Titan's Day

by Dan Stout

  After a moment, Mumphrey joined us in the office. He was wearing a paper apron made of the same waxed material as the booties we wore at gory crime scenes. He unclipped the apron and dropped it into the medical waste bin by the door; even in Titanshade you can’t recycle everything. Then he gave us a wide grin.

  “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of making this young man’s acquaintance.” Doc Mumphrey’s baritone rumbled like a bowling ball toward a 7–10 split, deep and resonant but with a congested tone and swallowed vowels.

  I was careful to accentuate my words as I made introductions.

  “Doc Mumphrey, please meet my partner, Detective Ajax.”

  Mumphrey extended a hand that had been in a corpse moments before. “Pleasure to meet you, Detective.”

  Ajax gripped Doc’s hand with only the slightest hesitation, admirable considering how recently he’d seen that hand inside a corpse.

  “Likewise. I understand that Carter thinks you might have something to tell us about our Jane Doe?”

  Mumphrey’s smile faltered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t quite catch that.” He tilted his gray-ringed head toward me. “Could you . . . ?”

  I slid out my notebook and flipped to an empty page. “He said we want to talk about the Jane Doe that rolled in yesterday, Doc.” To Ajax, I added, “You don’t have any lips for him to read. Give him the murder book.”

  Jax hesitated. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s deaf,” I said.

  “Mostly deaf,” corrected Mumphrey. “Hearing aids help, but I don’t like to wear them in the examination rooms since I can’t adjust them because, well . . .” He wriggled the fingers of one hand, summoning the image of body-fluid-covered gloves. “Anyway, I get by, but I may miss a word or two.”

  “Right,” I said. “Jax, give him the package so he can do his thing.”

  We’d stopped by the evidence room and tech lab, picking up the suspected murder weapon and crime scene photos. Mumphrey could’ve requested them himself before the autopsy, but we sped the process from a matter of days to a few hours by walking them down ourselves.

  Ajax passed over the file. Doc went straight to the possible murder weapon. The evidence bag was mostly paper, to allow the blood to dry and prevent mold growth, with a plastic window to allow inspection without contact. Mumphrey pulled the bag taut, smoothing its wrinkles as he peered at the thin cylinder with a small spike at one end and a paddle at the other.

  “My, my. Look at that.”

  His eyes danced, taking in the materials, condition, everything. I wiggled my fingers on the edge of his vision to get his attention.

  “Safe to say it’s what caused the neck wound?” I asked.

  I watched his eyes to see if he followed me. If needed, I could supplement my words with the odd bit of sign language. I wasn’t anywhere close to fluent, but I’d picked up a few signs from Mumphrey over the years. Things like Explain, and Why? and Vodka or gin? The bare essentials for police work.

  “I’d assume so,” he said. “It certainly matches the size and shape of the puncture. You found this where?”

  I fanned the crime scene photos across his desk, pointing out the one that showed the gore-covered weapon on the ground.

  “I’m thinking the killer tossed it to the side,” I said, though I might as well have saved my breath. Mumphrey was engrossed in the photos, and wasn’t aware I was speaking. Jax’s eyes were on me and I gave him a shrug—we’d have to wait for the doc to be ready to talk on his own time.

  “Hmm.” He flipped back to the photos. “The blunt trauma was severe, and not caused by a direct blow from a fist, but you probably surmised as much. No sign of sexual assault, and I’ve sent the prints off, so you should be hearing back in a day or two. The more interesting wounds were to the face. Specifically the left mandible and both sets of jaws.”

  “Did you—” I paused, wiggling my fingers again to get his attention. “Doc, did you say both sets of jaws?”

  He gave a curt nod. “Yes. The left palp mandible had been removed, along with the lower front left cuspid from the biting jaw and a pair of cuspids from her esophageal dentition.” Mumphrey never missed a chance to use eight syllables when two would do.

  “Wait a minute,” I said, processing the description. “Teeth were missing from her speaking mouth?”

  “That’s right,” he said.

