by DAVID B. COE
When she caught up with me, she handed me the list of names, but said nothing.
“Five pages?” I asked folding back the sheets. Names, phone numbers, addresses. This would be helpful, but I had no idea so many people had been arrested.
“It was a big protest,” Kona said. “Deegan’s daughter wasn’t the only one who was ticked off about that bomber, or whatever it was.”
“I guess not.” There had to be two hundred names here. “So are you going to tell me who I’m looking for or make me figure it out myself?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
The OME was only about a block from 620, on Jefferson. I started to read through the list as we walked, but none of the names jumped out at me, and before I knew it we were at the Medical Examiner’s building, being buzzed into the facility by security.
Kona had on her ID from 620 and the guard waved us past his desk toward the autopsy lab, and the coolers where bodies were kept.
The M.E. was a guy named Pete Forsythe, who had been running forensics in Phoenix since before I joined the force. He was a crusty old goat, and not at all the kind of person who would have tolerated the presence of a PI in his facility. Fortunately, he liked to delegate work to his staff, and was rarely in the labs or cold storage this time of day.
“Have they done the autopsy yet?” I asked as we navigated the corridors, our footsteps echoing.
“I asked them not to,” Kona said. “I thought you’d want to see her as we found her. They only brought her in last night and Pete was willing to wait until this afternoon.”
I nodded.
We found a young woman in the anthrodental lab who was comparing dental records on a computer screen to a set of X-rays. I’d never seen her before, but Kona knew her.
“Hey, Caroline.”
The woman looked over at us and smiled. “Hi, Kona.” She was pretty. Red hair, freckles, blue eyes, a little on the heavy side, great smile. I noticed a big diamond on her left hand. “What can I do ya for?”
“This is my friend Jay Fearsson.”
“Hi, Jay,” the woman said. “Caroline Packer.”
“Nice to meet you, Caroline.”
“You new in Homicide? I haven’t seen you here before.”
“Jay’s an investigator,” Kona said before I could answer. “He’s helping me out with something. I was wondering if we could take a look at the Deegan kid.”
Caroline’s smile vanished, along with most of the color in her cheeks. “Yeah, sure,” she said. But she didn’t move for a few seconds. She seemed to be gathering herself. “She’s in CS,” she said. “I can . . . I can show you.”
“We know where it is,” Kona told her, her tone gentle. “Just tell us which shelf.”
“Fourteen. And you have to sign. The clipboard’s outside the door.”
Kona nodded. “Okay. Thanks.”
“What he did to her . . . It’s . . .” She broke off, swallowing and shaking her head. “I didn’t used to think about this kind of stuff, but I don’t like to be out after dark anymore.”
“I understand,” Kona said.
She turned and left the lab, and I followed her. The receiving cooler, where they kept bodies that had not yet been examined, was beside the autopsy room. We paused outside the door so that Kona could sign the access sheet, and then we stepped inside. It was a cold, stark, depressing place. Stainless steel walls and doors, hard fluorescent lighting, and a series of steel shelves on every wall for the bodies. Most of the shelves were empty, as usual, but there were white body bags on a few of them, including the middle shelf under the number fourteen.
A jar of mentholated Vaseline sat on a gurney near the door. Before opening the body bag we rubbed a small amount under our noses to guard against the smell. Then Kona unzipped the bag and spread it open.
My first thought was that the police had gotten the ID wrong. Sure she was a mess—there were burned out craters in her face where her eyes should have been. But this girl bore almost no resemblance to the Claudia Deegan I’d seen on the news and in countless newspaper photos. That girl had been blonde, athletic, tan: the all-American kid. This girl’s hair was black, though peering more closely I could see that the roots were blonde. Her face was gaunt and she wore dark lipstick that gave her mouth a severe look.
“You’re sure this is the Deegan kid?” I asked Kona, staring down at the girl.
“Yeah, we’re sure. Why?”
I shook my head. “Doesn’t matter.”
Kona had brought me there to tell her if there was any magical residue on the body, and it was all over Claudia’s face, neck and chest. Magic was similar to any other forensic evidence. Just as a gunshot at close range left powder burns on a victim, or strangulation caused bruising, magic left its mark as well. And just as fingerprints were unique, so was the color left by a weremyste’s conjuring. Only another weremyste could see it, but to those of us with magic in our veins it was as obvious as a bloodstain or an open wound. Often, magical residue reminded me of fluorescent paint that had spilled wherever a runecrafter’s spells had touched. It glowed and shimmered, the colors as vivid as summer wildflowers. At least at first.
The glow on Claudia’s body had grown faint, and with the overhead lighting so harsh it was difficult to see. As I’d told Kona earlier, the more powerful the weremyste, the faster any remnant of his magic would fade. This probably seems backwards, but if you think of magic as having a half-life, like uranium, it starts to make more sense. Carbon 14 is a weak radiant with a slow half-life—well over five thousand years. Strontium 90, on the other hand, is powerfully radioactive and has a half-life of less than thirty years. In the same way, the stronger a spell, the faster its residue decays. At least, that’s how I think of it. Then again, I’m not exactly a nuclear physicist.
