Nightshade Cases

Chapter 8

INT. - SILVER CITY MORGUE - AFTERNOON

Ray bit back her temper, slim fingers holding the scalpel in her grip so tight she was surprised it didn't bend under the pressure. Her eyes locked on Detective Pierce's jugular as he leaned over the edge of the slab and winked at her.

Close enough the sharp blade would reach. One little slice-

She let out a tight breath and forced a smile, her precise British upbringing refusing to allow her such respite. "You're touching the body," she said, hopefully with the same chill as the refrigerated drawers where the dead were kept.

He leaned away, but not by much, the stench of whatever cologne he thought appealing wafting toward her through a mix of decay and the rank, sharp smell of disinfectant. "You didn't answer my question."

Ray sighed, forcing her fingers to release the scalpel handle, the ring of the implement falling to the stainless steel tray carrying through the room. She looked down into the staring, milky eyes of the dead dancer and did her best to be patient.

Mummy would approve.

"No," she said, knowing her West London accent grew in influence as she went on. "I do not have a guy keeping me warm at night." She swiveled her head to glare at him, "nor do I need one. No," she tilted her head to one side, dark ponytail falling over her shoulder, "I'm not interested in having a drink with you. And no." Ray turned her back on him, wondering if Gerri would miss him, if anyone would, if he happened to meet an unfortunate end. "My answers will never, ever change." She turned back with a bright smile, one Mummy carefully cultivated, used best on old codgers with wandering hands and lords who thought they could sample a pretty girl's bottom with a pat or two.

If only Detective Pierce actually had a brain. Perhaps then he might get the hint without her having to murder him.

He circled the table, hands held out in supplication, what he must have thought to be a sexy look on his face. And, she had to admit as she observed with critical eyes, he was certainly handsome. For a man. But, considering her proclivities leaned in other, more feminine, directions and the fact there was something simply wretched about him she couldn't put her finger on-besides his terrible timing and pick up lines-Ray felt ill at ease in his presence.

"Come on," he said, winking one of those blue eyes at her in a way that triggered nervousness. Here was a man who would not take no for an answer. She'd met his kind before and backed up a pace when he came closer. "Give a guy a shot."

Ray's insides quivered, memory flashing across her mind as she gripped the edge of the second slab behind her, this one empty. Gerald hadn't believed she wasn't interested, either. And tried to convince her by force. While she'd escaped physically unscathed from her mother's third husband's attention, it still sent chills through her.

And triggered her anger, at last, if only enough to keep her from running from the room. Ray pushed off from the slab and straightened her shoulders, wishing Robert would come back from lunch with his fiancée and give her an excuse to kick Jackson out. Backup. She needed backup.

Why would Gerri send him here for her to deal with?

"Your being a 'guy' is, as it turns out, the main source of your problem." She pushed past Pierce, nostrils flaring from tension, retrieving her scalpel. The moment she had it in her grip again, she felt better, safer. There was no way he would attack her here, if anywhere. Her confidence increased as she forced herself to examine the body before her, if only to lock Pierce out.

As always, the sight of cold, pale skin under the bright light of her spots helped settle her. Work was an easy place to retreat to, the silent call of the dead to answer the questions their bodies hid from her. So many stab wounds. So much hate behind the thrusts of the blade. And the symbols carved carefully in to the flesh, six of them, in a line from shoulder to shoulder.

His scent jolted, the proximity of his body sending a shiver up her spine. Ray refused to show him her unease, speaking again, since he was obviously as dense as a brick wall. "Not only am I not interested in 'guys'," she prodded one of the stab wounds with a gloved finger, observing the edges, knowing ignoring him would just make him angry and actually okay with that, "but even if I were, at this point, your pathetic attempts to convince me of your attractiveness as a s****l partner would encourage me to bat for the other team." When she looked up and met his eyes, the anger in his gaze made her pause again. He was even closer than she first thought, barely inches from her, his tall, broad body pinning her against the slab.

She gripped the blade in her fingers tighter and told herself she'd kill him if she had to. No hesitation.