  “So someone reached into her speaking mouth and pulled out teeth?”

  To my left, Ajax held one hand to his speaking mouth, as if imagining the pain involved, and his biting jaw was slack with shock. I turned back to Mumphrey.

  “How is that even possible?”

  “Well, with this.” He broke the seal on the evidence bag and dropped the metal implement into one palm, comparing it to the photos. “Even when fully dilated, the Mollenkampi speaking mouth is only the size of a half-tael coin. There was minimal damage to the outside of the speaking mouth. It would have been very difficult to see in the alley light,” he added, as if to make us feel better. “This dental spatula,” he indicated the metal tool, “opened up enough of a wound to give access to the victim’s speaking mouth. We probably should place it against the corpse, to be—”

  “Hold up,” I interrupted him. “Did you say dental spatula?”

  Mumphrey nodded. “Dentists and technicians use them to clean off plaque.” He blinked. “You have been to a dentist, correct?”

  I shifted in my chair. “Yeah, but I don’t pay attention to the scrapers they’re using.” In truth, I usually squeezed my eyes shut and wished the whole thing was over. I pointed at Ajax. “He didn’t know what it was, either.”

  My partner raised his hands defensively. “My dentist uses tools that are . . . more aggressive.” He tapped a tusk with one mandible.

  I attempted to refocus Doc Mumphrey. “Okay, the murder weapon was used to pull out her teeth.”

  “Oh, no,” he said. “It wasn’t the puncture wound that killed her. She was killed by the head trauma.”

  “Does that mean the killer came back to finish her off and rip out her teeth?”

  “That’s right.” Mumphrey pulled an evidence label from his desk. He signed the label, then used it to reseal the possible murder weapon.

  “But the way the body was searched, the killer was looking for something,” said Jax. “Or killers?”

  I nodded. “Someone might have come along and taken her teeth later.”

  Mumphrey interjected. “Not much later. The teeth were removed immediately after death. Possibly before, but I expect I’d have found more signs of struggle if that were the case.”

  At least Jane hadn’t had to live through that torture. Though the mention of struggle jarred a memory.

  “Doc,” I said. “The techs said it looked like there was debris under her nails. Anything to go on there?”

  “No,” said Mumphrey. “Nothing useful under her nails, but there was residue in the throat puncture wound. Human, brown skin tone. Judging from the location I’d say it tore off when they pulled out her teeth, though I can’t guarantee it.”

  “You think it left a mark?”

  “Certainly. Not requiring stitches, but it’ll take some time to heal. Your killer likely has one torn-up hand.” He perked up. “Oh! I do have the autopsy photo. I assume you’d like a copy?” He stepped out to the examination rooms, presumably headed toward the more administrative offices of the medical examiner. When he returned, he carried a glossy head shot of Jane’s cleaned body. It was slightly better to see her like that. She was still pale and motionless on the slab, but it was at least more dignified than the crime scene photos we’d been carrying around. “Sorry I couldn’t be more help,” he said.

  Now that the autopsy was over, she’d be put into the system. If we didn’t learn her name and contact her family, she’d be processed and disposed of without form
ality or respect.

  I turned to Ajax. “Is there any reason you can think of—”

  “To collect teeth?” he said. “Absolutely not.”

  I stared up at the pocked surface of Mumphrey’s ceiling. How was I going to tell Bryyh that we had a homicidal dentist on the loose? I could already imagine the headlines.

  “As long as we’re here, Doc, do you got time for a few other questions?” When Mumphrey didn’t object I went on.

  “You should have the body of Cetus St. Beisht in the queue,” I said. “Gillmyn. The body’ll be in your waiting parlor shortly, if it’s not there already.”

  “Already done.” Mumphrey folded his hands and sat beaming behind his desk. “It was a priority rush.”

  “Pushed him to the top of the line,” I said. “Ahead of everyone else.”

  Mumphrey’s smile faded. “The same way I moved your Jane Doe. Only I put up with a distinct lack of paperwork on your end.”

