by Alex P. Berg
“Our apologies,” said Shay. “We weren’t trying to disparage your artistic talents. We’re simply following leads. I’m assuming you have other artists who work here though, right? Next time you see them, could you ask if they’ve seen either of the individuals in the sketches?”
Dwayne held up a hand. His fingertips were stained yellow, either from his tattoo work or all the ‘incense’ he’d inhaled. “Hold up. I said I’d never seen the guys. Never tatted something so trivial, either. Doesn’t mean I haven’t seen the tattoo before.”
My eyes widened. “You have?”
“Sure,” he said. “A potential client from a couple weeks ago had one, same place you mentioned. Left forearm. Had a bunch of other tattoos, too. Skull on his upper arm. Knife on the inside of his bicep. Said he had a few others on his chest and back, too, but I didn’t ask to see them. He was looking to get another one on his arm, of a warrior on a hill holding a hammer to the sky. Cool idea, but it needed a little work. I tried to convince him to—”
“Dwayne,” I said. “We’re not interested in the tattoo you gave him.”
“Didn’t give him,” said Dwayne. “He and I couldn’t come to an artistic compromise.”
“Did he have a name?”
“Uh…” The smoke-infused tattoo artist blinked. “Come to think of it, he never mentioned it. I didn’t get a chance to bond with him, you know, seeing as he left without getting anything. Maybe it was for the better. He seemed like a rough dude.”
“What else can you tell us about him?” asked Shay. “Physical attributes. Any names he might’ve mentioned besides his?”
“I don’t remember any, no,” said Dwayne. “But I can tell you what he looked like. He was an ogre. A big one. Probably wouldn’t have even fit in the chair, to be honest. Bald. Scary looking.”
That wasn’t the most helpful of descriptions. Most ogres were big and scary looking. “How well do you remember him? If we sent our artist over, do you think you could work with him to create a reasonable likeness?”
Dwayne snorted again. “Dude. I’m an artist. I have an eye for that sort of thing.”
“As long as you remember,” I said.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
In my experience, the particular type of ‘incense’ he reeked of didn’t help with long-term memory, but I kept that bit of pessimism to myself. Instead, Shay and I thanked the guy for his help and assured him Boatreng would be right over.
10
When we arrived back at the precinct, Shay and I made our way to our desks. They were empty, as they should’ve been, but Rodgers’ and Quinto’s were, too. I acknowledged that fact with a grunt.
Shay noticed. “Hmm?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Figured the guys would be done with Lamont by now.”
“Maybe he had a lead for them.”
I glanced toward the Captain’s office. She was gone, too. I frowned.
Shay gave me a sideways look. “What’s going on?”
“Captain’s gone, too. Damn it, if they found something and didn’t tell me… Do you think Knox ordered us to the tattoo parlors as a ploy? It would be just like to her send us on a wild goose chase to keep us out of harm’s way.”
“Actually, that feels more like a Captain Armstrong move,” said Shay. “Captain Knox has always been straight with us. She wouldn’t lie to cut you out of the action.”
I refused to shelve my frown. “You’re probably right. Doesn’t mean that whatever came up isn’t related to our case, though.”
Shay gave me a once-over. “You sure you’re doing alright?”
“Not this again. I’ve told you, I’m fine. The doctor gave me the a-okay, right?”
“That’s not what I meant,” said Shay. “You’ve been alternating between overly apologetic and terse all morning. You’re worked up. Why?”
I snorted. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“But why, exactly?”
I stepped closer to my partner and lowered my voice. “Do I need to spell it out? Someone tried to kill me. That’s never happened before, not like this. I’ve been attacked, but always in the heat of the moment. Nothing premeditated. And that’s not the only reason I’m on edge. The Captain was right this morning—about the stress of putting others in danger. What if I’m not the only one at risk?”
“We’ve been in far more dangerous situations and come out fine,” said Shay.
