Текст книги "Hard Spell"

Автор книги: Justin Gustainis

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  "Could some nurse have missed something? Maybe forgot one of the hourly checks?"

  "No way, no how. The ICU nurses are the best in the hospital, Stan. They do not fuck up, and that would constitute a major fuck-up."

  I closed my eyes and tried to make my miserable excuse for a brain work. "You've got surveillance cameras over there, Charlie. I've seen 'em."

  "Yeah, we do, and I know what you're thinking. There's one trained on the hallway right outside the ICU. Our security guy is reviewing the disc now."

  "There's no other way out of there, except for the windows, is there? And the ICU's on the fifth floor."

  "Exactly. However she left, conscious or not, on a gurney, in a wheelchair, or walking, she had to go along that corridor. We'll find her – well, find her image, anyway."

  "Give me a call when you do."

  I put down the phone and sat at my desk, staring at nothing. I was thinking about magic – and about disappearing acts.

I didn't hear back from Charlie until the next night. He called right after I came on shift.

  "So, how did she leave the ICU, Charlie? Was it under her own power, or was she taken?"

  There was a long pause before Charlie said, "We'd like to discuss that with you face-to-face, Stan. Can you drop by Mercy sometime tonight?"

  "Who's we?"

  "The head of security. And me."

  "All right, Charlie, I'll come over now, if the boss doesn't need me. But give me the short version now – how did she get out of there?"

  "There actually isn't a short version, Stan. That's why we'd like to discuss this with you in person."

  Arguing with him was just going to waste time I could better spend driving to Mercy Hospital. "I'll be there in twenty minutes," I said. I asked Karl to stay at the squad and call me if anything urgent came in. Then I got moving.

The head of security at Mercy was an ex-cop named Sam Rostock. He'd let himself go to seed after leaving the force, to the point where his belly now hung over the belt of his Wal-Mart grade slacks – but I guess muscle tone isn't too important when your toughest job is getting people to leave the hospital after visiting hours are over.

  I sat down after the introductions – which were unnecessary, but Charlie didn't know that. I was looking at Rostock but speaking to Charlie when I said, "So what was so important that you couldn't tell me about it over the phone?"

  "I checked the video feed from the camera that's aimed at that hallway," Rostock said. "The one outside the ICU. Checked it twice, for the period when what's-her-name, Proctor, was brought in until an hour after she was declared missing."

  I expected more, but Rostock stopped talking and just sat there, looking at me. It was impossible to read his face – he'd been a cop, after all.

  "There's nothing, Stan," Charlie said finally. "No indication that she left the ICU, either under her own power or with assistance. Nothing."

  "I don't suppose that a body was wheeled out of there, in a body bag or under a sheet, maybe," I said. "Or somebody in a wheelchair who'd suffered bad facial burns and was heavily bandaged – anything like that?"

  "Of course I checked stuff like that – you think I'm stupid?" Rostock said. "And it wasn't hard to do, because not one patient, living or dead, was taken out of the ICU during that period. Not one."

  I ran my hand through what was left of my hair a couple of times. "What about visitors? Did you check to see whether one more visitor left there than went in?"

  "My God, I never would have thought of that," Charlie said, softly.

  "Well, I did," Rostock said, but without the defensiveness in his voice. "Same time period – an hour before she was admitted, in case somebody was already in there, visiting in another room, to an hour after she was found gone. Every damn visitor that went in there is accounted for. And this is spring, so nobody's wearing hats or scarves that could hide their face. The ones who came in, went out. And only them."

  "Except for the nurses and doctors," I said.

  "Not bad," Rostock said, as if he meant it, "but I thought of them, too. Every doctor, nurse, and med tech working here is somebody I've met personally. I make a point of that. Plus, each one has a photo on file with Human Resources, the same picture that's on their ID badge. And with the computer system we have, I was able to do close-ups on the faces of everybody who passed through that door, in either direction. Nothing suspicious. Nothing even close."

  The three of us sat there for a while. "Okay, then," I said, finally. "Let me summarize the facts, such as they are." I ticked them off on my fingers as I went along.

  "One, Rachel Proctor was brought into the ICU, from the ER, at 4:18am two days ago. Two, Rachel Proctor did not leave the ICU through its only door, and getting away through the fifth-floor window is only gonna work if you're a bird. And three, Rachel Proctor is undeniably gone."