But, her words did the trick. He shook his head, backed off, hands in his pockets, mouth turned down in a scowl reminding her of a sulky boy. Suddenly, she felt better, confidence returning, memories of the past washed away with the joy of victory. Vindictiveness, a feeling she hated most of the time because it reminded her of her mother, replaced her ill ease. Normally, she would compress it, dispel it from her mind. But, today, she needed its strength and embraced it whole heartedly.

Really, she was worried about this pathetic little man and his ego? An indelicate snort accompanied the thought.

"I need your autopsy report." Hostility had replaced his attempt at familiarity, only solidifying her feeling of success. She'd gotten to him and held him there, in place, pinned with the coldness of her best British stare. His attitude was perfect. Just what she needed to push her the rest of the way out of any kind of nervous and into f**k you, asshole. "You'll get it," she said, "when it's done. Which, I might say, would go faster if you stopped bothering me."

Detective Pierce just glared. "At least confirm cause of death." How sweet, trying to salvage his ego. Fine, she'd allow that, as long as he acted like a damned professional from now on and not a bloody plonker.

"Multiple sharp force trauma." She shrugged, gesturing at the body.

"How many multiple?" He didn't look down, stared at her.

"Over thirty," Ray said. "Definitely a crime of passion."

Detective Pierce grunted, finally pulled out his notepad, jotting down the number. "Would have to be," he said. "No way some random murderer hits this freak that many times without a good reason." He glanced down at the naked victim at last before looking away quickly with a shot of disgust on his face. For the dead? Or because she was transitioning? Her carefully constructed breasts were ruined now, the saline bags exposed. Whoever attacked her focused on the newly female physical parts, but left the male s*x organs alone. Ray had winced earlier, undressing and cleaning the body as she examined it. The p***s and testicles had been taped with severity she'd rarely witnessed, to the point she wondered if a vaginal reconstruction from the tissue would have been possible with surgery. The lack of circulation had to take its toll.

Ray felt sadness wash over her at the sight of the dancer who called herself Aisling. The dichotomy of her femaleness clashing against the sagging masculinity between her legs. Ray might not have desired to change her s*x this way, counted herself fortunate to merely be lesbian and not transsexual in desperate need to turn her body to her true orientation, but she understood what it was like to feel different.

When Detective Pierce met her eyes again, she knew he was homophobic. Or, at the very least, a hater of all things out of place. And that infuriated her even more. Which was exactly what she was hoping for.

"If you'll excuse me," she said, calling up Mummy and her bossy, professional socialite persona, "I have work to do. I assume, so do you."

He finally left, thank goodness. She wasn't sure how much more of him she could take. And, naturally, the moment he did, one of the attendants returned, though not her Robert. Ray did her best not to glare at the technician, though she aimed a curse at the young woman in her head for her poor timing and total lack of attention, head bobbing to some music piping directly to her brain from her headphones.

This wasn't about Ray, though. It was about Aisling. Adam Rose, born in the wrong body, with a soul she was certain didn't fit her masculine form. Ray whispered a soft apology over the cold, dead flesh, knowing Aisling was long gone, but hoping she could hear her anyway.

She tapped the tape recorder with one finger and began her report.

"Autopsy of Adam Rose, stage name Aisling, twenty-two years old. Male." She cleared her throat. "Transitioning to female." And asked Aisling to forgive her. "Height, 5'6", weight 130 pounds." Ray double checked the scale marker on the table before going on. "Victim sustained multiple sharp force trauma to the torso and neck, thirty two punctures in all." Ray lifted the first sheet of X-Rays, the thin plastic held up to the light as she crossed the room, sliding it into the lightbox for a closer look. "Death occurred at approximately 3:15am on Thursday the 12th." The plastic slipped under the clip, film settling over the glass. Ray hit the switch on the side of the box, scanning the chest image quickly before realizing something was terribly wrong.

Her eyes widened, pulse pounding heavily in her chest as she realized what she was looking at, before she turned to stare at the body in shock.

Because Aisling wasn't right. She wasn't right at all.

***