I blinked. "You're saying I can heal any injury?"
"Well," he said, "Not like mutant X-factor healing. If someone cuts an artery, you're gonna bleed out. But if you survive it, given enough time your body seems to be able to replace things almost perfectly. It might take you months, even several years, but you can get better when other people wouldn't."
I looked at him, and then at my gloved hand. I tried to talk, but my throat wouldn't work.
"Yeah," the little doctor said quietly. "I think you're going to get your hand back at some point. It didn't mortify or come off. There's still living muscle tissue there. Given enough time, I think you'll be able to replace scar tissue and regrow the nerves."
"That…" I said, and choked up. I swallowed. "That would be nice."
"We can help it along, I think," Butters said. "Physical therapy. I was going to talk to you about it next visit. We can go over it then."
"Butters," I said. "Uh. Wow, man. This is…"
"Really exciting," he said, eyes gleaming.
"I was going to say amazing," I said quietly. "And then I was going to say thank-you."
He grinned and twitched a shoulder in a shrug. "I calls them like I see them."
I stared down at my hand and tried to twiddle my fingers. They sort of twitched. "Why?" I asked.
"Why what?"
"Why am I able to make good copies?"
He blew out a breath and pushed his hand through his wiry hair, grinning. "I have no freaking clue. Neat, huh?"
I stared down at the X-ray film for a moment more, then put my hand in my duster's pocket. "I hoped you could help me get some information," I said.
"Sure, sure," Butters replied. He went to his polka suit and started taking it apart. "Is something going on?"
"I hope not," I said. "But let's just say I've got a real bad feeling. I need to know if there have been any odd deaths in the area in the past day or two."
Butters frowned. "Odd how?"
"Unusually violent," I said. "Or marks of some kind of murder method consistent with a ritual killing. Hell, I'll even take signs of torture prior to death."
"Doesn't sound like anyone I've met," Butters said. He took off his sunglasses and put on his normal black-rimmed glasses. "Though I'm not done for tonight. Let me check the records and see who's in the hiz-ouse."
"Thank you," I said.
Butters knocked a few flyers off his chair and sat down. He dragged a keyboard out from under a medical magazine and gave me a significant look.
"Oh, right," I said. I backed away from his desk to the far side of the room. Proximity to me tended to make computers malfunction to one degree or another. Murphy still hadn't forgiven me for blowing out her hard drive, even though it had happened only the once.
Butters got on his computer. "No," he said, after a moment's reading and key thumping. "Wait. Here's a guy who got knifed, but it happened way up in the northwest corner of the state."
"No good," I said. "It would have to be local. Within a county or three of Chicago."
"Hmph," Butters said. "You investigative types are always so picky about this kind of thing." He scanned over the screen. "Drive-by shooting victim?"
"Definitely no," I said. "For a ritual killing it would be a lot more intimate."
"Think you're out of luck then, Harry," he said. "There were some high-profile stiffs that came in, and the day crew took them all."
"Hmm."
"Tell me about it. I got stuck with a wino and some poor bastard who got caught under a tractor and had to be tested for drugs and booze earlier tonight, but that's…" He paused. "Hello."
"Hello?"
"That's odd."
That perked up my ears, metaphorically speaking. "What's odd?"
"My boss, Dr. Brioche, passed over one of his subjects. It got moved to my docket, but I didn't get a memo about it. Not even an e-mail, the bastard."
I frowned. "That happen a lot?"
"Attempts to make it look like I'm neglecting my job so he can fire me?" Butters said. "That one's new, but it's in the spirit of my whole history here."
"Maybe he was just busy today."
"And maybe Liv Tyler is waiting in my bedroom to rub my feet," Butters responded.
"Heh. Who's the stiff?"
"A Mr. Eduardo Anthony Mendoza," Butters read. "He was in a head-on collision with a Buick on the expressway. Only he was a pedestrian." Butters scrunched up his nose. "Looks like it will be a nasty one. No wonder high-and-mighty Brioche didn't want to handle it."
I mused. It wasn't what I was looking for, but there was something about the situation around that corpse that set off my internal alarm bells. "Mind if I ask you to indulge an intuition?"
"Sure. I'm as polka empowered as I'm going to get, anyway. Lemme break out my gear and we'll take a look-see at the late Eddie Mendoza."
"Cool," I said. I leaned against the wall and folded my arms, preparing to settle in for a while.
The door to the examination room slammed open, and Phil the security guard walked in with a businesslike stride.
Except Phil's throat had been slit open from ear to ear, and blood covered his upper body in a sheet of ugly splatters. His face was absolutely white. There was no chance whatsoever that poor Phil was alive.
That didn't stop him from striding into the room, seizing Butters's desk, and throwing it, computer, heavy file cabinet, and all, into the far wall of the room, where it shattered with a thunderous sound of impact. Butters stared at Phil with horror, then let out a somewhat rabbitlike shriek and scurried back from him.
"Don't move!" thundered a deep, resonant voice from the hallway outside. Dead Phil froze in his tracks. A big man in a khaki trench coat and, I swear to God, a dark fedora strode into the room, intent on Butters, and he didn't see me against the wall. I hesitated for a second, still shocked at the suddenness of it all. Three other men in coats, all grey of face and purposeful of motion, flanked him.
"Don't hurt the little coroner, gentlemen," the man said. "We'll need him. For a little while."
Chapter Five
The man in the fedora took a step toward Butters, drumming a slender book against his thigh with one hand. "Stand aside," he muttered, and dead Phil sidestepped.
Butters had scrambled back into a corner, his eyes the size of glazed doughnuts behind his glasses. "Wow," he babbled. "Great entrance. Love the hat."
The guy in the fedora took a step forward and reached out with his other hand, at which point I decided to act. A raised hand isn't much in the regular world, but from a guy in a long coat with his own flock of zombies it had to be at least as menacing as pointing a gun.
"That will be enough," I said, and I said it loud enough to hurt ears. I stepped away from the wall with my left hand extended. My silver bracelet of heat-warped shields hung on my wrist, and I readied my will, pushing enough power into the bracelet to prepare a shield to leap up immediately. The bracelet was still pretty banged-up from the beating it had taken the last time I'd used it, and I'd only barely gotten it working again. As a result, it channeled the energy pretty sloppily, and blue-white sparks leaped out and fell to the floor in a steady drizzle. "Put your hand down and step away from the coroner."
The man turned to face me, book thumping steadily against his leg. For a second I thought he was another dead man himself, his face was so pale-but spots of color appeared high on his cheeks, faint but there. He had a long face, and though it was pale it was leathery, as if he'd spent years in the blowing desert wind and sand without seeing the sun. He had dark eyes, thick grey sideburns, no beard, and a scar twisted his upper lip into a perpetual sneer.
"Who," said the man, his accent thick and British, "are you?"