  I looked at each of them. "Accurate?"

  Their silence said it all.

  "So, what happened was impossible, except that it did," I went on. "And there's only one thing that makes the impossible happen, these days – and that's magic."

"Why would Rachel use magic to make herself disappear?" Karl asked me. "If she wanted to leave the hospital, all she had to say was, Okay, I'm all better – release me."

  "Yeah, it makes no sense. Unless she wanted to disappear from sight for a while, you know, hide from somebody. Or something."

  "Hide from who?"

  "Maybe from me. Can't blame her for that – I'm the asshole who got her into this mess, whatever it is."

  "Don't start with that again, all right? The chick's all grown up, and everything. She knew what she was getting involved in – probably better than you did. And nobody held a gun to her head that I know of. Or a wand."

  "I know, but – what did you say?"

  Karl looked at me. "Just that nobody forced her to–"

  "No, about a wand."

  He shrugged. "I said wand cause it seemed more, like, appropriate for a witch, that's all. What's the big deal?"

  "I don't know how big a deal it is," I told him. "But you just reminded me that Rachel's not the only one in this case who can work magic."

  Karl frowned. "What are you talking about, man? Who else in this mess can…?" He let his voice trail off and his eyes went wide.

  "Exactly," I said. "George fucking Kulick, that's who."

  I started to explain to Karl the idea that had just occurred to me – but then the old man came to see us, and that changed everything.

Louise the Tease, our PA, came back to tell us that we had a visi. We call her that (not to her face) because her size 8 body is usually crammed into a size 6 dress, but she refuses to date cops – something about not wanting to take her work home with her. Louise said that someone up front was asking for whoever was working the Kulick murder.

  Karl and I looked at each other, then did a quick game of paper-rock-scissors. His paper wrapped my rock, so I stood up and headed for the small reception area. On the way, I had a brief fantasy that George Kulick's killer had walked in to confess, and we'd be able to close this case out tonight.

  Yeah, and a goblin will be the next pope.

  Whoever had the steel in his spine to do all those things to Kulick wasn't going to get all mushy and remorseful about it now. I just hoped that whoever had come in wasn't going to be a waste of time.

  It turned out to be an old guy, thin and pale, but not frail looking. His iron gray hair was combed straight back to form a widow's peak. The gray suit had probably been new during the Kennedy administration, and the white button-down shirt underneath it had been washed so often that it was closer to beige. He wore it buttoned to the neck, with no tie.

  "I'm Detective Sergeant Markowski," I said. "I understand you have some information about a case we're investigating."

  The old guy got to his feet smoothly. He had none of the shakiness about him that you'd expect from somebody who looked to be in his seventies. That got me wondering.

  "My name is Ernst Vollman," he said, his voice firm and clear. "If you refer to the murder of George Kulick, yes, I thought some conversation on the subject might be mutually beneficial."

  Mutually beneficial wasn't exactly what I had in mind, but I let it slide. Instead, as Vollman came closer, I put out my hand to shake.

  I don't usually do that with civilians – whether they're suspects, witnesses, or informants. I like to maintain a certain distance with the public, but this time I made an exception. It seemed like he might have hesitated for a moment, but then Vollman took my hand and shook it briefly.

  I noticed two things about that handshake. One was a sense of strength you wouldn't expect in an old guy. He didn't go all macho on me and try to squeeze, none of that bullshit. But suddenly I was aware that if he put his mind to it, he could break every bone in my hand without raising a sweat.

  The other thing was, his hand was cold. I know that old folks sometimes have circulation problems in their extremities, but this went way beyond that. This guy was cold.

  That's when I knew for sure.

  I gestured toward the squad room and followed Vollman toward the door, working hard to keep my face blank. Ernst Vollman represented something that Karl and I didn't have five minutes ago: a lead. So I was going to be very nice to this old man, for the time being. Even if he was a fucking vampire.

I told Vollman to sit in the visitor's chair next to my desk, and then Karl rolled his own chair over, placing it so that our visitor couldn't look at both of us at once. It's an old cop trick designed to keep suspects off balance.

  The old man didn't seem fazed by the seating arrangements. When I introduced Karl, Vollman looked at him for a long moment, as if planning to draw him from memory later. Or maybe have him for lunch. Then he turned his attention back to me.

  "I have been away from the city for several days," he said, "and only learned of Mr Kulick's tragic death upon my return last night."

