The NightShade Forensic Files: Echo and Ember (Book 4)

by A. J. Scudiere

  He was pointing out the shape of the bruise on the body to Eleri, but all five of them were leaning over, listening. When he finished pointing, he said, “So that’s it. Basically, all I can come up with is: ‘he hit his shins lightly on something.’ I’d want a tox screen, but I don’t smell anything.”

  He said the last words cautiously, maybe because he didn’t know how Dana and Christina would take it, but they didn’t blink.

  Wade spoke up then, “I don’t have anything either. I don’t smell anything—not that I’d know what I was detecting any better than Donovan. He’s trained in this field, he knows these smells. But what I can tell is that there are no explosives. I know I smell smoke, but I think I may also smell synthetic smoke on him. Like something plastic or man-made burned nearby. There’s a hydrogen buzz to him.”

  “That’s hydrogen?” Donovan asked, suddenly nerding out with his werewolf friend. “I got that, too, but I didn’t know that’s what the smell was.”

  “If you make water in the lab, you’ll learn than smell real fast. You’ll also likely lose your eyebrows, but it’s worth it.” Wade grinned as if everyone just blew up gaseous hydrogen and oxygen in the lab at some time. He then turned to Dana. “What did you get?”

  “Nothing.” She looked flummoxed. “That’s the thing. I always get something. But he doesn’t have broken vessels, there’s no normal clotting cascade, so he wasn’t bleeding even inside. The CT scan confirms that. No cancers, no immunological disorders—actually, he’s disturbingly healthy.”

  “Sure, for a dead man.” Eleri commented, then wished she hadn’t.

  “No, I mean when he was alive. Most people have something, and I can see it when they’re dead. So, if you were, say, hit by a car, I could tell that you’d had bone cancer or fibromyalgia.”

  “So that’s a real thing?” Eleri didn’t doubt that fibro was real, but a lot of people did. Lacking a testable medical diagnosis, it left a lot of people wondering if the symptoms were all in the heads of the sufferers.

  “Oh, it’s real.” Dana said. “But this guy—he has nothing. No GI problems, no back pain, no heel spurs. Nothing. He didn’t die so much as he ceased living.”

  “With great fear.” Pines put in.

  None of it added up. Or if it did, Eleri didn’t see it.

  Just then, Dana’s phone rang.

  Westerfield. Eleri knew that much. She waited while the other woman had a very brief conversation with their boss and then pulled out a tablet. A few taps on the screen and Dana pulled up a picture and whispered, “Holy shit.”

  Then she looked at them. “Westerfield didn’t want us to know this before the initial exam, but this was how our victim was found.”

  She turned the tablet so they could all see. Burt Riser was lying on the ground, his suit unrumpled and as pristine as a dead man’s could be, not a hair out of place, but clearly dead. All around him, in a messy, almost-ring that somehow left him untouched, the apartment was burned to a crisp.

  2

  Donovan tried to scrutinize the alarming photo as Dana moved the tablet, giving them each a better, closer look at the crime scene picture for a moment.

  Agent Christina Pines was last to see it and she only looked for a moment before she looked away, muttering, “Fuck.”

  Dana’s eyebrow quirked up as though the two of them knew something. But Donovan knew it, too, and he didn’t like any of it.

  He didn’t like working with all these people. He’d just come around to working with a partner, and to be honest, it only worked because the partner was Eleri. Despite their differences, she was more like him than not. The two of them was fine; five people on the case was simply more than he could handle.

  He’d only recently accepted the idea that his own father and himself were not the only ones who could do what he could. He’d figured out—after meeting Wade, after learning about the lobomau and the existence of others like him—that his grandparents were the same. As a kid, he’d only known they were odd. He’d never seen them change, not like he’d seen his father do.

  It had taken Wade pointing out that “wolf” didn’t mean “bad” to start to convince Donovan there was more to it. Wade also told him there was a community of others like them, willing to let Donovan join if he wanted. The jury was still out on that. Just as it was still out on Agents Dana Brantley and Christina Pines.

