A Breath, Dying
“What’s keeping these flowers alive, exactly?” Dr. Dave Broussard leaned in toward the vase on the table, and took a closer look at the bouquet of seemingly fresh roses. The rest of the house was in shambles and had been for some time; food had rotted in the fridge and the vase containing the seven long-stemmed plants was bone dry.
“That an actual question, ‘doc? Or you just bein’ torical?” Sergeant Grent Benneton’s voice was the same as the man himself; rough and not exactly high class. Shorter than Broussard, he had an authority about him hammered out over long years of commanding men, bulling his way into crime scenes and eventually catching bad guys.
Dave preferred a neater operation.
“It’s rhetorical, Grent, and yes, I was talking to myself. I find thinking out loud helps me solve problems more quickly than firing a gun at them or attempting to beat them into submission. If nothing else, it makes for less paperwork.”
Grent barked a laugh; Dave had known the smaller man for more than ten years, and they had always enjoyed a strange camaraderie. The sergeant was his total opposite, something that Dave found both refreshing and invigorating. Working alone had its benefits, but for cases like this, having Grent around to bounce ideas off of was invaluable. While the man’s responses were typically not of much use, they often sparked a line of reasoning in Dave’s brain that led to a solution.
“I’ve missed ya, Davey. What’s it been, two years?” Grent clapped a hand on his shoulder, and Dave slid quickly out of the way. He didn’t care for physical contact, and the other man knew it, which meant he did everything he could to make Dave uncomfortable.
“Eight months,” he replied, “two years would have been preferable.” Reaching out a gloved hand, Dave touched the edge of the nearest flower. Even under the latex, he could feel that is was strong and moist, and quick tug revealed that it was still firmly attached to its stem. Very odd. He’d made a circuit of the house, and this was the only thing out of place.
The mangled body upstairs he couldn’t count as “out of place”, since the rest of the house matched the state of the deceased. The power had been cut at least two weeks ago, leading to a smell far worse than most of the crime scenes he’d been to, and making identifying the cause of death on the woman harder than it should have been. Someone had cut the lines on purpose when they left – obvious tool-marks had been found on the box and the wires themselves – presumably in the hope of slowing down the investigation.
Presumably.
“Tell me about her again, Grent.”
The other man sighed. Dave had a habit of appearing to only half-listen to everything the sergeant said, meaning Grent had to repeat himself often. Dave heard every word, of course, but hearing it again helped his process, and he liked to get under Grent’s skin.
Flipping open his notebook, Grent began rattling off facts. “Thirty-one. Unmarried. Wealthy. May have been in the sex trade. No family.”
“Fine, fine,” Dave said, waving an impatient hand at him, “but anything about the body? Anything new your guys have found out?”
Grent grunted – a common response when he was unhappy. Or happy, for that matter. There was the sound of rustling pages, and then Grent started up again. “Fake ta-tas, implanted lips and a nose job. More silicon than girl in this one, it looks like. Too fake for my taste. I like ‘em round.”
“Keep it to yourself, Grent,” Dave stopped the sergeant’s line of thought, “I don’t care about your sex life, and I don’t want to contaminate the scene by throwing up. Anything else useful?”
“Meh,” Grent said, “not much. No jewelry on her, but none taken, either. Was naked up there under all the blood. Oh – had a ‘tat. Left shoulder blade.”
“Of what?” Dave’s interest perked up just slightly.
“Uh…lemme see.” The sergeant pulled out his mobile and fiddled with it for a few seconds. A rotary phone was probably too much for him – how the department expected him to use a cell phone was anyone’s guess. “Here,” he said finally, “look if you want.”
“What a gracious offer,” Dave said, stepping over to Grent and snatching the phone from his hand. Only a steady grip saved it from falling onto the floor as he looked at the picture; the quality was poor, and the edge of Grent’s thumb could be seen in the frame, but there was no mistaking the tattoo on the dead woman’s shoulder.
A black, inverted “T” shape, with two curving horns at varying heights along the vertical shaft, this mark was known by few and worn by only the most dedicated.
“Recognize it?” Grent’s eyes were bright. He knew Dave well enough to know when something captured his interest.
“Seems vaguely familiar,” he said distantly, “I’ll look into it when I get back to the office.”
Dave returned the phone and moved away quickly; he had what he needed, but Grent couldn’t know it, at least not yet. Maybe never.
He took two more hours to pore over the contents of the house, mostly out of show than any real need. A few small items found confirmed his suspicions – black ash in the shower drain, red wax under the bedside table and a tarnished silver pendant in a lockbox.
Grent finally got a call that took him back to the precinct, and Dave promised to call him with any information he had. Dave had proven his worth to the department time and time again, but they still seemed to think he’d run out on them with crucial information, or hold back something they needed to know.
As he made his way back to his car, he realized he’d never been more tempted to do that than right now, but that wouldn’t get the case solved. He needed more information before he brought Grent into the loop, but the tattoo left no question; the dead woman had been invoking the Spirits of the Twisted Air, and what was worse – she appeared to know what she was doing.
- D
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