  "Return from where?" Karl asked.

  "Oh, a number o places," Vollman said. "I travel a great deal, you see. To visit friends, relatives, old acquaintances. Sometimes they ask me for advice, or a favor, or to settle some small dispute."

  "So this isn't your job, then – travelling around," Karl said.

  "Not at all. I am long since retired. But I like to occupy my time usefully, when I can."

  "Where did you retire from, Mr Vollman?" I thought I'd join the conversation.

  Vollman made a small gesture. "I have done a great many things to support myself, over the years. Mostly, I have been self-employed."

  "Self-employed doing what?" Karl asked him. He was starting to get impatient with the old man's bullshit, and I didn't blame him.

  "Consulting, mostly. Some investments. Occasionally, import-export." Vollman's smile was as thin as the rest of him. He knew he was ducking our questions, and he knew we knew it, too. He also knew we couldn't do shit about it. For the moment, anyway.

  I decided to cut through the crap and see if there was anything underneath it. "What do you know about George Kulick's murder, Mr Vollman?"

  "I do not know who killed him, if that is what you are asking. But I believe I know something almost as important."

  Vollman paused, probably for effect. "I am fairly certain I know why he was killed."

There was a silence that lasted several seconds before I broke it. "If you're waiting for someone to feed you the next line, I'll do the honors: why was Kulick killed?"

  Vollman gave me another one of those little smiles. "I do have rather a tendency toward the dramatic, don't I? Please accept my apologies." He made the smile disappear. "I believe Mr Kulick was murdered because he was the possessor, in effect the guardian, of a certain object. An object of great value."

  Karl leaned forward, frowning. "The killer left something like forty grand behind. Even if what he came for was worth more than that, why not take the cash, too?" It was a question the two of us had been scratching our heads over ever since we saw what was in Kulick's safe. Who walks away from forty thousand bucks?

  Vollman gave Karl the kind of look that village idiots must get really tired of. "The answer, I would think, is obvious, Detective. Kulick's killer had no interest in money." He shook his head a couple of times. "There is more than one measure of value, my young friend."

  "The object, as you call it, must've had something to do with magic, then, since Kulick was a wizard," I said to Vollman.

  "Yes, that is quite true."

  "So, what's it to you?"

  The wrinkles around Vollman's eyes compressed a little. "I do not understand your meaning, Sergeant."

  "I mean, since when is the business of wizards of any interest to a vampire?"

  Vollman sat slowly back in his chair and looked at me.

  I've got good peripheral vision, and from the corner of my eye I could see Karl's hand move slowly toward the top drawer of his desk, and the crucifix he kept there. He needn't have bothered. Any vamp who wanted to cause trouble wouldn't pick a police station, especially the Supe Squad, to do it.

  Probably.

  Still, I was suddenly aware of the weight of the Beretta on my right hip, with its standard load of eight silver bullets that had been blessed by the Bishop of Scranton. Part of me wished the old vamp would give me an excuse to use it.

  "The handshake, yes?" Vollman said to me, after a moment. "It was the handshake that revealed y... true nature... to you. I wondered at your reason, since you do not, forgive me, Detective Sergeant, strike me as the friendly type."

  Friendly? I wanted to say. Hey, I'm one of the friendliest guys around – except to the bloodsucking undead.

  "How I know doesn't matter, Mr Vollman," I told him. "I asked you a question: why do you care about George Kulick and what happened to him?"

  Another long look. I was about to tell Vollman that I was getting tired of his theatrics when he said, "The reason I am interested in the fate of that particular wizard..." He turned his left hand over, palm up, to reveal an old, faded, but unmistakable tattoo of a pentagram. "...is because I am a wizard myself."

Karl and I looked at each other for several seconds before we returned our attention to Vollman.

  "I've never met anyone with your particular… combination of attributes before," I said.

  "Nor have I, and I have lived far longer than either of you gentlemen. However, there is nothing, in theory, to prevent someone from living in both worlds, should he choose to. Mind you, in my case the choice was not made freely."

  "How do you mean?" Karl asked.

  Vollman shrugged his thin shoulders. "It is a long story, but, in brief, I was already an accomplished wizard when I was attacked and… transformed... by a vampire. That was in the year 1512."

  I noticed that Karl was frowning. "I don't get it," he said. "Somebody who can work magic should have been able to handle a vampire without too much trouble."

