The Necromancer's Gambit: Autopsy
Nicolas Wilson
I’ve tried the first dozen unlock spells that come to mind, but I’m still stuck with my hands behind my back. Duct tape doesn’t magic well. I feel stupid for never thinking of that before.
I hear Pawn’s Jeep outside, and manage to hit the crash bar with my hip to get through the first set of doors. Vergara must know what I’m doing, because she doesn’t try to stop me.
Bishop’s first through the doors, and she’s testy; she hates being interrupted in the middle of a project, and her head’s still in building a more secure mouse trap. “I’m not done beefing up the defenses at the Centre.”
“Yeah, but they don’t know that- whoever they might be. And between Pawn, the King and the Queen, it should be secure enough. If I didn’t have to be here, I’d be there- but since I can’t be, they should be safe.”
“Do we know anything about this body?”
“It’s Elise.”
“What? You’re sure?” She stares at me, hoping I’m going to tell her it was all a macabre joke. She holds out longer than I might have guessed; apparently somewhere in there she’s still an optimist. “Damnit. As if this weren’t personal enough, already.”
“Well, you can’t let it upset you. I need you dispassionate. I haven’t told the detective what it is we do- but she does need to believe you’re an expert- even if she doesn’t understand what that expertise entails.”
“Yeah, yeah, this isn’t our first policeman’s ball. Though after the last time, I assume we’re going to have ME supervision.”
“He’s on the way.”
“Vergara, this is your tame homicide detective?”
“I’d prefer housebroken, rather than tame. Still a wild animal, and if provoked, she’s going to bite.”
“So we have to focus on not provoking her. Should be easy. If she hasn’t shot you, then the rest of us don’t have much to worry about.” She opens the door back into the lobby for me. “So you have him duct-taped? I can leave for a while if you want to take turns putting out cigarettes on his chest, or horse-whipping him.”
“Detective,” I say, “these are the specialists I talked about. Harry and Beatrice.”
“B for short,” Bishop says.
“If the guy had just been a blonde you would have had your own little Charlie’s Angels thing,” Vergara says.
“I’ve been trying to get him to at least frost it for ages,” I tell her. “If you want to have a go at convincing him... though maybe he’s Bosley.”
“That would make me one of your angels- and you can keep dreaming about that. And what exactly do you specialize in?” Vergara asks, turning her attention to Bishop. “Because I’ve been trying to get a straight answer.”
I interrupt. “Well you saw that little thing with the finger, right? They undo things like that.”
“It’s cutting edge research and logistics, the kinds of things that transcend the accepted conventional limits of scientific knowledge,” Bishop says. “Protoscience is the technical term. Have you seen the show Fringe? Same basic idea. Only fewer were-hedgehogs.”
We all hear the exterior door open, and there’s a tense moment where we imagine the murderer returning to the scene of the crime, and the horrible violence that might ensue; Vergara even puts a hand on the button on her holster. Instead, Wilbur, a nebbish, unassuming public servant, enters. “I’m disappointed. Seeing the outside of this place makes me think there might actually be a body, which does put a crimp in my ‘this is all a pretense for a come-on’ theory- a theory I really liked, by the way.” It’s only then he seems to notice that he’s not alone in the room with the detective. “And who the fuck are they?”
“They’re specialists,” Vergara says. “They’re going to be performing the investigation; you’ll observe, assist, and write up the report. And there’s no need to be snippy, Wil.”
“Yeah, actually, there is. You called me at two thirty in the goddamned AM. That raises certain expectations, and yet here you are, not wearing lingerie or even giving me a come-hither- a look, a sneeze, at this point some well-timed flatulence might even be welcomed. But now, I’m supposed to watch as two amateurish, and frankly weird smelling, ‘experts’ do my job- and I’m still expected to sign off as if it’s my work.”
“It’s weird, Wil, okay? But it looks like the work of a serial. This is your career, on a silver platter, if you can keep your dick out of your own mouth for the next few hours- which I know is asking a lot, for you. But do it.”
