goings on that I didn’t notice Jimmy had returned and was casually leaning against the tree I was standing behind.
“The stiff is a white male, about six-three, under two hundred pounds, probably in his early to mid thirties. A group of folks on a river cruise spotted him floating by.”
“That’ll ruin a nice day in the big city.”
“No shit. He was found fully dressed, but without any ID on him.”
“Cause of death?”
“No word yet. I didn’t get that close.”
“And he was floating, huh?”
“That’s what I was told.”
“Anything distinct about him?”
Jimmy thought for a moment.
“Oh yeah, he has a tattoo on his arm.”
“What kind of tattoo?”
“It’s a lightning bolt, could be prison ink.”
“That’s Sam Preston.”
“You knew him, Alex?”
“Not for long.”
2
Daniels
H omicide Lieutenant Jack Daniels pushed her bangs behind her ear—seeing the streaks of gray annoyed her—and frowned at the body being lifted onto the stretcher. The man’s clothes and hair had begun to dry, and aside from the dull open eyes he appeared to be sleeping.
“Tour captain said he was floating,” she said.
Her partner, Sergeant Herb Benedict, had liberated his emergency beef jerky stash and was munching on some sort of pepperoni stick.
“I don’t get it either. Guy looks like he just went for a swim. Couldn’t have been in the drink for more than a few hours.”
“But he was floating,” she repeated. The words didn’t taste right leaving her tongue.
“Maybe he just had a buoyant meal,” Herb said. “Something light and airy. You want to grab a bite after this?”
Daniels walked over to Phil Blasky, the county Medical Examiner, who was using a probe to take the liver temperature. Unlike Herb, who was portly and sported a mustache, Blasky was thin to the point of gaunt and didn’t have enough hair on his entire head to keep a mouse warm in the summer.
“Eighty degrees,” he said, noticing Jack’s approach. “The water is fifty-five.”
“Rigor?”
“No. No lividity yet, no livor mortis. This man was alive a few hours ago.”
“Cause of death?”
“Can’t tell from a cursory examination. No visible marks on the body. Blue pallor, slightly cyanotic, but that could be from the water temperature. A drowning?”
“When they fished him out he was floating.”
“That’s odd.”
Jack’s frown deepened.
“Are his lungs full of water?” she asked.
Blasky pulled a syringe out of his med kit, unwrapped it, then looked around for a place to put the wrapper. Herb took it, adding the garbage to the dozen or so jerky wrappers in his breast pocket; you always knew when Herb was around because he sounded like cellophane.
“Let’s see.” Blasky pushed up the corpse’s shirt and angled the needle between the damp, pale ribs. He pulled back the plunger, getting a small quantity of blood and a larger quantity of air.
“Suffocation causes cyanosis too.” Jack folded her arms. “Give his diaphragm a squeeze.”
Blasky performed a partial Heimlich, there was a wet popping sound and something shot out of the deceased’s mouth and arced through the air. Jack tracked it down, squatting and peering at the asphalt between her black Ferragamo pumps.
“What is it?” Herb stood next to her. He wasn’t built to squat.
“I have no idea. Some sort of disk. A poker chip?”
She looked closer. It was white, maybe three centimeters in diameter. If it hadn’t been stuck in a floater’s throat, Jack would have guessed it was a Communion wafer.
Without prompting, Herb handed her a plastic evidence baggie and a wrapped pepperoni stick. She used the jerky to poke it. Metal. And thick, about a centimeter.
She flipped the circular object over.
Herb said, “Holy Guacamole, Batman.”
Her partner’s comment was appropriate. On the other side of the disk was a picture of Batman. A close-up of his face, the caped crusader in three-quarter profile, looking suitably heroic. Jack
“The stiff is a white male, about six-three, under two hundred pounds, probably in his early to mid thirties. A group of folks on a river cruise spotted him floating by.”
“That’ll ruin a nice day in the big city.”
“No shit. He was found fully dressed, but without any ID on him.”
“Cause of death?”
“No word yet. I didn’t get that close.”
“And he was floating, huh?”
“That’s what I was told.”
“Anything distinct about him?”
Jimmy thought for a moment.
“Oh yeah, he has a tattoo on his arm.”
“What kind of tattoo?”
“It’s a lightning bolt, could be prison ink.”
“That’s Sam Preston.”
“You knew him, Alex?”
“Not for long.”
2
Daniels
H omicide Lieutenant Jack Daniels pushed her bangs behind her ear—seeing the streaks of gray annoyed her—and frowned at the body being lifted onto the stretcher. The man’s clothes and hair had begun to dry, and aside from the dull open eyes he appeared to be sleeping.
“Tour captain said he was floating,” she said.
Her partner, Sergeant Herb Benedict, had liberated his emergency beef jerky stash and was munching on some sort of pepperoni stick.
“I don’t get it either. Guy looks like he just went for a swim. Couldn’t have been in the drink for more than a few hours.”
“But he was floating,” she repeated. The words didn’t taste right leaving her tongue.
“Maybe he just had a buoyant meal,” Herb said. “Something light and airy. You want to grab a bite after this?”
Daniels walked over to Phil Blasky, the county Medical Examiner, who was using a probe to take the liver temperature. Unlike Herb, who was portly and sported a mustache, Blasky was thin to the point of gaunt and didn’t have enough hair on his entire head to keep a mouse warm in the summer.
“Eighty degrees,” he said, noticing Jack’s approach. “The water is fifty-five.”
“Rigor?”
“No. No lividity yet, no livor mortis. This man was alive a few hours ago.”
“Cause of death?”
“Can’t tell from a cursory examination. No visible marks on the body. Blue pallor, slightly cyanotic, but that could be from the water temperature. A drowning?”
“When they fished him out he was floating.”
“That’s odd.”
Jack’s frown deepened.
“Are his lungs full of water?” she asked.
Blasky pulled a syringe out of his med kit, unwrapped it, then looked around for a place to put the wrapper. Herb took it, adding the garbage to the dozen or so jerky wrappers in his breast pocket; you always knew when Herb was around because he sounded like cellophane.
“Let’s see.” Blasky pushed up the corpse’s shirt and angled the needle between the damp, pale ribs. He pulled back the plunger, getting a small quantity of blood and a larger quantity of air.
“Suffocation causes cyanosis too.” Jack folded her arms. “Give his diaphragm a squeeze.”
Blasky performed a partial Heimlich, there was a wet popping sound and something shot out of the deceased’s mouth and arced through the air. Jack tracked it down, squatting and peering at the asphalt between her black Ferragamo pumps.
“What is it?” Herb stood next to her. He wasn’t built to squat.
“I have no idea. Some sort of disk. A poker chip?”
She looked closer. It was white, maybe three centimeters in diameter. If it hadn’t been stuck in a floater’s throat, Jack would have guessed it was a Communion wafer.
Without prompting, Herb handed her a plastic evidence baggie and a wrapped pepperoni stick. She used the jerky to poke it. Metal. And thick, about a centimeter.
She flipped the circular object over.
Herb said, “Holy Guacamole, Batman.”
Her partner’s comment was appropriate. On the other side of the disk was a picture of Batman. A close-up of his face, the caped crusader in three-quarter profile, looking suitably heroic. Jack
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