“Sure, but prior success does not predict future results,” I said. “Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if we knew what we were up against, but as of now? What if the attack on me last night was the tip of an iceberg?”
“I know you have an active imagination, Daggers,” said Shay. “But don’t let it get the best of you. One step at a time, okay?”
I knew she was right to preach calm, but I still would’ve argued with her if I hadn’t seen Rodgers and Quinto entering through the front door at that instant.
I waited until they muscled their way through the cubicles before giving them a nod. “There you are. We thought you were talking to Lamont.”
“We were,” said Quinto. “About two hours ago.”
“And?”
“And he didn’t have much to tell us, which is why we didn’t spend longer at his desk. You guys get lucky at any of the tattoo shops?”
“Captain filled you in, I guess?”
Quinto nodded.
“We did, as a matter of fact,” said Steele. “No hits on the perps, but one of the artists had seen the tattoo before, also on someone’s forearm. We’re going to send Boatreng there to whip something up. What about you guys? What were you up to?”
“Plan B, according to the Captain,” said Rodgers. “Canvassing the stretch between your apartments with more of Boatreng’s sketches. We didn’t get any leads.”
“Not surprising,” I said. “That’s why it was Plan B. You really didn’t get anything useful from Lamont?”
Quinto and Rodgers shared a look.
“Well…I wouldn’t say we didn’t get anything useful,” said Quinto.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Rodgers sat on the edge of my desk. “Lamont wasn’t familiar with the line and semicircles tattoo, though he acknowledged it’s almost certainly gang-related due to the simple design and uniform placement. He also said he hadn’t heard any rumors of new gang activity. I don’t know how odd that is, but he seemed confident he’d know about any new players in the game. Said the same five or six gangs have been skulking around New Welwic for the past few years and that the last major shakeup was when we busted the remains of the Wyverns and their dragon hatching operation.”
“No offense,” said Steele, “but none of that information seems particularly useful.”
“It isn’t,” Rodgers said. “It’s only the last bit he told us that might be. He prefaced this by saying it was a hunch at best, a gut feeling from spending so much time with his ear to the ground, but Lamont mentioned that if anything, gang-related activity had been abnormally low of late. He also told us he was getting minimal info coming through his channels.”
“So, what?” I said. “The gangs are trying to stay out of the public eye? Or more so than they already do?”
Quinto nodded. “Could be there’s something going on behind the scenes that Lamont and the rest of the gang unit aren’t privy to. Could be a random lull, or exactly the opposite. That our gang units have been so effective of late that the remaining gangs aren’t able to perform to the level of their predecessors. Or it could be they’re concerned for some reason and don’t want to overexert themselves.”
“Because there’s a new player in town?” I asked.
“Unlikely,” said Rodgers. “Lamont was sure he’d have heard if there was. But in a case with as few leads as this one, a lull in gang-related activity is something to think about. After all, we haven’t considered the timing of last night’s attack. Why come after you now? We figure that out, and I’m
sure we’ll figure out who’s behind the attack.”
“Speaking of timing…” Steele glanced toward the nearest clock. “If I’m going to make it to Shawn’s graduation on time, I should be heading out. The traffic through midtown is always rough this time of day.” She smiled and squeezed my arm. I think she wanted to kiss me, but we were at work, after all. “It shouldn’t take that long, even accounting for the afterparty. I’ll be back by two, three at the latest.”
I caught her hand before she had a chance to leave. “Shay?”
She turned. “Yes?”
“Be careful, okay?”
I thought she was going to lecture me on the improbability of being attacked in broad daylight at a university-sponsored graduation ceremony or the ensuing party, but she didn’t. “Come with me.”
“What? To the ceremony?”
“And the party for Shawn that my parents are throwing,” she said. “Why not? You think the Captain would have a problem with it? She already approved my absence.”
“That was before last night,” I said.
“And she didn’t rescind her permission this morning.”
I glanced at my leather jacket. “I’m not dressed for it.”