“As far as introductions,” Harry hugs him, “I’m the smelly one. The lady actually has a pleasant aroma, if you’re into perfume and flowers and stuff. Ladies, I guess, I keep forgetting Knight’s friend blending into the wallpaper back there.” He holds on until Wil has to take in a breath, then lets him go, squeezing him just a little as he does so Wil exhales the breath out his nose.
Then he offers a hand to Bishop, which she doesn’t take; probably is just as well, because I’ve seen that look in her eyes before, and there’s a pretty good chance he’d get it back on fire.
Bishop grabs her bag and walks over to the body. “I need you to take pictures, Wil, and when we start, you’ll want to be close by, and keep taking pictures.” He removes a camera from one of his bags, as she takes out a pair of gloves.
Harry stalks around the edges of the body, and after about a minute, he looks at me and shakes his head. Vergara catches it. “What’s he do?” she asks.
“He’s… like a psychic. It’s more specific than that, but if you rolled your eyes at the ESP part at the beginning of Ghostbusters- which seems like a given- than it’s going to sound about the same level of bullshitty.”
“Okay, but even ignoring the bullshittyness, he’s not doing anything.”
Harry shrugs. “That’s because there’s nothing to do. No spirits to commune with, as it were.”
“So when you say ‘like’ a psychic, I assume you mean there’s some scientific or at least Buddhist meditative kind of explanation that’s either too technical or too esoteric to explain to me.”
“Something like that.”
“One of these days you’ll have to explain it to me.”
“I hope not.” She glares at me. “No offense. But if I ever have to explain it to you, then very bad things will have happened. Don’t get me wrong, finding dead acquaintances is bad, but very bad things would be worse. And you probably still aren’t going to believe what I tell you- and we already have trust issues. So I hope it never comes to that.”
“Your dead cat’s happy,” Harry says quietly.
“Ooh, surmising that a detective in her thirties- early thirties- would have at some point had a cat, spooky.”
Harry doesn’t like to tap-dance, anyway, so his eyes got a little narrower. “Mr. Mittens is at peace; though he misses that little catnip toy he used to play with, green, in the shape of a bell; apparently they don’t have those in the afterlife. He also misses shredding your couch- the one with the frankly disgusting sounding floral pattern.”
“Okay, now that’s some freaky John Edwards shit.”
“Edward,” I correct her. “Edwards is the adulterer politician.”
“Sorry. It’s a subtle distinction, since they’re both kind of scummy.”
When Wil’s flash stops, Bishop puts three clips into Elise’s chest, along a y-shaped incision. “Um,” Wil says, “I didn’t think it was our job to put more holes in the body.”
She grabs his head and pushes it near the incision. “You see that little black cylinder inside the body cavity? It’s an explosive. If I just cut into her chest, this entire room would be covered in wet little chunks of her, me, and you.”
“Should I step back a safe distance?” he stammers out.
“Then who would take my pictures?” Bishop asks; there’s the slightest hint of menace in her voice.
He takes a few more pictures as Bishop manipulates the cylinder beneath the skin, then stops. “I, this all feels off. Who exactly do you work for?”
She pulls the cylinder through one of the incisions and holds it out to him. “Here, hold this for a second- gently. Now, I could tell you that- but then I’d have to let that thing explode in your hand.” His eyes go wide. “Just kidding. I disarmed it before I handed it to you. I just thought it would lighten the mood.”
“What the hell is it?”
“If I had to guess, it’s a reservoir for a chemical reactant; the slightest abrasion ruptures the reservoir, and you have your reaction.”
“So you don’t know what it is, yet you know how to disarm it? That doesn’t make sense. Which means what you’re really saying is you work for the department of defense or something, this is an escaped project, and you’re helping grudgingly so we don’t expose it?”
“No, Wilbur; I’m not saying that- because in all honesty, I couldn’t.”
“Both of my arms have fallen asleep. Does anyone care?” I ask.
“Not even remotely,” Vergara says.
“Why didn’t you duct tape his mouth,” Rook asks.