  Donovan had read through the background information Westerfield had given them about the other agents. Dana Brantley was some kind of death psychic. She could apparently see or feel damage to the body. She could then distinguish whether the person had been knifed, shot, poisoned, or more, though whether that came from her biomedical degree or some NightShade skill remained unclear.

  Christina, on the other hand, was much more physical. She’d apparently developed a little of Westerfield’s ability to move small objects around without touching them. The report called it psychokinesis; Donovan didn’t really have a name for it. But Pines’ major skill—probably the one that had gotten her recruited to NightShade—was much more in line with this case now.

  Eleri looked around at the group. “This guy, Burt Riser, we think he’s number four, right?”

  Dana nodded back at her. “That we know of. I think our first order of business is to find out if that number is maybe higher than four—since serials don’t usually start with their full complement of tricks but develop as they go.”

  The lead agent waited for a beat so Donovan nodded, assuming that was what she wanted. Eleri and Wade did, too, and Dana went on. “Job number two is to figure out the links between the victims.”

  “They don’t have anything yet?” Wade asked. Maybe he hadn’t done all the reading. That was a petty thought, Donovan realized. Wade was no longer a NightShade agent. Though the Bureau had badged him and given his full credentials back, it was only for this case. Westerfield had plucked him from his research lab and brought him here. Whatever the Senior Agent in Charge told Wade, it had made him willing.

  “We got nothing.” Eleri shook her head. Donovan figured if there were connections, she would find them. Her frown made him worry. Three cases, three solves. It looked good in their record.

  What looked bad in their record—apparently—were the “strays” they picked up. Senior Agent in Charge Derek Westerfield did not like the way they utilized civilians. First, they’d picked up Lucy Fisher—a.k.a. Walter Reed—when she outed Donovan as a wolf. “Picked up” was a strong term for GJ Janson. She’d glommed onto them to the point of getting herself arrested. But in the end, she’d been set free with no charges. Still, two strays in three missions? Maybe that was why they were working under Brantley and Pines on this case. Donovan shook off the negative thoughts. Maybe they were just working with the other agents because that’s the way this case needed to be worked, not as some kind of punishment. Not that Westerfield would tell them either way.

  “Wade and I need to go to the scene.” The words were out of his mouth before Donovan realized he was going to say them. He was just grateful they made sense. He followed it up as though he’d meant to say that. “Should we split up, or all go?”

  Dana looked around. “All of us. Let’s finish up here and make that our next stop, while it’s still daylight.”

  It was ten a.m., but Donovan knew how that could go. A seriously involved autopsy took hours.

  “Shall we?” Dana looked at him, suddenly handing him the proverbial baton.

  “Okay. All hands on.” He coached them through pulling the body back onto the gurney and then he wheeled the guy back into the main room, passing the still disgruntled M.E. in his office. They took his most interesting case and were now using his toys and shutting him out of his workspace for a good part of the day. Donovan shook his head at Dana as she reached to help push.

  The other four had wheeled the guy in here, not poorly, but Donovan hadn’t touched the gurney then. This time, he did it himself, the sense memory of the metal handles under blue, non-latex gloves
swamping him with a disturbing feeling of home. The heft of the body on the gurney felt right to him; even the scent of the morgue was comforting. He searched around, using Eleri as his assistant and talking the others through a few tasks so they didn’t feel left out. Look at him, playing on a team.

  With the scalpel firmly in his grip, the tip of his forefinger pressed against the metal as a guide, he made the first cut. Then the second. Then the third. Skin didn’t simply lift, it often had to be cut and pulled away and Donovan went to work peeling it back. He wanted to see the ribs before he cut them. The lack of bruising made the likelihood of some traumatic chest injury low, but given the lack of anything else, he had to check.

  Christina was the first one to get bored and turn away. Maybe she didn’t know what she was seeing or maybe she just didn’t care. She took Wade with her, suggesting they check victimology. For a moment, it looked like she was going to ask the M.E. to vacate his office for her—the ultimate insult. But she passed him by and led Donovan’s friend and new partner out, probably into the sunshine. Donovan reminded himself he liked it down here.