Shay gave me another smile. “It’s okay if you’d rather not. I get it. But you’re welcome to meet me at my parents’ if you change your mind. I’ll be with them the whole time. Promise.”
I didn’t stop her the second time she moved to leave, though I did keep my eyes on her until she disappeared through the precinct’s wide double doors. When I brought my eyes back to the foreground, it was to find Quinto and Rodgers looking at me with concern.
“What?” I said.
“Nothing,” said Quinto. “You sure you’re doing okay?”
“Next person who asks me that gets socked in the mouth,” I said. “Right now I need to deliver a message to Boatreng, and after that maybe talk to Cairny. See if she’s found anything. Feel free to tag along if you like.”
11
Despite the sour tone in which I delivered it, Rodgers and Quinto accepted my invitation. After dropping by Boatreng’s desk with the tattoo parlor address, we all descended the steps to the morgue. The cool stone underfoot echoed the sounds of our footsteps, and a dim light suffused the equally cool, sterile air.
When I turned the corner into the cavernous investigation room, the usual suspects presented themselves. The shiny steel cadaver vaults along the room’s far side, the examination tables laden with bleached white sheets, steel bowls, collections of scalpels, forceps, and pincers alongside the occasional clipboard, and our resident expert on all things deceased, Cairny. She’d replaced last night’s little black dress with a pair of flowing black pants and a white lab coat, presumably with a black blouse underneath it, given her proclivities. Everything was as it should’ve been—except for the presence of Cairny’s colleague.
He stood somewhere between Quinto’s and my height, with close-cropped hair and cheekbones so sharp you could slice an apple on them. His ears were pointed as only a pure-blooded elf’s could be, but even accounting for his race, he was on the gaunt side. His lab coat hung over his shoulders loosely, his clavicles a coat hanger of bone.
The pair of them stood side by side, up to their wrists in Biggie’s chest cavity. I stopped a few yards shy. I didn’t have any need to get up close and personal with the man’s spleen.
“Cairny,” I said.
She turned. “Hello, Daggers. I was wondering when you might drop by. Good to see you, Rodgers. And you, too, of course, Quinto.”
She gave her beau a warm smile. Come to think of it, I couldn’t recall her referring to him by his first name. Then again, I usually referred to Steele by her last name at work—not that the occasional given name or term of endearment didn’t slip though the cracks. Usually only when we thought other people weren’t listening, though.
“Who’s your friend?” I asked.
“Coroner Larkspur,” said Cairny, tipping her head toward the elf. “He’s been lending me a hand most of the morning.”
When the elf spoke, it was in an emotionless drawl, too high pitched to be pleasant. “Hel-lo.”
What was it about the coroner profession that attracted individuals with severe social issues? At least we’d reformed Cairny. Mostly. “Right. Captain said you’d be here. From the Grant Street Precinct?”
“In-deed.”
There was something about the man’s eyes that gave me the willies. Nothing suspicious. Just your average, run-of-the-mill creeper mortuary vibe.
I nodded toward the body. “Make any progress, Cairny?”
She gave a waffling nod. “Yes and no.”
“That doesn’t sound promising,” said Quinto.
He was right. Cairny usually brimmed with enthusiasm for autopsies.
“Larkspur and I already finished our examination of the first deceased,” said Cairny, shooting a thumb toward a white sheet-draped exam table on the far side of the room. “His examination was straightforward, which isn’t to say simple, mind you. We had to add more paper to his file to catalog his many injuries. Dozens of facial lacerations. Bruising to the ribs, stomach, chest, and back. The broken arm—which you did quite a number on, Daggers—as well as numerous other fractures he must’ve sustained during your fall. We counted sixteen, all told, including three ribs, a tibia, and his coccyx. And that’s before getting to the severe puncture wound that ended his final suffering quite rapidly. The broken post from the coffee cart managed to tear open the lower portion of his right ventricle.”