“Felt like it’d be cruel, with all that stubble. Though I’m leaving the option open.” Vergara notices me shifting my weight from foot to foot impatiently. “Why are you dancing, now?”
“I kind of have to pee. I don’t suppose you want to hold it for me. You can keep the rubber gloves on.”
“There aren’t enough rubber gloves in the world.”
Bishop gestures towards her bag. “You sure? I can lend you an extra layer- I mean, through that you probably won’t even feel the veins or anything.”
“Ew,” Vergara says. “One more word about veins, and I’m duct-taping everyone’s mouth closed.”
“Kinky,” Wilbur says.
“Shut up, Wil,” she replies.
“Um, can I,” I gesture towards the doors with my head, “with Harry, since he’s not busy.”
“Just take your fluids away from my crime scene,” she says, brushing me off with her hand, “but if he takes that tape off you you’ll both be pissing blood.”
“Reminds me of the Nazi prison matron in every exploitation movie ever,” Harry says, with just the hint of a smile as we walk outside.
“I hate to even ask, but”
“I’m not touching your penis, man.”
“No, not that. Where were you?”
“With Bishop,” he says, confused.
“No. When Castle died. When Elise- when that happened.”
“You sure you want to do this while you’re duct-taped? I mean, if I am secretly out to kill people close to you- wouldn’t you want to die with your boots on, as it were?”
“Just answer, man. I don’t want to suspect you- this is the job.”
“I was in Vancouver, across the bridge, near Esther Short Park. There’s a shelter, nearby. It tends to be a little less crowded over there, and since I don’t panhandle, it doesn’t matter to me that there’s less foot traffic. I would have still been there, but the police did one of their periodic roustings, and I figured it wouldn’t hurt me or my cat to take a walk over the bridge.”
“Is there anyone who can corroborate that?”
“A few homeless people who don’t really remember their own names with regularity- no one you’d call a reliable alibis.”
“Fuck. When did you come back?”
“Couple days before Castle died. Which does look bad, I guess. But Elise- she’s been dead a while longer than that; I’m pretty good at gauging decay rates- hazard of the trade. Of course, she was dropped here, so she was killed elsewhere- possibly even Vancouver- which doesn’t really help my case, either.”
“It would have been nice if you could have pointed to a televised poker tournament you were in in Reno at the time, but whatever. No offense, but you don’t really have an evil mastermind vibe.”
“I’ve been thinking of growing a moustache then waxing it. Just picture me with a curly moustache. Maybe that’ll help.”
“But she’s not talking, at all?”
“No. It could be she’s dissociated from the body. It’s kind of oddly quiet; not a single spook haunting a VC? That’d be a first. It’s possible… maybe some of the energy from the Dahlia spell was used as a jammer, making it harder for the dead to manifest near her corpse. Silence any possible witnesses.”
“The kind of necromancy this guy’s using- it’s dark- even for your strain of magic, it’s dark. I know necromancers aren’t the most social creatures,”
“Well, except for our weekly nude Scrabble and Parcheesi tournaments.”
“But can you think of anyone with even the expertise. Not even locally- regionally, someone who maybe left to train up, with roots. I’m straining for a lead here.”
“Yeah, it’s kind of sad, like you’re begging for a break. Like please sir, can I have some more evidence.”
“This is the second person I know this bastard’s murdered. It needs to be the last. I’m getting frayed.” The strain shows in my voice.
“Do you, need a hug or something?”
“I need my friends to stop dying.”
“Maybe you just studied the wrong branch of magic.”
“That’s different. Even if you can talk to dead people, they’re not there, you can’t go see a movie, or share a pizza, or just bullshit about whatever.”
“It’s only different if you let it be.”
“I don’t think I know how not to.”
“More’s the pity. But necro is special. Unique, in that some of the ingredients are a little more… specialized. So I can look into my suppliers, see if there’s anybody, especially anybody dealing in bulk. I mean, if they’ll even talk to me. We’re even twitchier than your average mage, so, you know, they may not want to alienate their clients snitching to the popos.”
