I had to swallow hard. The details of the murders were especially gruesome. Someone definitely wanted Grigori to suffer both mentally and physically. What I didn’t offer the doctor, however, was that we, the bound, have a much different physiology than regular mortals. We age much more slowly, and our reflexes, senses, and immune systems are all significantly more enhanced. In other words, we don’t need adrenaline to fuel our reactions, so our bodies all but stop producing it, which means we don’t go into the physiological shock that can cause a heart attack or organs to fail in mortals. It would take a lot to kill us, and that’s without any special trinkets but we’re not immortal and we can die. Still, it typically takes an act of supreme violence to do the deed, as the body on the table in front of me attested.
“How long did it take for the two of them to die?” I asked.
Schneider eyed me over his bifocals, his silver mustache pointing down in an exaggerated frown. “Hours,” he said simply. Moving over to another table with a white sheet over a body, the ME pulled back the sheet to reveal victim number two, the woman with the long blond hair, Rachel McQueen—Grigori’s girlfriend.
Rachel’s eyes and mouth were now closed, which was a relief but there was significant bruising around her mouth which I hadn’t noticed before. “As you can see here”—the ME paused to point to the corners of her mouth, which were cut and raw—“this makes me think that she was gagged, and she struggled against it, either out of pain or desperation. Probably both. Curiously, I couldn’t find a single fiber from the gag in any of her teeth or in her mouth, or in that of any of victim number three or four, but they all appear to have been gagged prior to the stabbing.”
What Schneider didn’t know was that the gag tied to the dinner guests had been a trinket, so while it would’ve felt very real to the three of them, there would be no trace evidence of anything material left behind.
“What about this one?” Kincaid asked, pointing back to Grigori. “Did he have a gag?”
Dr. Schneider came back to the table where the mystic lay. “No,” he said. “Oddly, he was the last to die but there was no evidence of a gag.”
Of course I knew why Rasputin hadn’t been gagged. The mystic who murdered him would’ve wanted him talking, confessing to the location of the egg. What I didn’t know was if he’d given up that location.
I studied him while I had the chance, moving my gaze down the body, which had been sewed up rather crudely along the Y incision.
There were scars in all the places you’d expect, given Grigori’s history. A round dimple in his forehead and another next to his ear where a bullet to the head had failed to kill him. Three other round dimples dotted his torso, and one long scar ran just under his ribcage, where he’d been stabbed by a woman back in 1916 who’d been angry at the tales of his sexual predation. He shouldn’t have lived through that encounter, but he did, and I wondered if that was when the egg had first healed him, which would take the egg down to five uses left.
Scrutinizing the body a little more, I saw that there was the slight but still evident stitching pattern running almost exactly parallel to the stitching the ME had done to his torso.
“You noticed that, eh?” Schneider asked me.
I nodded. “Yes.”
He shook his head. “It’s uncanny, really. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that this cadaver had already experienced an autopsy … that he eventually recovered from.”
Kincaid let out a rather forced chuckle. “Bet you’ve never worked on a zombie, eh, Doc?”
I knew what Kincaid was doing; he was trying to get the ME to agree that no such thing could’ve possibly happened, but Schneider merely scratched at his chin and shook his head. “I’ve never had a body on my table present with so many confounding paradoxes. I’ve noted four wounds that should’ve been fatal, but none of them—apart from the last—actually was. It’s an extraordinary case, Detective Kincaid.”
Schneider didn’t even know the half of it. Still, we had to be careful here. We couldn’t encourage the ME to dig deeper into the mysteries of Grigori Rasputin. It was safer if he simply chalked it up to an unusual case and moved on.
I went back to studying the body, looking for signs that the legendary mystic had had other fatal wounds, but could find only the ones already well-known to history. Well, and the one inflicted the night of the dinner party.
Steeling myself, I eyed the deep gash across his lower abdomen, wondering what had been used to make the cut. It was a precise incision, as if it’d been made with a sharp scalpel—or a jade knife like the one we’d just used for our mentoring ceremony.
Kincaid must’ve seen me inspecting the wound because I heard him ask, “Any tip you can offer on the murder weapon?”
Schneider sighed like he was weary of having to comment on such things. “You’re looking at a surgical-quality implement with a blade at least six inches long.”
“That’s one sharp knife,” Kincaid said.
“It would be,” Schneider agreed. “Still, by the aggressive nature of the wound, I would say that the assailant is quite strong, right-handed, and definitely not squeamish. My guess is that he’s a hunter.”
“Could the murder weapon have come from the vic’s kitchen?” Kincaid asked.
“Possibly. But the kitchen knives the CSI team brought in for me to compare are all average quality. There wasn’t anything among them that would’ve been sharp enough or long enough to have made that kind of incision.”
“So the murderer brought it with him,” I said.
“Most likely. And he left with it too.”
“Anything else?” Kincaid asked, his tone impatient. When Schneider’s expression registered annoyance, Kincaid clarified. “What I mean is, is there anything else about the victims that stands out to you?”
