Blood Red by Heather Graham Page A

little, but this roadblock was different. It was the cop. Sean Canady.
    Canady looked up, saw him and, despite the mask and the scrubs, recognized him instantly.
    Hell. Now, there was a chance he would be arrested. Not good.
    But Canady only strode down the hallway to greet him.
    No sense playing games. “Hello, Lieutenant.”
    â€œMusician and writer, huh?”
    â€œI swear. You should hear me play.”
    Canady studied him for a long moment, looking into his eyes.
    To Mark’s amazement, the cop shrugged. “You feel you need to see the body? Let’s go.”
    One of the assistant’s brought Canady some gloves. He thanked the assistant, then asked, “Who’s on?”
    â€œDoc Mordock.”
    â€œGreat.”
    The autopsy room was like every other one of its kind. Sterile. Tile and paint in soft powder blue. Same smell of death, antiseptics and preservatives. Water running to keep the stainless steel tables as clean and germ-free as possible, and to enable the doctors and technicians to work on human bodies, with all their messy fluids and tissues.
    Only one of the gurneys in the room held a form beneath a sheet. A man in scrubs and a mask was standing behind it.
    â€œSean, hey,” he said.
    â€œDoc Mordock, hi,” Sean replied.
    Mordock looked at Mark, a question in his eyes. “Mark Davidson,” Sean said in introduction. “He’s seen victims found in a similar situation. He may be able to tell us if we’re looking at a killer who has struck elsewhere,” he went on to explain briefly.
    â€œHey, he’s with you. That’s good enough for me,” Mordock said as he pulled back the sheet.
    There was always something sad and eerie about a naked corpse on a stainless steel gurney. When the head was missing, the effect was intensified.
    Mark knew there were things that Mordock could determine from the damage inflicted by the water, and the fish and crustaceans that made the Mississippi their home. He should be able to determine a time and date of death, what she had eaten for her last meal, and much, much more.
    None of that mattered to Mark, though he did listen to the conversation between Mordock and Sean Canady.
    â€œYou got an ID yet?” Mordock asked.
    Canady nodded. “Eloise Dryer. A few petty thefts, soliciting. She’s known in a few of the local clubs, but her address is listed as a Houston hole-in-the-wall.”
    â€œSo she was a prostitute?” Mark said.
    â€œMost of the time,” Canady told him.
    Mark was inspecting the corpse’s neck.
    â€œDecapitated with an ax,” Mordock told him. “Postmortem. But it was one clean swipe. I’m willing to bet many a man executed on the block would have given a lot to be killed with such a clean stroke.”
    â€œBut she was deceased first?” Mark said.
    Mordock swept indicated the cut. “Bloodless,” he said.
    There , Mark noted. A puncture mark. Not such a perfect way to hide the evidence after all. “Bloodless,” he repeated, and looked at Canady.
    The cop was silent. His face gave away nothing.
    â€œShe might have been killed as part of some ritual,” Doc Mordock said. “God knows, there are enough kooks out there.” He stared at Mark. “And I don’t mean just in New Orleans. Hell, I was called out to work a case in the back woods of the Midwest, the heart of America, and what those fellows were up to made hardened cops puke. But, yeah, I’ve seen the mark. Right on the jugular. She was drained like a slaughtered hog.”
    â€œThat won’t be in the press releases,” Canady said and looked warningly at Mark.
    Mark shrugged. “I don’t write press releases.”
    â€œBut you do write.”
    â€œI won’t be writing about this.”
    Apparently that satisfied Canady. “Thanks, Mordock. Put anything else you can think of in your report and give it to me as soon as you can. You still