“Especially anyone who buys in volume and is discrete. Yeah. But I appreciate the effort.” From the way he’s looking off, apparently he means he was going to check into that right now. “You’re not going back in there?”
He smiles. “Girl’s a quick study. I don’t think there’s any need for me to stay. If she hits a wall, you know where to find me, relatively speaking, but I’d be surprised if that happens. She’s easy enough on the eyes I’m tempted to keep her company a bit longer, but my likely fruitless endeavor isn’t going to take care of itself.”
“Wait, uh, that stuff, with Vergara’s cat, how did you…”
“I was talking to her grandmother, actually. She wouldn’t shut up about the damn cat. I speak to the dead- but that doesn’t mean I can understand animals. I mean, cats don’t actually talk- they just mewl.”
“That makes way more sense.”
“Yeah. I was trying to get something more useful out of the poor woman, but she really was fixated; I think it was the only thing she could really remember clearly. Most ghosts get stuck with the same cognitive problems they had in life, but worse. If I had to guess I’d say Alzheimer’s.”
“That probably would have been more impressive.”
“Except it isn’t a clinical diagnosis. And a lot of people never get diagnosed; families just write it off as ‘crazy old person’ syndrome. I’ve seen enough people like that on the streets to be cautious about prognosticating.”
He walks off, and only then do I remember that I still have to pee. Badly. I’m still bouncing when I get back inside.
“Uh, I wouldn’t touch that part,” Bishop says. “It might roast your body using its chemical energy as a wick.”
“It does what now?” Wilbur, bewildered, asks.
“It rapidly converts all the ATP in the human body to AMP to fuel specific chemical reactions. These in turn create a cascade of exothermic reactions, building to a point where the human body catches fire.”
“Spontaneous human combustion? Through a, a, what could that possibly be? Like a virus? Nano? Coded by the government to do that to a human being?”
“I can’t comment. But this is interesting. The soles of her feet don’t seem to have been touched at all by any of the magi- chemical- agents. So there’s insects. Wil, you at all familiar with forensic entymology?”
“I don’t keep the necrophagous developmental tables with me, and I don’t have them memorized; I’m a little fuzzy on the morphology, too, if I’m being honest.”
“Painfully so. This is sarcophagidae, a flesh-eating fly. The flesh fly is viviparous- they have life birth, like humans. Morphologically I can narrow it down to a few dozen species, but if we want to be thorough, we’ll take multiple samples. Sarcophagidae can only be completely identified through dissection of the male genitalia.”
“Which is so not what I’d been wanting to do tonight with genitalia.” He looks forelornly at Vergara.
“Ew,” she says.
I lean in to her and whisper. “It’s not even like he’s flirting, anymore; it’s like he’s hitting you over the head with a sledgehammer, only instead of a metal head it’s a several times normal scale replica of his penis on the end of the handle.”
“Ew. True, but ew.”
Bishop continues: “Flesh flies find a body incredibly quickly, sometimes within ten minutes of death. Sarcophagidae larvae take between 14 and 16 days to grow up and leave the nest; this particular species takes 8 or 9 days to reach the pupa stage. Given the growth development, I’d put the post mortem interval at ten days ago- give or take a day. Assuming the body was kept inside, which I’d argue for since the blood and the wounds don’t seem to have been affected by weather- that little guy gives us a pretty good window for a day of death- that’s about as accurate as we can get with it.”
“Bishop, was I with you then?” I ask, really hopeful but completely unsure.
“Actually, yeah,” she says, a little surprised. “We were working on that thing.”
“You’re going to have to do better than that if you want me to set him loose,” Vergara says.
“That guy, with the kimia in his radiator.”
“Oh yeah. I was waiting all night for the results for that.”
“Look. I’m just going to assume that’s weirdo nerd code for you two screwing and call it an alibis, because otherwise I think my frontal lobe will implode.” Bishop raises an eyebrow at her. I know that look, and I need to deflect before it leads to trouble.
“Go for it; at least with an implosion I won’t get brains on my coat,” I tell her helpfully.
