“Interesting. Have you spoken to your aunt about it?”
I shook my head and went ahead and put the clothing into the bag. “Not yet. Haven’t really had the chance.” It hadn’t even occurred to me to go talk to her after last night’s incident. Had I lost that much faith in her? No, I was simply preoccupied, I tried to reassure myself. That’s all.
Silence fell for a few minutes while we finished undressing the body and prepping it for autopsy.
“She’s still your aunt,” he said abruptly.
I grimaced. “I know. But—”
“She was changed. Subtly,” he continued. “She was in the void for long enough that she absorbed aspects not of her original nature.” Then he shocked me by saying, “Just as you were changed by your time in the void.”
I stared at him, literally openmouthed. “I wasn’t changed!” I finally managed. “I mean, I—”
“You were in the void for two weeks before you were called back,” he said, eyes intent on me in a manner that was beginning to seriously creep me out. “The changes are subtle, but there for those who can sense them.”
I could feel gooseflesh spring up on my arms. “Can you sense them?”
I expected him to confess to great arcane knowledge, or admit that he had othersight or some such thing. I didn’t expect him to smile and shake his head. “No, but I see how the changes in you have affected those around you who can sense them. Whether they realize it or not.” He shrugged. “Most don’t realize it. But I listen and watch a lot.”
“Ryan?” I said before I could think.
His smile widened very slightly. “He is one.”
The banging of the outer door interrupted the odd conversation, and I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or disappointed.
“Morning, boys and girls,” Doc said with a cheerful grin as he strode into the cutting room. Dr. Jonathan Lanza was the forensic pathologist for the St. Long Parish Coroner’s Office—a slender man about my own height, with dark hair and eyes, and a nose that betrayed his Italian heritage. He’d come to St. Long Parish after working in both Las Vegas and Houston, which meant that he had a wealth of knowledge that we were deeply fortunate to have access to.
“So, this is the guy who decided to try to fly?” he asked, gaze skimming over the body on the table.
“Yep,” I said, “but I think he was helped along.”
He picked up his clipboard and peered more closely. “Hunh. Well it definitely looks like he was attacked.” He pointed to Vic’s neck. “Carl, clean that dirt off please?”
Carl obligingly stepped forward with a wet towel and carefully wiped away the smears of clay.
“A bit easier to see now,” Doc said, pointing to the marks on Vic’s neck with the end of his pen. “Here you can see bruising—from the fingertips of whoever grabbed him by the throat.” He frowned. “Looks deep too. His attacker was pretty damn strong.”
I kept the interested look on my face and didn’t offer any possibilities.
“And your boy here tried to escape,” Doc continued, indicating several scratches. “Those look like fingernail marks—his own as he tried to get the attacker’s hand off. I’ll do scrapings from under his nails in case he managed to scratch the other guy as well.”
“Sounds good,” I replied. I’d be shocked if anyone else’s flesh was found though. I glanced at Vic’s hands and could easily see the dirt under his nails.
I watched as Doc and Carl took scrapings and clippings from the nails and sealed them in a small envelope. It would be forwarded to the DNA lab, but I felt no need to put any sort of rush request in.
They proceeded with the autopsy and Carl made his usual attempt to convince me to stick a needle in the eye to retrieve the vitreous fluid. Thanks but no thanks. There was a lot of gross I could handle, but that went way beyond my squick tolerance.
Doc began to peel the skin of Vic’s neck back. “Good god, this was one strong son of a bitch!” He shook his head in amazement and when I looked I could see large clots of blood where the creature’s fingers had dug in. “Carl, get pictures of this, please.” He paused long enough for Carl to get the pictures, then continued peeling back the layers of muscle. He carefully palpated the throat area and let out a low whistle.
“Hyoid bone broken?” I asked. I didn’t have much knowledge of pathology and anatomy, but I knew that the hyoid bone was often broken in cases of manual strangulation.
Doc snorted. “Broken? That’s putting it mildly. The whole trachea is crushed, thyroid cartilage is broken.” He shook his head again in disbelief. “This guy was dead—or at least well on his way there—before he was helped out the window.”
I couldn’t completely control the shudder. Poor guy.
Doc moved with careful efficiency through the rest of the autopsy—removing and examining organs and taking samples of blood and urine for toxicology testing. Finally he glanced up at Carl. “Let’s get him sewn up. I’m going to want to do a posterior neck dissection to get a better look.”
Carl removed the block beneath the body, then pulled out a thick, curved needle about three inches long and a ball of nylon string. He cut off about a yard of string and threaded the needle, then extended the needle to me.
“Care to help?” Carl asked, face impassive. “It will go faster with two of us sewing.”
I reluctantly took the needle. “This is so disgusting.”
His lips twitched. “Be careful,” he said. “The needle can get slippery, and you don’t want to poke yourself. And it doesn’t have to be pretty or neat. The funeral home will take it out anyway.”
I cringed as I pushed the needle into the flesh at the edge of the long incision. It didn’t matter that I knew Vic Kerry couldn’t feel anything anymore. It still sent a chill through me every time I pierced the skin. I definitely didn’t have it in me to do the kind of ritual torture that the Symbol Man had performed.
I quickly discovered that “slippery” was an understatement. Even though Vic Kerry had lost massive quantities of weight and was fairly trim, he still had a thin layer of fat in his midsection. After a couple of passes through that fat, the needle was slick and damn near impossible to manage.
“Thanks for the help,” Carl said. I looked up to see that he’d started from the other end, completely sewing up the rest of the incision in the time it had taken me to do three whole stitches.
I gave him a black scowl. “You did not need my help,” I accused. “You only wanted me to do more gross stuff.”
“Your perception astounds me,” he replied with a dry chuckle. “But I could use your help turning the body over.”
“I think I need to start filling out a time sheet for the coroner’s office, Doc,” I said over my shoulder.
The pathologist smiled and continued to jot notes. “It’s not enough that you’re my favorite detective?”
I hid my smile and made a rude noise. “Yeah, yeah,” I said as I helped Carl flip Vic over. “I’ve heard that tune before. Money talks, Doc!”
Doc gave a low laugh. “Worth a try.” He stepped up to the prone body and made a careful slit along the spine from the nape of the neck to a point between the shoulder blades.
“Unbelievable,” he murmured after a moment of examination.
“Doc? What did you find?”
“Kara, whoever did this was unbelievably strong. You have shearing of discs of upper cervical vertebrae. Marked hemorrhage along vertebrae and into posterior neck muscles. Ligaments from vertebrae to base of skull are ruptured.” He kept pointing at globs of blood that apparently meant a great deal to him, but simply looked like a gory mess to me. He straightened. “I mean, it’s as if something grabbed this guy by the neck and just squeezed, breaking and ripping everything back here.”
“And then threw him out the window in the hopes of making it look like a suicide,” I said.
“There’s no way that these injuries came from a fall,” Doc said flatly. Then he gave me a wry smile. “My advice is to keep an eye out for a big, strong, dirty giant.”