The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

I’d laugh another time because Jackson has no idea who he’s dealing with in Hazel, but then she’s often underestimated, though I’m not sure why. Sure, she’s youngish, in her thirties, and barely five feet, but she’s also a savvy, educated, proud second-generation Chinese American who packs the kind of pushy charm that gets her everywhere.

“He’s right,” she says, glancing up at him. “Because I’m the ME, which means I get first dibs on all dead bodies. That means I get to walk past big, cranky police officers. Plus”—she wiggles a finger at me—“Sam likes me.”

“She’s right,” I say. “She does and I do.” I motion her forward.

Hazel pats Jackson’s arm. “It’s okay. You’re new. You’ll get it.”

He gives me a confused look, and I give him a simple thumbs-up. “Keep CSI out of here until she’s done.”

He nods and fades into the hallway. Hazel and I stand together in front of the body. “Holy crap,” she murmurs, and when I expect some revelation about the body, that’s not what I get. “Can we turn off the air?” She runs her gloved hands over her arms. “It’s like the morgue in here.” She grins. “Get it. Morgue?”

I don’t even feel the cold anymore, though I’d welcome it over the guilt standing here in front of Dave is stabbing into my heart. “I’m not laughing at that joke. It’s too bad. And no, we cannot turn up the temperature. Not yet. I need to read the scene exactly the way our killer intended me to read it. Did you take a look at the Summer body?”

“I assisted with the autopsy,” she says. “And I read the file. The poem thing is freaky. Was there a poem left behind this time?”

“Yes. Already bagged.”

“Interesting. Do you know what the poems mean?”

“Maybe.” I don’t offer more. The topic of poetry seems to get people killed.

Thankfully, she lets it go, focused on Dave again. “This one is fresh,” she adds. “Rigor hasn’t set in, but you know that. I’m sure it’s one of the first things you noticed.”

But I didn’t. I didn’t even think about the time of death. “I should have,” I admit, “but I was a little distracted by the fact that I knew him.”

“Oh crap,” she murmurs, and I can feel her eyes on me. “You know him?”

“Just in passing. He worked at the coffee shop across from my apartment, but I saw him earlier today. He’s a med student. Or was. Was a med student.”

“Jesus. Badass detective or not, that has to freak you out. I got called out for an ex-boyfriend once. That was a rough night. The last time I’d seen him, I’d called him a cunt.” She holds up a hand. “Please don’t judge. That’s what God made my mother for. And I’d never used that word in my life until him, which only made the situation worse. Like I said, it was the last thing I said to him.”

“What happened to him?”

“His new girlfriend killed him.” She bends just enough to study Dave’s face, shifting back to the scene, our small talk all just a part of coping with death. We all have our ways. Small talk, making the moment somehow normal, is often sanity. “He’s discolored. He shows signs of oxygen deprivation.” She pulls a sheet of plastic from a pocket and rolls it out on the floor before setting her medical case on top, squatting down in front of it. “Cyanide again is my bet,” she says. “It deprives the body of oxygen.”

I focus on what she’s just revealed about the prior investigation. “About that. Trevor was supposed to send me his autopsy report on Summer, but I haven’t seen it.”

“He piled paperwork on me. You’ll have it in the morning.”

“How did he confirm the cyanide before the normal wait for a toxicology report?”

“There was a piece of the gel cap stuck in the victim’s tooth with residue on it.” She unzips her case and pushes to her feet. “My take was that the victim tried to hold the pill in his mouth and keep it from going down, but the gel dissolved. In fact, there shouldn’t have been anything left of the casing, but those freak things happen. Two molars protected it. You’ll get the report tomorrow. I’m taking over these cases. Unless you want Trevor?” She winks.

I snort. “I want Trevor like I want a hole in the head.” It’s not a good joke. Not tonight. Acid floods the back of my throat. “Do your thing,” I croak, stepping back and watching her perform her tests, my mind thinking through the murder.

What do they have in common?

Poetry.

One loved it. One hated it.

He judges them by the poetry, and while I can assume why Dave’s hate made him a target, what about Summer?

“Where’s he getting the cyanide is my question,” Hazel murmurs, bagging a swab of the victim’s mouth. “Ex-military maybe? Could he have stockpiled it overseas? My father’s ex-military. He’s told me stories about how easily drugs, all drugs, were acquired in certain countries.”