“Actually, implosions can still be messy, and there’s always the pink mist to worry about,” Bishop says.
“God, she’s odder than you are.”
“Did I hear ‘hotter?’ Cause that was never really in dispute.”
“You’re missing the salient point: I have an alibis.” She flicks open a knife and cuts the tape off my wrists. My fists have been so blood deprived they don’t want to open or close.
“You going to take that tape off?” Vergara asks.
“Not until I’ve had a chance to soak it.”
“You big baby,” she says, and quicker than my still numb arms can react, grabs the tape and yanks. I yell out, in as dignified a manner as I can.
“Was that so bad?” she asks.
“I don’t think I’m ever going to grow hair on my wrists again.”
“Just comb over some of that hair from your palms,” Rook says.
Bishop sets down her tools. “Well, I think that’s all of the ‘special’ material. Wil, you should be able to take it from here.”
“Great,” Vergara says. “So what do we know so far?”
“Preliminarily, we have a sack full of crazy looking implants, covered in symbols I don’t recognize,” Wilbur says.”
“You told me this was going to contain information on her killer,” Vergara says, glaring at me.
“I didn’t say it was going to be in English.”
“I really wish I could justifiably mace you.”
“But I’d put cash on there being physical evidence, prints, blood, something.”
“Well,” Wilbur says, “we’ve got DNA.”
“What?”
“Killer was a secreter. He had sex with some of the deeper wounds, to the point of ejaculating. We’ve got some pretty clean samples from there. We can run the database. I can’t imagine the kind of sicko who does this not having some kind of a record. I don’t see going from jaywalking to mutilation and corpse-rape without some kind of a between step.”
“But the guy seems to have checked every box on the thoroughly fucked up list. We’ve got blunt force trauma to the face and temple. Bruising around the neck indicates strangulation. Bruising on the chest, and damage to the ribs, seems to indicate that CPR was performed. Um, if I were going to guess, I’d say she died several times, was rescucitated, and rekilled. The official cause of death would be blood loss, from a combination of internal bleeding and surface wounds. She would have survived most of the superficial cuts, but there are some deep stab wounds on her right side. There’s some indication of sepsis- which did not contribute to death, but would have made it all the more excruciating.”
“But the murder took days. It took us hours to dismantle everything, but the implants were precise, the incisions measured. He was putting together a puzzle; we just broke the completed thing down to put it back in the box. I’m going to go over the more mundane things back at the office, bone breaks and the like, and maybe we’ll find more. But my only real nagging question at this point is how we want to write this up. As in…”
“They were never here.”
“I suspected as much. I’ve been cropping them out of the photos in camera. So I guess all that’s left is to call in a meat wagon, and go sequence this and see if anybody’s won the genetic lottery. I assume they’ll be taking the black helicopters out of here. But I’ll make sure in the report to state that the unknown nature of the implants led me to believe that they should be examined and removed in situ, in case they were fragile or dangerous.”
Wil starts to box up the evidence. Bishop hands him the last plastic bag, containing the implants from her left arm, and their hands touch. “That was impressive,” Wil says. “Strange, but still impressive. I don’t know if I understood half of it, but I have never been more captivated by a woman- intellectually. I think I nerd-love you.”
“Wil,” Vergara interrupts. “We’ve talked about this. You only get to sexually harass one coworker a day. You’ve already done me today.”
He snickers. “There’s no reason to get jealous. I’m man enough for both of you.”
“Off you go,” Vergara says, pushing him towards the door.
“You’ve got male genitalia to mutilate,” Bishop says.
“And after that you’ve got work to do, too,” Vergara adds.
“Nice.”
“Thank you. But you all need to leave, before they get here for the body. I’ll walk you to your car,” Vergara says, pushing me like I’m still her perp.
Once we clear the doors, she tells me, “Wilbur’s an idiot. I don’t think you work for the government. Or even any government contractor. Not that that means I have any fucking clue who you are, or what happened tonight.”
“I just like to do my part to keep Portland weird.”
“That’s not a good enough answer. But for tonight, I won’t push my luck.”