“Which illustrates how your sick Morris fantasies screwed up my mental health.”
Peabody shrugged that off. “Did Morris put anybody on Coltraine, specifically?”
“Clipper.”
“Die-For-Ty? Talk about the sex. How come so many death doctors are wholly iced?”
“A mystery I’ve pondered throughout my career.”
“No, seriously. Clipper’s like ummm. He’s gay and has a partner, but a yummy treat for the eyes. His partner’s an artist. He paints people, literally I mean. Body painting. They’ve been together about six years.”
“How do you know all this stuff?”
“Unlike you, I enjoy hearing about people’s personal lives, especially when it involves sex.”
“At least since Clipper’s not into women, you won’t be troubled by sexual fantasies.”
Peabody pursed her lips in thought. “I can work with it. Two naked guys, body paints, me. Oh yeah, endless possibilities.”
Eve let Peabody have her moment. Easier, she knew, to think about crazy sex than the murder of another cop, than the grief of a colleague and friend.
The moment passed soon enough. Once they arrived at the morgue, started down the long white-tiled tunnel, the mood shifted. It wasn’t just death, it wasn’t just murder. Nipping and gnawing at objectivity were the keen teeth of personal loss.
They crossed paths with a tech who stopped, slid her hands into the pockets of her long, white coat. “Ah, Clipper’s using Morris’s suite. I don’t know if he—if Morris is going to check in or anything, so maybe when you talk to him you could tell him . . . We’re all here.”
“Okay.”
“Whatever we can do.” The tech shrugged helplessly, said, “Hell,” and strode away.
Eve moved on to the autopsy room where Morris habitually did his work. In his place stood ME Ty Clipper, a solid six feet with a muscular body clad in a pale blue shirt and khaki pants. He’d rolled up his sleeves neatly to the elbow, donned a clear cape.
He wore his hair in a close-cropped skullcap. A short, neat goatee added a hint of edge to his conservative attire, and interest to his angular face. But with Clipper it was all about the eyes. Huge, heavy-lidded, they were the color of crystallized amber and a jolt of contrast to his dark skin.
“I haven’t finished. I’m sorry.” His voice held a hint of his native Cuba.
“What can you tell me?”
“She wasn’t raped. There’s no evidence of sexual assault, or sexual activity. That would matter to Morris.”
“Yes, it will.” Like a murmur in the background a man sang a plea to someone named Layla. “Is that Eric Clapton?”
“Yes.”
“That’ll matter to him, too.” Eve set it aside, stepped forward.
Coltraine lay on the slab. “No defensive wounds.” Eve studied the body now as she would any piece of evidence. “No signs of violence other than the throat burns.”
“There are minor bruises on her shoulder blades, and the back of her head.” Clipper gestured to the comp screen, called up the scan. “Of the sort you’d incur by knocking back against a wall.”
“She was shoved, pushed.”
“Possibly. Death ensued soon after. The burns on the throat are consistent with a stunner pressed to the area. Contact burns. Have you found her weapon?”
“No.”
“Until you do, I can’t confirm it was the murder weapon, or if another was used. Only that the wounds are consistent with contact burns from a police-issue.”
“If her own weapon was used, how the hell did he disarm her? Shoves her back, she hits the wall. It’s not enough, not for a cop. There aren’t any cuts, no evidence of restraints.” Because he didn’t offer, as Morris would have, Eve picked up a pair of microgoggles herself, leaned over Coltraine to examine. “No abrasions on her wrists, her ankles. Here. Right here. On her biceps. Pressure syringe?”