Brotherhood in Death (In Death #42)(63)

“My ass is still in the box.” Pleased with herself, Peabody ordered up the Pepsi, and opted for a Diet Cherry Fizzy.

The machine spit them out, then began to drone on about nutritional value—zero—as Eve turned her back and kept going.

She cracked the tube, using her shoulder to push through the doors leading to autopsy.

It shouldn’t have surprised her to find Morris already wearing a protective cape over a suit the color of wet stone. He’d chosen a tie of shimmery lavender, and twined his black hair into a single thick braid.

He had music on low, something . . . jazzy, she thought.

He glanced up. And though he held his scalpel, he had yet to start the Y cut on Wymann’s body.

“You were quick,” he said.

“Or really slow, considering we didn’t make it in yesterday for Senator Mira.”

For now, Morris set the scalpel down, gestured to a second steel table. “I had our earlier guest brought out of the drawer, as I expected the doubleheader would bring you by this morning.”

He stepped over, brought up the lights.

“Without delving deeper into our newest arrival, and going by a visual exam only, the injuries are similar: facial and genital insults, the ligature marks on the wrists, sodomy by foreign object. In the senator’s case, that foreign object was about two inches in circumference, tapering down to a rounded point on the end. It had also been heated to a degree to cause severe burning around and in the anus.”

Peabody blanched, turned away.

“The proverbial hot poker,” Morris added, giving Peabody a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “The object was used multiple times, with considerable force. The pain would have been excruciating. Again, only with a visual exam, I believe the same object was used on Wymann.”

“That’s beyond rage,” Eve stated. “Maybe we’re looking for sexual sadists—a team like Ella-Loo Parsens and Darryl Roy James.”

“I don’t like thinking there are more like them out there,” Peabody replied, back still turned.

“There are always more. But . . .” No, Eve thought, not like the two twisted lovers they’d recently locked away. Not like that.

“These two weren’t picked randomly. They were targets—and the sex, the sadism, the message left, all clearly read revenge.”

“Revenge was had,” Morris said. “In the biggest of ways. I agree with your insight regarding the contusions. A smooth, weighted sap. There are no indications fists were used.”

“Might break a nail, ruin your manicure. It’s a woman. Women,” Eve added.

“No defensive wounds.”

Because they didn’t give him a chance to fight back, Eve concluded. “Stun marks?”

“One, barely visible even with microgoggles. In the groin.”

“The groin.”

“I sense a theme. A mild stun, enough, in my opinion, to debilitate—and hurt, considering that sensitive area, like a swarm of angry wasps—but not enough to render him unconscious. Which plays to them being female.”

She walked it through. “Two of them could easily get him into the chair. One works on him, the other holds the stunner. Mr. Mira walks in, and they adjust.”

“How is Dennis?”

“He’s good. He’s dealing. What else can you tell me?”

“From the ligature marks on the wrists, recent injuries to the rotator cuffs, arm and shoulder muscles, the victim was restrained with cord, arms above his head, with his full weight pulling downward. The restraints were removed an hour, no more than two, before TOD.”

“He was alive when they hanged him.”

“Yes, he was, and his hands free so he attempted to drag the noose from his neck. It’s his own skin under his fingernails, along with fiber from the cord.”

Morris shifted his attention, and Eve’s, to the neck. “This wasn’t a sharp drop—not the trapdoor on the gallows, or a chair kicked out that could snap the neck, but a gradual strangulation. The drag of his own weight tightened the cord, increased the pressure, choking him. He died slowly, and painfully.”

“Not just an execution. Those are done quickly, efficiently. They wanted him to know, to feel, to suffer. It was torture to the end.”

“Yes. A torturous death. Other than that, I can tell you there were no other injuries. He’d had regular face and body work—what you’d call tune-ups—and was in excellent health. His last meal, consumed approximately fourteen hours before his death, included lobster bisque, a field green salad, and some Pouilly-Fuissé. As there were traces of vomit in his mouth, I can only guess at the amounts consumed.”

“What did he do—did they do—to earn this level of vengeance? I’m looking at rape, but this brutality? It’s beyond even that.”

“Kids maybe.” Steadier, Peabody took a testing sip from her fizzy. “Maybe they went for kids.”

“Pedophilia . . . Yeah, that could work up this sort of rage. There’s not even a whiff of that around either, and the first, at least, had regular sex with adults. But we’ll look. Because anyone who considered this justice believes the crime is horrific.”

“If it was,” Morris commented, “both men kept it well hidden. They lived public lives, where the media slides every act under the microscope. Hiding the horrific takes a great deal of skill and work, particularly if more than one person is involved. Secrets rarely hold.”