Of course, there was a flip side to the fast decay thing: the more powerful the sorcerer, the more brilliant the color of his magic would be to begin with. I had seen the Blind Angel Killer’s magic before; I would have recognized that shade of crimson anywhere. Still, even knowing how powerful he was, I couldn’t help but be surprised—and scared—at how dim it had grown in a mere two days. I might not have noticed it as much working the case month to month, but in the time since I’d last seen one of his victims, the Blind Angel Killer had made himself stronger. Much stronger.
“Is it our guy?” Kona asked, watching me.
I nodded. “I think he’s getting more powerful.”
“Well, that’s just what I want to hear.”
“The color is nearly gone. Even at the eyes, where it should be most intense.” I faced Kona. “I think whatever he gets from these kids is building him up. There’s more to this than random killing.”
“You’ve told me that before. But do you know what he’s getting?”
“No.” I turned back to Claudia’s corpse. “If I knew that maybe we could find him.” I stood for a moment, staring at the girl’s ravaged face. “Let me try something,” I said.
Three elements again: my magic, the red magic glowing on Claudia, and the purpose of the killer’s spell. This last I didn’t know, of course; I was hoping the spell would fill in that bit of information with some physical manifestation of the killer’s magic. I had tried this before a couple of years ago, but I was a more accomplished runecrafter now, and I thought maybe I’d get a different result.
I didn’t. I might have been better with magic now than I was when I worked for the PPD, but I wasn’t yet a match for the Blind Angel Killer.
“Did anything happen?” Kona asked, looking back and forth between Claudia’s corpse and me.
“No. We’re going to have to find him the old-fashioned way.”
“Not we, partner,” Kona said in the same gentle tone she’d used with the girl in the lab. “That’s not your job. I appreciate you coming down here with me, but we’ll do the rest.”
I said nothing, and I couldn’t bring myself to meet her gaze. She was right, of course, but it wasn’t like I
needed to be reminded that I was no longer on the job. And Kona should have known that.
“I’m sorry, Justis. It’s just—”
“I know,” I said, my voice echoing sharply in the cold room. I turned away from the body and started for the door.
“Justis—”
“I should talk to that girl. Caroline. I should ask her about the whole drug thing. That’s what the Deegans are worried about.”
I left the room before Kona could stop me and went back to the anthrodental lab. Caroline glanced over as I walked in and gave a weak smile, but she was still pale.
I sat on an empty stool near her. “Can I ask you a couple of questions?”
She pulled her lab coat tighter around her shoulders. “I don’t know much. I’m not working on . . . Until Doctor Forsythe does his initial autopsy, there’s not much for the rest of us to do.”
“I understand that. But I need some information; or I will when you start the lab work.”
“I’m not sure—”
“It’s nothing that the M.E. won’t eventually give the press. I just need to know what kind of drugs she’d been taking, and anything you can tell me about their potency.”
Caroline frowned. “Aren’t you with the force? Kona said you’re an investigator. Can’t you get this from her?”
I forced a smile. “I’m asking you for it.” I pulled out my wallet and gave her one of my business cards. “If you can, call me at that number . . .”
She was looking more frightened by the moment. “Um . . .”
“It’s all right. I’ve known Pete Forsyth since you were in high school. He won’t mind. And you can call me from your home, if you think that would be better.”
“Stop it, Justis.”
Kona didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t have to.
Caroline glanced past me, the relief on her face making me ashamed of myself. I turned, feeling my color rise.
Kona crossed to where I sat, wearing an expression that would have wrung an apology from a gangbanger.
“We’re leaving,” she told me. Turning, she said, “Sorry to have bothered you, Caroline. Tell Pete we’re done here. He can go ahead with the autopsy.”
Caroline nodded, seeming unsure of what had happened. Her gaze flicked from me to Kona.
I should have said something to her, but I was too embarrassed. I followed Kona out of the lab, through the hallways back to the main entrance. Once we were out on the street again, Kona turned to me, her hands on her hips.
“What the hell were you thinking, trying to play that poor girl like that?”
I didn’t meet her gaze. “Wriker asked me to find out—”
“Don’t give me that shit. He didn’t tell you to go and bully some kid into getting herself fired.”
I wasn’t sure that Wriker or the Deegans would give a crap about Caroline Packer. But I knew that I didn’t want to be measuring myself against their morals.
“I pissed you off,” Kona said. “And you didn’t want to have to get that information from me. So you went after her.”
“Yes.”
Kona stared down at her feet, her lips pursed. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. You don’t need me telling you what your job is, especially when you’re still working this case and not getting any credit for it. The fact is, Latrelle wanted you here, but strictly on ‘a consulting basis.’ His words. I’m not even sure what he meant, and to be honest, I don’t know how we’re going to make this work. But I shouldn’t have said it that way.”
I shrugged, still not looking at her.
“Pressure’s high on this one, partner,” she said. “This guy’s had our number for three years now, and that’s bad enough. But you add in the Deegans, and suddenly everyone’s on edge, you know?”
I could imagine.
