Inside, a single technician waited near a wall of refrigerated holding drawers. Most would be occupied, she thought. Summer was always a hot time for dying.
‘Lieutenant Dallas.’
‘Right. You got one for me.’
‘Just came in.’ With the careless cheer of his profession, he moved to a drawer, coded for view. Locks and refrigeration blipped off, and the drawer, with its occupant, slid out with a small burst of icy fog. ‘Uniform on scene thought she recognized him as one of yours.’
‘Yep.’ In defense, Eve drew breath in and out of her mouth. Seeing death, violent death, was nothing new. She wasn’t sure she could have explained that it was easier, less personal somehow, to study a body where it had fallen. Here, in the pristine, almost virginal surroundings of the morgue, it was all more obscene.
‘Johannsen, Carter. Aka Boomer. Last known address the flop on Beacon. Petty thief, professional weasel, occasional dealer in illegals, and pitiful excuse for a humanoid.’ She sighed as she studied what was left of him. ‘Well, hell, Boomer, what did they do to you?’
‘Blunt instrument,’ the tech said, taking her question seriously. ‘Possibly a pipe or a thin bat. We’ll have to finish testing. A lot of strength behind the blows. Only spent a couple hours at most in the river; the contusions and lacerations are evident.’
Eve tuned him out, let him ramble on importantly. She could see well enough for herself.
He’d never been a looker, but they’d left behind very little of his face. He’d been severely beaten, the nose crushed, the mouth all but obscured with blows and bloating. Bruising at the throat indicated strangulation, as did the vivid broken blood vessels that polka-dotted what remained of his face.
His torso was purpled, and from the way his body lay, she guessed his arm had been shattered. The missing finger of his left hand was an old war wound, one she recalled he’d been rather proud of.
Somebody strong, angry, and determined had gotten to poor, pathetic Boomer.
And so, in that short floating time, had the fish.
‘The uniform ran the partial prints he had left for ID, you confirm with visual.’
‘Yeah. Send me a copy of the post mortem.’ She turned and started out. ‘Who was the uniform who connected me?’
The tech pulled out his notebook, tapped keys. ‘Peabody, Delia.’
‘Peabody.’ For the first time, Eve smiled a little. ‘She gets around. Anybody asks for or about him, I want to know about it.’
On the way to Cop Central, Eve contacted Peabody. The uniform’s calm, serious face floated on screen. ‘Dallas.’
‘Yes, Lieutenant.’
‘You hauled in Johannsen.’
‘Sir. I’m completing my report right now. I can send you a copy.’
‘Appreciate it. How did you tag him?’
‘I had a porta-ident in my field kit, sir. I ran his prints. The fingers were severely damaged, so I only managed a partial, but the indication was Johannsen. I’d heard he was one of your weasels.’
‘Yeah, he was. Good work, Peabody.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Peabody, you interested in assisting the primary in this case?’
Control slipped for an instant, just long enough to show the glint in Peabody’s eyes. ‘Yes, sir. Are you the primary?’
‘He was mine,’ Eve said simply. ‘I’ll clear it. My office, Peabody. One hour.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’
‘Dallas,’ Eve muttered. ‘Just Dallas.’ But Peabody had already broken transmission.
Eve scowled at the time, snarled at the traffic, and detoured three blocks to a drive-through cafe. The coffee was slightly less disgusting there than at Cop Central. Fueled with that and with what had probably been intended as a sweet roll, she stowed her vehicle and prepared to report to her commander.