Every Kind of Wicked. Lisa Black

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ “Ms. Toner, is this your brother?”

      She stared at the rectangle of laminated plastic. She turned it over as if an explanation may have been printed on the back. Then she turned it to the front, stared again.

      The tears dried up as if under a heat lamp. Hope brightened her face and she nearly smiled. “I congratulate you two on your lack of stereotyping,” she said, holding the card out to him, “but my brother Marlon is black.”

      “Then who’s this?” Rick asked.

      “Gentlemen, I have not the slightest idea.”

      Friday, 1:15 p.m.

      The Medical Examiner’s office staff had only begun the autopsy on Evan Harding when Maggie arrived. They had been delayed due to a contamination threat, a possible case of spinal meningitis, which had turned out to be a false alarm. Still Maggie entered the autopsy anteroom with light steps, her body automatically assuming that if she stayed very quiet perhaps the germs would not notice her.

      The staff, however, did. They greeted her as a familiar face and asked where the detectives were.

      “They should be right behind me.”

      “We’re not waiting,” one warned absently. Autopsies waited for no man, woman, or detective and the cops knew it.

      Maggie knew it too and doubted the examination would present any information they couldn’t already guess from the deep stains over the victim’s chest. Maggie wanted to tape the clothes, so she watched as the autopsy assistants—called dieners—removed the victim’s lightweight jacket and hung it on a disposable hanger. It would be damp from the now-melted snowflakes and the few trails of blood that never had a chance to dry in the cold, but there was nothing she could do about that. The tape would still work even on slightly damp material. The T-shirt, hung next, would not be as cooperative. Any loose hairs or fibers might now be glued to its surface by the sticky blood. But she’d try for whatever she could get. Even with all the advances of technology over the years, forensic science still required a large amount of luck.

      “What did this guy get stabbed with?” one asked Maggie.

      “I don’t know. It wasn’t left at the scene.”

      “Not a knife?” suggested the second diener.

      The first disagreed, poking at the bloody chest to get a better look at something in that mass of red. “It’s so small. And not linear.”

      Maggie moved closer. As the diener wiped the chest off with a sponge and a squirt bottle of dish detergent, she could see what he meant. The wounds—two of them—were small and round, the size of a cigarette burn.

      “An ice pick?” the second diener tried.

      “In the library with Professor Plum?” the first chortled. The second joined in. Evidently they had a standing joke of relating crimes to the Clue game. He checked the pants pockets—carefully, the risk of syringes or other sharp objects ever-present—and found an empty white envelope with nothing written on it and a tube of mint ChapStick in one, an open pack of gum and a toothpick in the other. These items were spread out on a tray to be photographed and stored under personal property, to be released to the family if they weren’t wanted as evidence. The clothing would be retained until a trial or plea occurred.

      Then they removed his shoes, socks, and pants, working quickly and efficiently. They had stripped nude so many dead that it seemed no different than putting more paper in the copier, yet there was always that unspoken twinge of empathy, that unavoidable pathos in seeing a fellow human so helplessly vulnerable. They could only get it over with as briskly as possible. A bit of distraction never hurt, either; today the two men discussed the current incarnation of a popular video game, and whether it would be an appropriate Christmas gift for their respective children.

      “I don’t think so,” one said as he unzipped Evan Harding’s jeans. “Those aliens, man. My girl would be okay, but my boy’s too little. He’ll have nightmares. When he has nightmares, then he’s in bed with my wife and me.”

      “It’s a trade-off,” the other agreed, helping him pull the pants off with a sharp downward yank. “Bug you in the middle of the night, maybe, but you got peace all evening while they’re glued to the TV.”

      “I’m not going to say anything about your parenting—what the hell is this?”

      Maggie moved forward and craned her neck to see around the two large men. Evan Harding had something on his ankle. For a second she thought it might be a tattoo, but then the shape defined itself.

      A key. The victim had a small, flat key taped to his ankle with a piece of clear packaging tape.

      “Don’t see that too often,” the first diener said.

      “You’ve seen it ever?” Maggie asked.

      “You’d be amazed at the things people wear under their clothes,” he intoned, and waited for the photographer to get a picture of it before peeling the tape, with the key adhered to it, away from the skin. Maggie thought of fingerprints and best preservation techniques, but didn’t worry overmuch. The dead man appeared healthy, other than the damage to his chest. No injuries, no major scars, no bruises, nothing to suggest that he’d been abused, coerced, or trafficked, so she had no reason to think he hadn’t taped the key to his ankle himself. She held out a sheet of the clear acetate, to which she placed tapes from clothing, and the diener spread it on the sheet, adhesive side down.

      Mosler had been engraved on the body of the key. Maggie assumed it to be the name of the manufacturer. She doubted anyone else would put a decorative engraving on such a utilitarian object.

      “What kind of key is that?” she asked.

      “Hell if I know. Padlock? Safe deposit box? Locker?”

      “Maybe it opens his diary. His little black book of secrets.” the other joked.

      Maggie held the transparent sheet with the key up to the light. “Maybe it does.”

      Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

      Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

      Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

      Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.

/9j/4SPARXhpZgAATU0AKgAAAAgADAEAAAMAAAABF0sAAAEBAAMAAAABCfYAAAECAAMAAAADAAAA ngEGAAMAAAABAAIAAAESAAMAAAABAAEAAAEVAAMAAAABAAMAAAEaAAUAAAABAAAApAEbAAUAAAAB AAAArAEoAAMAAAABAAIAAAExAAIAAAAfAAAAtAEyAAIAAAAUAAAA04dpAAQAAAABAAAA6AAAASAA CAAI СКАЧАТЬ