  There was a bad taste in my mouth. It still staggered me how much justice depended on the dead having the right friends. “Otherwise Jane would have sat untouched.”

  Mumphrey sat perfectly still.

  “I must be misunderstanding,” he said. “You couldn’t possibly be implying that I’d ignore a patient.”

  I inhaled deeply, regretting my words.

  “Because,” he continued, the nasal tones in his voice becoming more pronounced as his temper flared. “I’d have to point out—again—that I pulled your Jane Doe from the queue ahead of dozens of other homicide victims.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “And each one of those victims has a family, and every one of them deserves closure.”

  “Yes,” I said again.

  “So you certainly aren’t implying that I don’t care about my patients.” He breathed out through his nostrils, a snort of indignation.

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” I said. “I only—” I ran a weary hand over my face. “I didn’t mean anything, Doc. I’m sorry, okay?”

  He chewed the whiskers on his lower lip, which at least meant he was done yelling at me.

  “What did you learn from St. Beisht’s body?” I asked.

  Mumphrey harrumphed. “From that mess? Hardly worth my time.”

  “It’s worth mine, Doc. Did you get anything at all?”

  “Well . . .” He looked at the ceiling with half-closed eyes, as if mentally reexamining the victim. “The body’d been moved, that’s for sure.” He trailed off, probably mentally cutting into the corpse again.

  Beside me, Jax’s head popped up, and he looked at me. He started to ask a question, then caught himself and began writing in his notepad.

  I got Mumphrey’s attention with a finger wave. “OCU thinks the murder happened in the laundry room,” I said. “And the body dumped straight into the washer.”

  Mumphrey ruffled his shirtfront, the way a diner might sweep away crumbs after a meal. “Hardly.”

  Ajax held his pad in Mumphrey’s line of sight. The stain, he’d written. On the floor.

  “Oh, I don’t doubt that the poor fellow was on the floor at one point,” Doc said. “I’ve seen the crime scene photos, and the blood sample collected matches the victim’s.” He steepled his fingers, probably relishing the role of wise old dispenser of knowledge. “But the body as found didn’t have near enough blood in it, even accounting for what was lost in the wash and on that floor. No, I suspect that the victim was killed and dismembered elsewhere before being brought to the laundry facility.” He peered at Ajax and myself. “Unless you found more fluids somewhere in the vicinity?”

  We hadn’t, and apparently neither had the techs. Mumphrey nodded, as if his expectations were confirmed.

  “A bit lucky on it,” he said. “If the person who discovered the body had found it later, or had left the machine running while they called it in . . .” He shrugged. “Well, I’d have had a much harder go of knowing for sure.”

  “Pretty specific act,” said Ajax. “And a strange place to stick the body.”

  I squinted, trying to recall the layout of the building. It’s not like the washing machine was a good hiding spot. If the killer didn’t care about the body being found, why not simply dump it in an alley, or trash can, or almost anywhere other than an apartment building laundry room?

  “What about time of death?” I asked Mumphrey.

  “I’d put it around half a day before the body was found,” he said. “Can’t swear to it, though. By the time I got the remains, they’d already been tainted.”

  “Tainted?”

  Mumphrey winced. “That wasn’t the best choice of words.”

  “Doc . . .” I leaned forward. There was nowhere I was going to let him slide.

  He fidgeted with his pen, clicking it open and closed. “The techs.” He cleared his throat. “I’m not sure what happened there. The OCU techs are normally top rate. Professional and careful.”

  “But not this time,” I prodded.

  He tossed the pen onto the desk. “No. There were enough mistakes and errors that it could throw the whole process into doubt. No single thing was blatant, but everything as a whole?” He shook his head. “Any good lawyer could find enough mistakes there to scrap every bit of evidence. We’re not going to get a conviction using anything gathered from that crime scene.”

  “Was this on purpose?” I leaned forward in my chair, feeling like the ground threatened to open up beneath me, as Dungan’s behavior and withholding the videotape took on new meaning.

