Echoes in Death (In Death 44)

“No, she’s not. Hallucinogenic?”

“We’ll see what Nobel says. They ran a tox screen. Maybe he wore a mask, or makeup. Made himself look like a devil. See if you can find assaults, murders, rapes, break-ins where the perp disguised himself as a devil.”

“I’ll get on it. But the eyes—red or yellow?”

“Could’ve dyed them. Could’ve brought his own light show—red and yellow flashing lights—to add to the trauma and confusion. Or she’s fucked-up over it all and just sees it that way.”

“Yeah. And the glowing red penis—you can get condoms in all sorts of glowing or sparkling or—”

“I know about condoms, Peabody. Maybe she saw his hands. If he wasn’t gloved up she might be able to tell us race. We need to—”

She stopped when Nobel stepped out.

“I can’t have you pressuring her that way. She’s weak and fragile right now.”

“I wasn’t pressuring her. It’s not my first round with a rape victim. I had to notify her. Anthony Strazza was killed.”

“Killed?” Del took one short step back. “He’s dead?”

“That’s what happens when you’re killed.”

“Jesus.” Rubbing the back of his neck, Del closed his eyes. “Jesus Christ.”

“She remembers bits and pieces, and what she remembers goes back to that devil business. Tox?”

“Clean.” After hissing out a breath, Del opened his eyes. “No illegals, no drugs whatsoever. No DNA from the assailant. He sealed up there, fucker.” On a second hissing breath, Del pinched the bridge of his nose. “Not my first round, either, but she hit a chord. God, Strazza. Look, I need coffee. Break room’s down here.”

He turned, started walking.

“Have you been on all night?”

Del shrugged. “I hit the bunk for a couple hours. She knows me, or remembers me enough, trusts me as far as she can. So I need to be around until she’s steadier.”

He swiped them into a room not very different from the break room off her own bullpen. It smelled not very different. Bad coffee and fatigue.

“Want?”

Eve studied the dilapidated AutoChef. “Absolutely not.”

On a half laugh, he glanced at Peabody, got a firm shake of the head. “Just me then. Here’s the deal, and forgive all the medical jargon. She got the crap beat out of her, the crap raped out of her, got choked, cut, terrorized, and bashed in the head. Her brain’s pretty scrambled.”

“I think I can pick through the complexities of your medical jargon.”

“Good.” He gulped coffee, said, “Praise Jesus,” gulped again. “Add the hypothermia. Her memory of the events that happened in that house are bound to be confused, and some pieces missing. Some pieces may stay missing. It’s not only the physical trauma—the blow to the head, the hypothermia—it’s emotional shielding. And now that I know her husband was probably killed in front of her, I suspect that shield’s thick and sturdy at this point. Her brain blocks out what she can’t handle.”

“I’m aware,” Eve said evenly. “I don’t need lectures on trauma. I’ve been a cop longer than you’ve been a doctor.”

He studied her over the rim of the ugly gray mug. “I don’t know. I made my debut playing doctor with Cassie Rowling. We were six.”

“That’s not vocation. That’s being a perv.”

“A six-year-old can’t be a perv.”

“The seeds are there.”

He laughed again. “I like you. I didn’t get to see the vid or read the book. I used to see vids and read book

s,” he said wistfully. “But I looked you up. You’d be Peabody?”