  "Magic is not something that can be invoked at a moment's notice," Vollman told him. "Had I been given the time to prepare a defensive spell, I would surely have prevailed. But I had no inkling that a vampire was in the vicinity, and so was caught unawares."

  "Which also explains how Kulick was subdued by whoever tortured him," I said. "He didn't have a spell, or whatever, ready to use against his attacker."

  "Very likely," Vollman said, nodding. "Unlike a gun or a knife, magic cannot usually be brought to bear at a moment's notice. Although, given time for preparation, it can be a very potent weapon, indeed."

  "You said Kulick was taking care of some valuable object," I said. "I assume that's what was ripped off from his safe by whoever killed him. Care to tell us what it was?"

  Vollman looked at his hands for a long moment. "I suppose I must, since it is of vital importance that it be recovered. George Kulick was entrusted with a copy of the Opus Mago-Cabbilisticum et Theosophicum, written by Georg von Welling around 1735 – although parts of it are older. Far older."

  "Don't think I know that one," I said. "But I've got a feeling that it isn't this month's selection from the Book of the Month Club."

  "The work is not well known, even among the cognoscenti," Vollman said. "The Opus Mago, as it is usually called, is quite rare. Only four copies are believed still in existence. It is – and I beg your indulgence of the cliché – a book of forbidden knowledge."

  "I get it," Karl said. "Like the Necronomicon."

  Vollman looked at him. "The Necronomicon is a myth, a product of the fevered brain of that writer Lovecraft," he said scornfully.

  Karl shrugged. "Some people say different."

  "And some people," Vollman said, "once said the Earth is flat. Indeed, I knew several such individuals personally." He made a shooing away gesture with one hand. "But whether this Necronomicon exists is irrelevant. The Opusago, I assure you, is all too real."

  "What's in it that makes the book forbidden?" I asked him.

  "Spells, of course, along with descriptions of rituals, conjurations, directions for the making of certain implements and ingredients. Also, illustrations of certain... symbols."

  "So far, that sounds like a description of something that every practitioner has on his bookshelf," I said. "Or hers."

  Vollman nodded slowly. "In a general sense, perhaps. But the particular rituals and spells contained in the Opus Mago are used for the invocation and control of only the darkest powers. It is said that portions of the book were dictated by Satan himself, but that is probably a myth." He stopped, and stared at his hands for a moment. "Yes, a myth, almost certainly. In any case, this material is something no workaday wizard or witch would have access to. Nor is it anything they would wish to acquire."

  "You talking about calling up demons?" Karl asked. "Hell, we ran into one of them a couple, two, three months ago. No big deal."

  I wouldn't call almost having my head chewed off "no big deal", but I knew what Karl meant. Any number of wizards already had the knowledge necessary to conjure demons. Fortunately, most of them were smart enough not to do it.

  "No, the power of the Opus Mago goes far beyond that," Vollman said. "It is a great and terrible book. I have not looked within it myself, mind you. But I was present when it was given to Kulick for safekeeping."

  "Why?" I asked him.

  Vollman frowned. "Why? What do you mean?"

  "The way you put that suggests that you didn't give the book to Kulick, but you observed the transfer take place. Why were you there, if you weren't the guy handing over the book?"

  Vollman gave one of those little gestures that you associate with Mafia dons in the movies. It combined modesty and arrogance in exactly the right proportions. "There is, in this area, a loose confederation of those who are what you call 'supernaturals.' I have the honor to be its leader."

  Karl and I looked at each other for a second, then turned toward Vollman.

  "So it's you," Karl said.

  Vollman gave us raised eyebrows.

  "We'd heard that someone took over after Martin Thackery got staked," I told him. "But none of the supes we know would give us a name. You're the new boyar, the Man."

  "As good a term as any, I suppose," Vollman said, nodding.

  "Well then, Mr Man," Karl said, "why don't you tell us who you think killed George Kulick, before my partner and me are too old to do anything about it?" Sometimes I really like that kid.

  But I didn't much like what Vollman told us next. "I have absolutely no idea," he said.

  So much for our hopes of clearing this case quickly. There was silence while Karl and I digested the bad news, then I said to Vollman, "But you must have some idea about the kind of person who did it."

  "I might," Vollman said. "But then I expect you have already reached some conclusions of your own."