  “I certainly wouldn’t imagine it was,” he said, then hesitated. “I can’t swear to it either way. Sometimes you get two different teams of techs. Might have been the result of a pissing contest. Or each team thought the other had the requisite checks in place.” He rubbed his hands together, as if he were scrubbing down for surgery. “Either way, it’s a messy affair.”

  A mess that seemed coordinated. Jax stared at me, unasked questions evident in his eyes.

  “Thanks, Doc,” I said as I stood. “You’ve given us a lot to go on.”

  Doc Mumphrey stood. “My office is always open,” he said. “And let me know the next time you can make poker night. I always enjoy separating you from your paycheck.”

  We moved toward the door of his office. “Carter, a word before you go?” Mumphrey glanced at Ajax’s back.

  I let Jax pull ahead of me while I leaned in to hear what the Doc had to say.

  “How’re you holding up?” He peered into my eyes. “Are you good on painkillers?”

  Mumphrey had given me meds back when I still suffered leg pain—now a thing of the past.

  “I’m great, Doc,” I said. “Pain’s all gone. But thank you.”

  He smiled and patted my shoulder.

  “One question though,” I said. “The other day I had some tingling here.” I raised my left hand, displaying the stumps of my two missing fingers. “I’ve had some sensations before, but this was different.”

  “Different how?”

  I glanced back at Jax. He was giving us some space to talk, but I still lowered my voice.

  “I don’t know,” I said, trying not to get my hopes up. Both Guyer and Gellica had said the explanation wasn’t magical, so maybe it was physical. And that meant maybe it wasn’t all in my head. “Like it came from inside my hand, not from the damage. That make sense?”

  Doc pursed his lips. I could tell the answer was No. I walked away before he had a chance to say the words, moving to catch up with Jax as I wondered what the Hells was wrong with me.

  15

  AS JAX AND I BEGAN the march back to Homicide, I decided to tackle the most pressing issue at hand.

  “Wanna grab a bite?” I asked.

  “You’re hungry?” Jax stared at me. “Your buddy Mumphrey just dropped a bombshell on us and you want to get food.” He mad
e a chittering noise, agitation clear in his narrowed eyes. “We went through this same let’s-not-talk-about-it routine after Dungan first leaned on us. We’re not doing that again.” He pulled out his handkerchief and swiped at a tusk. “Also, you should’ve told me Mumphrey’s deaf.”

  “He’s good to call if you need a sign language interpreter,” I said. “But don’t play poker with him. He’s never rattled by the trash talk.”

  “Nice to know,” Jax said. “What we need to discuss is what he said about the techs at the St. Beisht crime scene. Because to me, that sounds like they’re covering for someone. Add that to Dungan shutting down our access to the video surveillance . . .” He spread his arms, his implication clear as we reached the third floor.

  “Oh, I know. Believe me, I know. But we’re gonna get that video, and we’re gonna find out what’s going on with Dungan.” We paused by the wall-mounted mailboxes at the periphery of the Bullpen. “This isn’t the kind of thing we can let slide unchallenged.”

  I peered into my mailbox, hoping to find a message from Napier about the artist’s contact info. Instead there was a hand-written note on plain paper, the message in Captain Bryyh’s crisp and easily decipherable handwriting. See me. Now.

  I showed it to Jax.

  “We’ll talk later,” I said. “Gotta go get my daily dose of chastisement.”

  When I reached Bryyh’s office I found Guyer sitting in the chair across from the captain, one sandal half off, kicking a foot as she laughed.

  “Don’t get me started!” she said. “Have you watched Eileen Quinby, DO? They throw manna around like it’s confetti. I have three different forms to fill out before any usage gets approved, and even then I have to account for every drop. Half the time I testify in court I have to explain to the jury that magic isn’t found on every corner.”

  I rapped on the doorframe. “You mean the cop shows on TV aren’t accurate?” I raised my brows. “I think my innocence may be shattered forever.”

  Bryyh waved me inside, saying to Guyer, “Excuse me while I talk to our local celebrity.”