  Dana stayed close, leaning over his shoulder and asking questions—her biology background making them relevant. A few times she prefaced her words with “I worked with mice in the lab, so stop me if I’m on the wrong track,” but she’d asked solid questions.

  The problem was, he was into the chest cavity and he’d found nothing. He weighed the organs. He sniffed them, usually able to smell that something had been used on the victim if not exactly what. But there was nothing here. No reason to order any toxicology reports. The organs just smelled like a liver, a heart, what they were supposed to be. Not even like sick ones.

  He took the bone saw to the victim’s head and found a perfectly normal brain. Later, Donovan peeled the skin around the bruising on the shins and found exactly what he’d guessed before, even though by then he was praying to find an injection site for GHB or something, anything that would make this case more normal.

  “Well?” Dana asked.

  “It really looks like he just ran into his coffee table a bit too often. I got nothing either.” He turned to his partner, almost calling her “El” before thinking something a little more professional was called for. “Eleri?”

  “I looked. I don’t have your eye for this or your nose, but I don’t see anything either.” She looked away, then back at Dana. “I want to suggest we exhume the others, though I’m damn confident we won’t find anything there either.”

  “Might be worth it just to be sure. Then again, if we don’t have solid evidence it’s all the same killer, it will be hard to get warrants.” The other agent seemed thoughtful, but she didn’t offer a definitive answer. Then she turned back to Donovan. “So, it’s official? He died of nothing? And he died while frightened and in the middle of a room on fire?”

  “The fire would be scary.” Eleri shrugged. “But people don’t die of fright in fires.”

  She looked at him right as Donovan thought the same thing he saw go through her mind. He let Eleri voice the thought; he’d had too much interaction for one day already.

  Eleri posed her question to Dana. “So, did he see the fire? Did it scare him? Or did it happen after he was dead?”

  ELERI HAD NEVER BEEN SO grateful to have a suite as she was at this moment. Normally, having Donovan in the room next door was plenty close enough, thank you. They lived in each other’s pockets during cases; Eleri didn’t think they needed to share a central room, too. Only this time, she was grateful.

  She didn’t have to walk down the hallway to ask what he thought. She didn’t have to wonder if Christina or Dana would hear her pass by their room and realize she was . . . what? Passing notes? Cheating on them?

  No.

  But it would feel that way. This way, she was just passing time with her roomie.

  Donovan walked out into the main room, barefoot in jeans and a t-shirt. His hair was wet and heavy. She almost asked if he’d scrubbed as hard as she did to get the autopsy smell to go away—it hadn’t fully. Maybe he had a method. Screw it. She asked. “What am I doing wrong? I can still smell the autopsy.”

  “You know that stuff gets in your nose, El.” He looked at her sideways and pulled a can of soda from the mini fridge.

  She frowned. With his far superior nose, he must . . . “Do you just smell it all the time?”

  “Kinda.” He shrugged as he grabbed the pop tab on the can and made it hiss.

  “Damnit, Donovan. I was resisting having a coke until you had to go and do that.”

  He didn’t ask, just searched the cans and threw her one. Eleri glared back at him, set it on the coffee table and started tapping on the lid so it wouldn’t blow up on her. Whether that really worked, she didn’t know. The science was still out.

  “You need a stronger smelling soap. Best bet is to mask it.” He grinned and took a long drink.

  “That’s lovely.” She sighed but didn’t open the thrown can yet. “So, what do you think of the other agents?”

  “I like that de Gottardi guy.”

  “Ha ha,” she deadpanned. “You already know him. The others.”

  “I can’t tell if Christina Pines is simply not talkative or if she has a stick up her butt.” He shrugged as though he disliked saying it.

  “And Dana Brantley?”

  “Definitely alpha.” This time, no shrug, no wavering.