Schneider shrugged again. “Two things that stand out to me that may or may not be worth mentioning.”
“Yes?” I asked.
Schneider walked over to one of the cadaver drawers in the cooler wall and pulled it open. Out slid a bald woman with a youthful face but no hair or brows. It took me a moment to realize she’d been one of the dinner guests. “This woman is related to victim number two—”
“Rachel McQueen,” Kincaid said, looking over to the exam table where she lay.
“Yes,” Schneider said. “Probably sisters. But this woman had advanced ovarian cancer. She likely had only a few months to live. My theory is that, given her fragile health, even if she were the last person eviscerated, she was the first to succumb.”
Kincaid and I traded looks. That was an interesting bit of information, and it gave me insight into another mystery about the crime scene.
Schneider shut the drawer and moved back to the table where Grigori’s corpse lay.
“The other thing that stood out to me was that all the guests registered alcohol in their systems, but no one was above the legal limit except for this man. His blood-alcohol was quite high, yet his liver showed only just-above-average alkaline levels for someone who had obviously drunk excessively for many years.”
“Why do you say he drank excessively?” I asked.
“Because his blood alcohol level would’ve put anyone else into a coma, or worse. There’s no possibility that he could’ve been conscious if he didn’t already have an extremely high tolerance.”
Again, this was part of Grigori’s history that was thoroughly documented. He’d been a well-known alcoholic, and I wondered if the egg had in fact been used to repair his liver. I’d have to count at least the chance of that in the number of lives the egg had left to save, which would possibly bring the egg’s magical-use count down to four.
Schneider walked to the head of the corpse and sighed as he stared down at what I knew must’ve been a true enigma to him. “There’s so much about this man’s case that makes no sense, really. His organs were healthy, and if I’d seen them away from the body, I would’ve guessed they each came from a much younger individual. And then there�
��s this,” he said, tapping the dimple in Grigori’s forehead. “See that?” he asked us.
Kincaid and I both nodded. “I’d bet my license that that’s a bullet hole,” Schneider said. “And yet there’s no evidence of a wound beyond this slight dimple. The skull is intact and the brain undamaged. To be honest, I can’t account for it.”
I looked at Kincaid and made a subtle movement with my head. We needed to go before the good doctor began putting too much together.
He smiled tightly at the ME and said, “Thank you for your time, Dr. Schneider. We’ll be in touch if we need anything more from you.”
“I’ll email you the autopsy reports,” Schneider promised.
“Thank you,” Kincaid said and led the way out of the room.
When we got to the corridor leading to the parking lot, Kincaid said “We’re lucky that Schneider is only a few weeks away from retirement. If he were a little younger, he might start to dig into all the anomalies on Grigori’s body.”
“And Rachel’s,” I said.
He glanced sideways at me. “Mystic?”
I nodded. “Quite likely. I doubt Grigori would’ve taken a mortal for a lover.”
Kincaid’s face reddened and I found that telling. Switching topics he asked, “What’s your take on the murders?”
“My take?”
“Yeah. What’re your thoughts on the killer?”
By now we were at the door leading to the parking lot and Kincaid pushed on it, holding it open for me to go through first. “My take is that there was either a whole lotta anger, or a whole lotta twisted sickness involved,” I said as I passed him.
“I agree,” he said, joining me at my side again.
Squinting in the bright sunshine of the late morning, I added, “I also think that the killer was after the egg, and that may have motivated him to stretch out the murder for as long as possible to make Grigori not just suffer, but also confess to where the egg was.”
Kincaid grunted. “We can’t assume that whoever murdered Grigori knew about the egg.”
“Oh, come on,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“I’m serious, Esmé. The killer could’ve just been a sick son of a bitch who enjoyed torturing people.”
“You’re forgetting the most important clue though,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“It had to have been someone Grigori knew and trusted.”
We reached his vehicle, but paused in front of it while we talked through the case.
“Why do you think it had to be someone he knew?” Kincaid asked.
“Because no way could someone have gotten into that home if Grigori’s guard wasn’t down. From everything that I’ve heard, he was one helluva powerful and suspicious mystic. He would’ve had wards up on all the windows and doors, and it would’ve taken someone on the level of Elric or Petra to penetrate them.”
“That’s a fair point,” Kincaid conceded.
“Also remember that not only did someone get inside that house undetected, but they also got the jump on Grigori. There’s no other way to explain the complete lack of physical damage to the dining room if it’d been any other way.”
“That’s also true,” Kincaid said. “If Grigori had been overpowered, then there would’ve been a fight preceding that, and there would’ve been a path of destruction all around the area.”
“Exactly.”
“That makes it more likely this was a crime of passion rather than opportunity.”
“I disagree,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because the egg is missing.”
Kincaid puffed out a breath. “The killer probably lifted it off Grigori while he was bound and gagged. He could’ve simply been searching for valuables when he discovered the egg.”
“Nope.”
Kincaid frowned at me. “You don’t like that theory?”