“The damn FBI’s back in town, acting as though they never bailed on us in the first place, asking why we haven’t made more progress while they were gone.” Kona paused, exhaled. “Anyway,” she went on, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.” And it was. I’d never been able to stay mad at Kona for long, or her at me. Our friendship—our partnership—had always been too strong. I raised my chin toward the door we’d come through. “You’ll apologize for me?”
“Yeah, sure,” she said. “And I’ll get that information to you as quickly as I can. I promise.”
I nodded. “I know you will.”
She glanced back toward the door. “Anything more you can tell me about what you saw in there?”
“Not really.” We started walking back toward 620. “It’s the same shade of red, but it’s fading faster than it used to. Otherwise it’s exactly like the other times. Mostly on her head and chest. No particular pattern, though it’s strongest around the eyes.”
“Nothing different at all?” Kona asked.
I shook my head, knowing where she was headed. “I don’t think he had any idea that this was Claudia Deegan. She was just another kid to him.”
“Yeah, well, that might have been true the other night. Not anymore. Things are about to get very hot for everyone involved in this case, including our friend with the red magic.”
We fell silent, and after a few moments I pulled out the list of protest arrests Kona had given me.
“Check on page three,” Kona said. “A bit past the middle.”
I read several names before I saw it. I stopped dead in my tracks and gaped at her. She stopped, too.
“Robby Sommer?” I said.
“Interesting, don’t you think? You’re trying to find the source of Claudia Deegan’s drugs, and look who gets his ass arrested at that protest Claudia put together.”
Robby Sommer was a small-time drug dealer who I’d busted several years back. He catered to high-end, low-volume buyers; rich college students for the most part. Kids like Claudia Deegan, although he wasn’t above selling to anyone he could find.
“You think he was connected to any of the other kids?” I asked.
“It’s possible,” Kona said. “A few of them were at the university; most of them were using.”
“But this is the first time we’ve—” I smiled self-consciously. “That you’ve had any kind of link between Robby and a victim.”
“Yeah. This is the first.”
We started walking again, and I stared at Robby’s name on that list. His address hadn’t changed since I arrested him. “I guess you should go see him.”
“Why don’t you?” Kona said. “Kevin and I have more than enough to keep us busy, and this is the type of thing you’d be doing for Wriker anyway.”
“All right.”
I expected her to remind me that since I wasn’t a cop anymore, I couldn’t push Robby too far, but she didn’t.
“I’ll let you know what I find out,” I said.
She nodded. “I’ll do the same.”
“Thank you, Kona.”
We’d reached Washington again.
“No problem, partner. Talk to you soon.”
She continued back toward 620; I turned toward the City Hall parking lot, my chest aching. I’d never begrudge Kona her badge, but at that moment I wanted mine back more than I wanted anything.
Nobody would be surprised to learn that a drug dealer like Robby Sommer was a screw-up. What always amazed me about the kid, though, was how lucky he’d been. In the years since I’d arrested him, he had been hauled in at least three or four more times. But he’d only been convicted once, and then on a reduced count. Something always seemed to go wrong with Robby’s arrests—evidence was misplaced, procedures got fouled up. One time an assistant district attorney was found to have manufactured evidence in a number of cases—it was a huge scandal at the time—and while the evidence against Robby was completely legit, all of the perps in all of the assistant D.A.’s cases were released as a matter of course. This was the luckiest kid on the face of the earth.
I turned that thought over in my head as I drove to his place, amazed that this had never occ
urred to me before: What if Robby wasn’t merely lucky? What if the punk had access to magic? What if he had been hiding it from us all these years? Most of the time I could identify a weremyste on sight. They usually appeared to shimmer and waver, as if there were heat waves in front of them. A powerful runecrafter might look like little more than a blur. I’d never noticed anything like this with Robby, but maybe he wasn’t strong enough for me to notice, or at least hadn’t been the last time our paths crossed. I thought of that faint hint of beige glow on the door of the building where I had found Jessie Tyler. Could that have been Robby? Had luck saved him yet again?
Maybe. But with Claudia Deegan dead, with drugs found in her backpack and in her blood, and with some connection established between her and Sommer, it was possible that Robby’s winning streak was about to end.
Robby might have been thinking the same thing. As soon as I knocked on the door of his house, a small place on Hermosa, near the interchange of Highway 101 and U.S. 60, I heard a screen door fly open in the back. I leaped off the front stoop and sprinted around the house in time to see someone disappear over a cinderblock wall.
I went after him, knowing that I could clear the wall easily. But as I was about to throw myself over it, I felt magic. I stopped myself the only way I could: essentially by running into the wall. I didn’t go over it, which was good because flames had erupted from its top—just like the flames I’d seen earlier that day at the spark den. I gathered that fire was Robby’s attack magic of choice, which wasn’t so surprising. Fire spells were about the most rudimentary assailing magic a myste could use.
Three elements: the cinderblocks, Robby’s flames, and a magical blanket to snuff them out. The air around me hummed with the power of my own spell, and an instant later the flames on the wall died down. I climbed over, feeling the heat of the blaze still radiating from the stone. Once on the ground again, I ran on, following the retreating sound of Robby’s footsteps.
It was my turn for an attack spell. I didn’t try anything fancy; I wanted to slow him down, not kill him. My hand, his back, and a good hard shove.