by E. A. Copen
“All rightie, then,” he said, cracking his knuckles. He walked around the body, snapping a few pictures. Every once in a while, he would stop to measure something with a tape measure or to turn over the appropriate body part as he spoke. “Subject is an uncircumcised male, approximately five feet eight inches in height and one hundred twenty to one hundred thirty pounds. Body temperature taken rectally upon arrival places death sometime between four and five this morning. Presence of secondary molars and physical development suggest the age of the subject somewhere between eighteen and twenty-five, probably on the younger side of that scale. Looks to be of Hispanic origin, definitely a werewolf. No obvious identification with the body. We'll skip the prints due to the presence of phalangeal deformity.”
I was really fighting to keep up with the pace at which he was talking, especially since he was using jargon. “What was that?”
He picked up the half-formed left hand and waved it stiffly at me. “Phalangeal deformity. Let's see. Where was I? Um...Distinguishing marks. Subject has a black tribal tattoo band on the upper bicep of the left arm. Evidence of piercings in both ears, likely silver and removed to allow for the change, since werewolves can't change while wearing silver.” He looked over at me with one eyebrow raised. “Can they?”
“Some,” I confirmed, reaching back in my memory for the early days of my training with BSI. “But not easily.”
“Right. Well, he's not wearing any silver. You'll probably find it at the scene somewhere if you look hard enough. There are some markings here in the bend of the left arm. They look like track marks. None of them look fresh but it's hard to tell with the way they heal.” He took several pictures of the track marks. When he was satisfied, he dropped the camera and held his hand out to me expectantly. When I didn't move, he looked up and demanded in an irritated tone, “Phlebotomy kit.”
I handed it to him and watched as he tried to poke at the inside of the werewolf's femoral artery without success. Doc muttered a mild curse to himself and then wandered off to search through a drawer before coming back with another needle. “Silver needles. Should've thought of that the first time, Doc.” He tried it again with the new needle and finally managed to get what he wanted. Doc collected five vials of blood and placed them on a little plate before labeling them and passing the plate to me. “Put this in the fridge, will you?”
I looked around. The only fridge I saw was next to the curtain he'd drawn over his zombies. They probably weren't any threat, sleeping as they were, but that didn't change the fact that I was uneasy about going over there. Come on, Judah, I thought. Woman up. They're only zombies. I walked over to the fridge. One of his zombies was leaning against the side of it, snoring. Carefully, I opened the door and set the plate on the middle shelf next to a brown paper sack, to continue jotting down more notes.
“No obvious defensive wounds, though the rate of accelerated healing and deformities due to shifting makes a visual inspection inconclusive. I'll swab under the fingernails momentarily. Several large pieces of glass are protruding from the superior regions of the skull, though I doubt any of them are large enough to have penetrated the skull itself. The absence of a petechial rash suggests rapid healing accounts for the lack of bruising so if any injury to the cranium contributed to the cause of death I won't know that until I open up the cranial cavity. However, the location of the wound on the right side of his neck and lack of quick healing, combined with advanced tissue necrosis, suggests that the severing of the right internal jugular vein may be the cause of death.”
I lowered the paper, knowing it was hopeless to try and keep up with him. “In layman's terms, Doc. What does all that mean?”
“There was a fight. I can't tell if he resisted or not. Your killer acted with near-medical precision using a sharp instrument. Your victim bled out in two minutes or less but likely lost consciousness after about thirty seconds. It was fast and relatively painless.” Doc watched my face for a reaction.
I swallowed and nodded. “Silver lining, I guess.”
“A poor choice of words, Black, considering the attacker's weapon of choice was likely a silver knife given the level of decay at the wound site.” He sorted through his tool belt, coming up with a nice, sharp looking knife. “I'm going to open him up.” Doc lowered a face mask over his nose and mouth as if he were about to do some welding instead of making an incision, and pressed the blade against the werewolf's shoulder.
The door behind us swung open and an inhuman growl echoed through the room. Doc shrieked for the second time in an hour as a big Latino guy wearing a cowboy hat stepped into the room with Tindall on his heels. The Latino guy growled at us again and then pointed at Doc and said, “Get the hell away from my brother.”
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About E.A. Copen
E.A. Copen is the author of the Judah Black novels and the weird west, Beasts of Babylon. She’s an avid reader of science fiction, fantasy and other genre fiction. When she’s not chained to her keyboard, she may be found time traveling on the weekends with her SCA friends. She lives in beautiful southeast Ohio with her husband and two kids, at least until she saves up enough to leave the shire and become a Jedi.
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