“No. Grigori wouldn’t have had the egg on him during the dinner party. In fact, he would’ve hidden it as far away from the dining room as possible.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because his guest, what’s her name, the bald chick …”
“Sara. Sara Murphy, Rachel’s sister.”
“Yeah, her. She was dying from terminal cancer. Grigori must’ve known because no way would he have allowed anyone with a terminal disease near his precious egg. This was an intimate setting with good friends. And you don’t hide late-stage ovarian cancer from the keen eyes of a mystic healer. Grigori would have wanted the egg as far away from Rachel’s sister as possible.”
“I’m still not understanding: Why exactly? Wasn’t the egg under Grigori’s control?”
“Yes and no. The egg would’ve detected a significant need in the room, and it would’ve been difficult for the mystic to have controlled the urge to heal Sara. Especially if he was drinking. I think it was far more likely that well before the Murphys arrived, he hid the egg somewhere far away from that dining room so that he could relax for the evening.”
“So maybe he was tortured to give up its location?” Kincaid said.
“I think that’s a much more likely scenario.”
“Unless he was cut first.”
“I have no doubt he was. The torture came by putting him in a position where he knew he would eventually bleed out and die out of reach of the egg, and to put the pressure on, his girlfriend and his guests were also murdered in front of him. The killer probably convinced him that if Grigori gave up the location of the egg, he’d use it to save Grigori’s life.”
Kincaid frowned. “Or Grigori didn’t give up the location of the egg and he died anyway. It could still be hidden in the house somewhere.”
“It’s not.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I did a thorough search of the place before you arrived. It’s not there.”
“Maybe you missed it.”
“I didn’t.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I’m in the business of locating hidden objects.”
Kincaid eyed me skeptically. “Ah, I see. Nothing gets by you, right?”
“Nope.”
At that exact moment, four very large men and one Amazonian-looking woman stepped up to surround us.
“Dammit,” I growled, taking in the five newcomers who’d just turned me into the world’s biggest hypocrite.
For his part, Kincaid seemed just as surprised as I was, but he didn’t say a word. He simply stared over my shoulder at a presence I knew was right behind me. And I quickly realized who it was by the quickening of my pulse and a tiny spark of desire. Only then did I also notice that the charm given to me by Kincaid during the ceremony had become warm against my skin.
“Hello, brother,” a voice behind me said.
“Finn,” Kincaid said with a snarl. “Surprised to see you here and not at my desk, pretending to be someone important.”
Finn laughed. “It’s amazing what one learns hanging around the police department.” Finn the Flayer then reached a quick hand to clamp down on my shoulder, not painfully, but strong enough to promise the infliction of some pain if I dared move. “We need to chat.”
“I’m a little busy at the moment,” Kincaid said.
“Not you,” Finn said, before squeezing my shoulder. “Her. Petra wants a word.”
I rolled my eyes and looked dully at Kincaid. “Guess we know whose milkshake brings all the boys to the yard.”
The Amazonian snarled at me. Fun.
“Well, I guess it’s not your lucky day, Finn,” Kincaid said. “She’s with me, and I need her so no meet and greet with your boss lady is gonna happen today.”
For the next several seconds, it was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
Which gave me an idea.
With a loud sigh, I looked right at Kincaid before narrowing my eyes, then slid my gaze sideways toward the Amazonian.
He balled his hands into fists, and I knew it was go time. Taking the initiative, he took a st
ep toward his brother, and I used the distraction to whirl in a circle, spinning low and around, which got me out of Finn’s grasp. Jerking my left hand produced a small dart from the cuff of my leather jacket, and I poked it quickly into Finn’s right thigh.
He didn’t seem to notice because he was also in motion, heading toward his brother. He got about two steps before the paralytic hit him and he went down to one knee.
Meanwhile I continued to spin low, which put me temporarily under the arm range of the Amazonian but still high enough to strike her with my leg in the back of the knee. As she began to fall, I gave her a prick with the dart too, right in the lower back. She went down and couldn’t get back up.
Vaulting over her, I did a handspring, which brought me right up in front of one of the other goons, who smiled wickedly in my face like he was about to enjoy crushing the life out of me. Reaching to wrap me in his arms for a bear hug, I got my hand up under his chin faster than he’d anticipated, striking him in the neck. His chin collapsed to his chest, and he fell forward taking me with him.
I barely made it out from under him as his entire 300-pound massive frame fell like a giant oak onto the pavement face-first.
Spinning away several more feet, I finally stopped to assess the situation, and discovered Kincaid and Finn locked in a tangle of arms and legs, rolling on the ground.
I began to run toward them when something heavy crashed into my side and sent me flying through the air to land hard against the side of Kincaid’s SUV.
For several seconds my head spun, and I slid to the ground as two goons came up and jerked me to my feet.
I tried feebly to fight them, but it was over. That blow had knocked the fight right out of me.
The remaining goon still left standing and unoccupied—and who was also the largest and most intimidating of the group—moved over to Finn and Kincaid and yanked them apart, hauling Kincaid to his feet with one hand and extending the other to Finn.
SPELL TO UNBIND, A Page 16