  “I guess that’s good, since she’s in charge.” Eleri finally popped the top on her drink, sighing in relief as it merely let out a slight fizz rather than attacking her with spray. She took a slug from the can and waited while the bubbles tracked down her throat before asking what she really wanted to know. “Do you think we’re being punished?”

  “Who knows? Westerfield seems more the type to just yell and demote us rather than saddle other agents with us if we’re so awful.”

  “Or,” Eleri chimed in, “he’s come to the conclusion we just enjoy working with others and that’s why we keep ‘picking up strays.’ Maybe he made us part of a legit team before we built one ourselves.”

  “That’s more probable. You’ll get a hit off of him before I do.” He crushed the can in his hand—a pretty jock move for a nerd—and chucked it into the trash. At least he did it without yelling “two points!” Donovan sat next to her on the couch and waited less than a heartbeat before asking, “What didn’t you tell the others?”

  3

  Eleri sighed at Donovan. There was a certain comfort to being known and known well. At times, it also felt like a damned invasion of privacy. The man could smell her like a wolf—he often knew where she’d been by smells she carried with her that she wasn’t even aware of. He knew if she didn’t wash her hair that morning. Eleri knew that, while washing her hair was the best line of defense for any secrets she might have, it wasn’t foolproof. He’d once said she smelled like she’d been on a plane. Never mind that he was right, what did that even smell like?

  She looked her partner square in the eye and said, “I keep dreaming of Emmaline. I think that note from my Grandmere really shook me up.”

  Donovan frowned. “You don’t think it’s maybe the other way around? That something’s up with your sister and you and your grandmother both picked up on it?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Why not? Your Grandmere obviously has a tap into the other side.” He was looking at her like she was nuts. Maybe she was.

  “So, when I was a kid, we would spend summer’s at Grandmere’s. My mother hated us being there, but my father said it was culture. She lives in the Lower Ninth Ward in New Orleans.” Eleri punctuated her words and took a thought while she drank some of her soda. “Grandmere was just . . . Grandmere. People visited her all the time. When I was a kid, it didn’t really occur to me that she was running a voodoo shop from her home.”

  “Eleri, you’re a Remy. The Remys are one of the best known voodoo families in the whole U.S. I looked it up.” He added more as though he wanted to explain why he�
��d done that. “I just got curious after she kept sending us that stuff. She said Emmaline will be found soon.”

  Eleri nodded, taking it all in. She knew about the Remys. But she, too, knew from the internet. Her mother had denounced the religion, raised her girls to be good, rich, white Southern Girls. Only by pieces did Eleri find out that she wasn’t really white. She was only rich from her father’s side of the family. And she was Southern only in the fact that New Orleans was kinda considered the South. Her family’s part of New Orleans was not the genteel southern part. She shifted the topic, not questioning why it all made her so uncomfortable. “Emmaline’s been dead for years. If they find her, it will only be bones.”

  Donovan took a deep breath. “But that’s what you do, Eleri.”

  She took another drink of the soda only to find it empty. Seemed like a fitting metaphor. She’d considered for years that she might one day lay hands on the skeletal remains of her sister. In fact, she kept track of found skeletons—checking teeth and sex and race to see if they might be her sister. Three had come close, but none had been Emmaline. Things like jewelry, dental records, and even time of discovery ruled most possibilities out. Emmaline was still out there somewhere.

  Eleri shifted the topic again. “This guy, Burt, he’s our current number four. But I don’t think he’s four.”

  “None of us really do. Dana made a good point. This is not the work of a beginner.” Donovan took her soda can, crushed it and tossed it at the trash, missing by a wide mile. Popping up to get it, he excused the miss. “I ran track.”

  “No.” Eleri was still focused off into space. “I’m trying to catalog how many there were. This isn’t number four. I feel it. I know it. It’s not just a theory.” She couldn’t put her finger on it yet.

  Her first partner, an awesome cowboy of an agent, believed in her hunches. J. Binkley Ramer simply hadn’t stayed with her long enough to see those hunches turn around and bite her in the ass. Her thoughts flitted to him and back. He’d taught her about working the scene, about absorbing the data and letting it sit. “Shit!”