On a half laugh, Celina got to her feet. “Are you always so hard?”
“You tell me. You’re the psychic.”
“I don’t read minds.” Celina’s tone took on an edge as she tossed her hair back. “And I don’t read people without their permission.”
“I can promise you, you’ll never get mine. I’ve got a job to do, Ms. Sanchez. I’ll add what you’ve told us and your offer into the mix. We’ll be in touch.”
“Looks like Louise was wrong after all. I don’t like you.” She strode out.
“Well gee, she didn’t have to go and hurt my feelings.”
“You were a little rough on her,” Peabody commented. “You didn’t believe her?”
“I didn’t say that. My verdict on her is reserved until we check her out. Run her.”
“Sir, she can’t be licensed if she’s got a sheet.”
“She can’t be licensed if she’s been convicted,” Eve corrected, and headed out. “Run her. Thoroughly. And track down Louise Dimatto. I want to see what she has to say.”
“Good thinking. Which, of course, goes without saying,” Peabody added when Eve sent her a cool look. “If she checks out, will you use her?”
“I’d use a two-headed talking monkey if it helped nail this guy. But right now, let’s just do our tedious cop business in our tedious cop way.”
The morgue was her first stop. She could count on Chief Medical Examiner Morris to do the job, give her the data she needed, without a lot of bureaucratic bullshit attached.
She found him in autopsy, with his protective gear over a steel blue three-piece suit. On closer look, she saw the vest was decorated with abstract line drawings of naked women.
Morris wasn’t considered a fashion plate without cause.
His long, dark hair was drawn back in a glossy braid that hung neatly between his shoulder blades. He still carried his vacation tan. At the moment, his sealed hands were smeared with blood and bodily fluids. He hummed a jaunty tune under his breath as he worked.
He glanced over when Eve and Peabody entered, and behind his goggles, his long, dark eyes smiled.
“You nearly cost me twenty.”
“How’d I do that?”
“I bet Foster you’d be in before eleven. You cut it close.”
“I got hung up by a psychic. What’s your stand on that kind of thing?”
“I believe we’re all born with innate gifts, skills, potentials, and some of those gifts are not easily explained. I also believe ninety percent of those who claim to see are dirty rotten liars.”
“I’d up the last part a couple of percentage points, but that’s about my take, too.” She looked down at the body now. “What do you see?”
“A very unlucky young woman who, depending on your personal philosophies, no longer sees anything, or now sees everything. Severe trauma,” he began. “Premortem. He wailed on her, Dallas. Sexual assault with none of his fluids left behind. He’d sealed up for the rape. Strangulation, cause of death. The ribbon’s your murder weapon. Mutilation was postmortem. Clean cuts. Somebody’s been practicing.”
“How clean? Surgically?”
“If he’s a doctor—a cutter—he didn’t graduate top of his class. I’d say he used a laser scalpel and with good skill, but not exceptional skill. Several little jags.” He gestured to a second pair of microgoggles. “Want to see?”
Saying nothing, Eve fit on the goggles, leaned over the body with Morris.
“See here? Here?” He nodded to the screen where the wounds were magnified so Peabody could study them as well. “Not precise. Little tremors in the hand, I’d say. And I found fluid. He nicked the left eyeball a bit, though we’ll have Dickhead confirm that in the lab.”
“Okay.”
“I haven’t found any trace of him on her. Grass, dirt, a few strands of hair, none of it human. You’ll want Dickhead on that. Some could be canine, but that’s a guess since she was a dog owner. All the blood’s hers.”