“That’s part of the heart, right?” I said.
“In-deed,” Larkspur said again. I was starting to question his vocabulary in addition to his social skills.
Quinto pointed toward Biggie. “I assume he’s the one giving you trouble.”
Cairny sighed. “To say the least.”
I snorted. “Don’t tell me you’re stumped.”
“In regards to what killed him?” said Cairny. “Certainly not, mostly because we haven’t come close to exhausting our options yet. What we do have is an ever expanding list of what didn’t kill him. The gut wound for one, as we already discussed last night. As it turns out, my initial guess was correct. The blade lacerated his bowels but nothing else. Larkspur and I have since ruled out a heart attack, which could’ve been triggered by an adrenaline surge induced during the fight. We haven’t cut into his head, so we can’t disregard a ruptured aneurysm, triggered by any number of blows he received, though we think that’s relatively unlikely, too.”
“An an-eurysm would’ve in-capacitated him quite rapidly,” said Larkspur. “You would’ve noticed.”
“Exactly,” said Cairny. “It would’ve killed him too quickly. Which leaves my poison hypothesis from last night. I took blood and tissue samples from the cadaver. I’ve started what tests I could here in my lab. The rest I’ve sent for further analysis. I should have the results back by the end of the day tomorrow.”
“And I imagine we’ll have to wait on those for an explanation of his too rapid rigor mortis,” I said.
“Most likely,” said Cairny, “but…that’s where things get confusing.”
“I was confused when you tried to explain it last night,” I said, “but go on.”
Cairny shared a glance with Larkspur. “We talked it over, and neither one of us could come up with a toxin that would cause both of the effects we witnessed in the deceased. Either, sure, but a fast acting poison that also causes accelerated rigor mortis? If it exists, neither of us is familiar with it, which would imply that if this man were poisoned, it was with a cocktail of chemicals.”
We stood there in silence for a moment.
Rodgers scratched his chin. “I’m sorry. Is there a reason we’re supposed to be concerned by that?”
“Not especially,” said Cairny. “But it begs the question of why? If the blade were intended for Detective Daggers, and by his own recollection it cert
ainly was, then it’s reasonable to assume it might’ve been laced with a fast-acting poison. But why also apply an additional chemical that affects the body’s decomposition response? Why would that be a desirable outcome, either in the attempted murder of Detective Daggers or in the murder of anyone else? And it would have to be a desired outcome, otherwise why apply the second chemical?”
The combined weight of three sets of eyes turned my way, all except those of the skeletal Larkspur. “What are you looking at me for?”
“Isn’t this sort of your specialty?” said Quinto. “The rest of us do the leg work, collect evidence, and you piece it together into a wild scheme only you have the creative chops to dream up.”
“Hey, now,” said Rodgers. “He’s not the only one with creative chops.”
“You want to take a stab at this, then?” said Quinto.
Rodgers shrugged. “Easy. Whatever made the rigor mortis set in quickly must be a preservative, right? It would imply the killers didn’t just want to murder Daggers, they wanted to keep his body for some reason.”
I gave the blonde charmer the old eyebrow raise. “Seriously? You’re freaking me out. As if having two hitmen try to off me wasn’t bad enough.”
“You got any better ideas?”
I didn’t.
“There is, of course, another possibility,” said Cairny.
“That being?” I said.
“That Larkspur and I are entirely wrong. We tested the knife and didn’t find any lingering poisons at the base of the blade. If it was poisoned, it must’ve only been at the tip, where the poisons entered and spread through the deceased’s body.”
“But if Biggie wasn’t poisoned, then what killed him? And what made his body lock up like that?”
Cairny shrugged. “You’re better at coming up with unfounded theories than the rest of us. It could be something completely removed of our realm of thought. Something magical in nature, perhaps.”
“Really, Cairny?” I said. “You’re usually not one to delve into the supernatural.”
“I’m also not one to get stumped. Which I’m not. Yet.”