  My chair creaked as I leaned forward. "Whoever did Kulick that way has got a strong stomach and good nerves," I said. "He didn't lose control, like they sometimes do. He just kept doing stuff to Kulick until the poor bastard broke and told him where the safe was. Gave up the combination, too. He must've, since the safe wasn't punched, peeled, or blown."

  "Kulick was tough, you gotta give him that," Karl said. "He took a hell of a lot of punishment before he finally gave it up."

  "He had sworn an oath," Vollman said stiffly. "He was chosen to safeguard the book because he was the kind of man who takes such oaths seriously."

  "Don't be too hard on him," I said. "He suffered for that oath, in ways you can't even imagine."

  Vollman gave me a bleak look. "Do not underestimate what my imagination is capable of, Sergeant." He gave a long sigh. "But you are right. Kulick's memory will be honored for what he did – or tried to do."

  "Still, the average criminal, no matter how motivated, hasn't got the gumption to carry out that kind of systematic torture," I said. "This is somebody with a real vicious streak. And then there's the business with the money."

  "The money that was left in the safe, you mean," Vollman said.

  "Right. Even if all he wanted was the book, the killer could have taken the money, anyway. If he had, we'd be assuming a simple robbery as the motive, and the Major Crimes guys would be investigating it. Which means the perp is either dumb, or arrogant beyond belief – doesn't give a shit what we know, or think."

  "The individual who committed these acts is certainly not stupid, Sergeant," Vollman said. "But unbridled arrogance is not only possible – it is virtually certain in this instance. Making use of the spells contained in the Opus Mago would be similar to what a friend of mine once said about studying the work of the philosopher Hegel: one must be highly intelligent in order to do such, and profoundly stupid to wish to."

• • • •

Karl started to say something, but he was interrupted by a commotion from the reception area. I stood up, went to the door of the squad room, and looked out.

  Four people, three men and a woman, were standing at the P.A.'s desk, all of them screaming at Louise the Tease. From what I could gather, one of their tribe had been busted earlier in the evening, and they'd all come down to demand his release, on the grounds that he was king of the gypsies. It's the same crap they usually pull when one of their own gets picked up. Everybody's the king of the gypsies, unless it's a woman who's been arrested. She gets to be queen.

  Louise the Tease is known not to take no shit from nobody, but she was outnumbered, and nobody can kick up a fuss like a Gypsy. I was about to head over there and give her a hand when I realized that Vollman was standing just over my right shoulder. "Permit me," he said quietly.

  I moved aside, and he stood in the doorway, where I'd been. I expected him to go into Reception and approach the P.A.'s desk, but he stood where he was.

  "Chavaia!"

  The gypsies must have understood the word, because they all turned toward Vollman, looking both startled and annoyed. Then they saw who it was, and the annoyance vanished like a coin in a conjuring trick. Both their voices and expressions became very still.

  "Dinili, te maren, denash! Te khalion tai te shingerdjon che gada par brajo ents chai plamendi!"

  Vollman didn't yell, but it didn't look like they had any trouble hearing him. "Te lolirav phuv mure ratesa. Arctu viriumca ba treno al qua pashasha. Mucav!"

  Without another word, the four gypsies turned and left the room. They didn't quite run.

  Vollman nodded once, then turned and returned to his seat. I followed.

  Karl stared at the old man. "What the hell did you say to them?"

  Vollman produced the thin smile again. "I merely suggested they stop bothering the young lady and take their concerns elsewhere. Without delay."br/>

  "I notice they didn't give you an argument," I said.

  Vollman shrugged. "For some of these people, I am, as you say, The Man."

"So, what kind of person would want this book, the Opus Mago, bad enough to torture and kill for it?" I asked Vollman. "We're talking about a wizard or witch for starters, right?"

  "Almost certainly," he said. "No one else would have any hope of being able to make use of it."

  "You said something about 'arrogant' before," I added.

  "Indeed, yes," Vollman said. "As I told you, the Opus Mago contains spells and rituals for invoking the darkest of dark powers. It is considered a book of forbidden knowledge, and closely guarded, for that reason."

  "So where's the arrogance come in?" Karl asked.

  "In the belief that anyone, regardless of training or experience, can hope to control such powers once they have been summoned," Vollman said.

  "You're saying nobody could do it," Karl said.

  Vollman shook his head slowly. "I will not say that, not with certainty. But I think it highly unlikely that such control, even if it were achieved, could be maintained for long."

