ribs beneath. Doctor Casan held a bone saw in his hand, angling it appropriately to crack the sternum.
Casan looked up at Luthor, a bit apologetically as he noted the apothecary’s pale demeanor. “I wish that I could offer to do this at another time, but I’ve already opened the body. Time is of the essence.”
Luthor nodded but found a hundred other interesting items scattered through the morgue at which he could look.
“If it would be better, you could return in two hours or so,” the doctor offered. “I should be done by then.”
“No, no,” Luthor quickly replied. “I have some other things to discuss with you that could occupy my time and, God willing, my attention.”
The doctor smiled. “You seem rather squeamish around the sight of blood. I would have thought you desensitized to the sight, being partnered with a Royal Inquisitor.”
The sound of the metal saw teeth cutting through bone temporarily stole Luthor’s response. He eventually cleared his throat. “Blood doesn’t bother me at all. On the contrary, I’ve seen more than my fair share, often covering Simon. Sometimes the blood even belongs to someone other than the Inquisitor.”
The Golem of Solomon's Way Page 16