  "Maybe we ought to stop pussyfooting around this with terms like 'dark powers' and all that," I said. "You're not talking about just conjuring up some demon, are you?"

  "No," Vollman said. "As your partner reminded us earlier, that has become almost a mundane practice in these times."

  "What then?" I was afraid that I already knew the answer.

  And I was right, I did. "Something very, very bad," Vollman said. "There are a variety of spells, invocations, and rituals contained within the Opus Mago. Each, it is believed, permits access to a spiritual entity of immense power and great malevolence. One, supposedly, contains the means for calling up Quetzalcoatl, the Aztec snake god, which has grown immensely powerful from the all blood sacrifices made to it over centuries."

  "But all that human sacrifice stuff ended hundreds of years ago, once the Spaniards took over," I said.

  Vollman looked at me and shrugged. "If you choose to believe so."

  "What else?" Karl asked. "There's got to be more than that."

  "Indeed there is, Detective," Vollman told him. "For example, there are those who say the book describes a ritual for awakening one or more of the Great Old Ones, those creatures that supposedly existed before man, and which still await the day when they may supplant him."

  "Now I know you're yanking our chains," I said. "That stuff's right out of Lovecraft, and you already said he made it all up."

  Vollman shook his head. "No, Sergeant, I only said that Lovecraft made up the Necronomicon. The veracity of his other material is… open to dispute, shall we say. Some maintain that he discovered things that man was not meant to know, and it was that knowledge which eventually drove him mad."

  "You keep saying things like 'there are those who say,' and 'it is believed,'" I said. "So, you haven't looked at the book yourself."

  "No, I have not, nor did I ever wish to," Vollman said. "But I have, over the years, talked to several people who did." He gave me the thin smile again. "They were the ones who survived the experience, with their sanity intact, of course."

  "So, all right," Karl said. "This Opus Mago is a recipe book for cooking up different kinds of Truly Bad Shit. And it's been stolen by somebody who plans to whip up a big, smelly batch of ian thiv>

  "Inelegantly put, Detective," Vollman said with a nod, "but an admirably succinct summary, nonetheless."

  "Big question is," I said, "how are we going to know when he makes the attempt?"

  Vollman's thin face, which would never be used to illustrate "cheerful" in the dictionary, became even more solemn. "You will know, Sergeant," he said. "Have no concerns on that account. You will know."

The first of the murders occurred four nights later, and we almost missed it.

  The case could easily have been written off as a routine homicide. It would have been, too, if Hugh Scanlon hadn't given me a call.

  Turned out, it was the right thing to do. This homicide was anything but routine.

  A lot of "regular" detectives don't like the Supe Squad very much – I think they take that "when you look into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you" stuff too seriously. But Scanlon's all right. I knew him from when we were both in Homicide. I eventually moved on to Supernatural Crimes for reasons of my own, but Scanlon kept working murders, and he's a Detective First now.

  The crime scene was the alley behind Tim Riley's Bar and Grill, and by the time Karl and I showed up, the routine was well under way. Nudging some rubbernecking civilians aside, I lifted the yellow crime scene tape so Karl could duck under it. Then I followed him down the alley, the smell of rotting garbage strong enough to gag a sewer rat.

  We made our way through the usual collection of the M.E.'s people, forensics techs, uniformed cops, and Homicide dicks, all of them busy or trying to look that way. Mostly they ignored us, apart from one or two hostile glances. But eventually Scanlon spotted us and came over.

  "Vic's a white male, around thirty, throat cut, bled out where we found him," he said. Scanlon's never been known to use two words when he can get by with one.

  "So why call us?" I asked him. "Sounds like a bar fight that moved out here, then went bad."

  "I thought so, too," Scanlon said. "Then I saw something. Come on."

  He led us over to where some forensics guy was taking photos of the body, his strobe flashing in the semi-darkness.

  "You about done?" Scanlon asked him.

  The guy looked up and realized he wasn't being asked a question. "Yeah, sure, all finished," he said, and backed off.

  Scanlon produced a pencil flashlight and clicked it on. The beam lingered for a moment on the throat wound that looked like a sardonic grin, then moved up to the victim's face. The dead guy had a thick head of brown hair, and some of it was combed down over his forehead. With his free hand, encased in a latex glove, Scanlon lifted the hair away so that we could see the victim's forehead clearly, and then I understood why we'd been called.