Chapter Seven

Griffin

I'd never been one to watch police shows or true crime documentaries, even when I'd had a detective as a fiancé, so this was proving to be quite the eye-opener. The house swarmed with people, all of them with a job to do, and managing it without hindering each other. It was like a well-choreographed dance that everyone knew the steps to apart from me.

Watching Ben at work was quite the revelation. Gone was the snarky man from the car who'd complained about the smell of alcohol just to piss me off, and in his place was a polished detective, efficient and professional to a T. Well, unless you counted that one flippant comment about where the murderer kept the dismembered fingers, but I guess everyone had to let off steam somehow.

I lifted my gaze to find another of the crime scene technicians staring at me. As soon as I met her gaze, she looked away. I guess I couldn't blame them for their curiosity. Ben's introduction as a specialist came without elaboration, leaving them wondering just what kind of specialist I was.

Ben paused to look back over his shoulder just shy of the bedroom doorway. "Are you ready for this?"

Was I? Probably not. I might have seen more dead bodies than most of the young police constables present tonight had had hot dinners as part of my role in the PPB. But they'd all died of natural causes, usually tucked up in bed beneath pastel sheets, or in the hospital. But this… this was something else.

Either my expression or my silence gave me away, Ben coming to a stop. "Listen, we can—"

"I'm fine." If there was one thing I never did, it was show weakness, and I didn't intend to start now. Ben gave a nod, and we both stepped inside the room.

My gaze went to the bed first, only to find it empty. For a split second, I imagined a scenario where there'd been a mistake and we could all go home. Wishful thinking at its finest. Then I saw the body. Not on the bed, but sprawled halfway across the threshold of an open door. Presumably an en suite bathroom. A man in full body coveralls crouched at the side of body, Ben and him exchanging a nod.

Just like many others had done, his gaze slid across to me. Unlike the others, his lingered, though, his eyes narrowing in a way that told me he was about three seconds from telling me to get the fuck away from his crime scene. Ben interjected before he could. "Patrick, this is Griffin Caldwell. He's been assigned as a specialist to the case. Griffin, this is Patrick Holmes, the home office pathologist. He's attended all of Satanic Romeo's crime scenes and carried out the post mortems as well."

Patrick's scowl didn't shift as he stood. "What sort of specialist? And why is this the first I'm hearing about it? "

A valid question. And not one I'd be attempting to answer. No, I'd leave that to Ben. Not that he seemed in a hurry to answer, the long pause and the study of his feet screaming of playing for time. "We'll get to that," he eventually said. "First things first, though. What have we got?"

Patrick subjected me to a few more seconds of scrutiny before returning to the job at hand. He jerked his head to the open door behind him. "Body isn't on the bed, as you can see. Theory is he made a break for the bathroom. There's a lock on the door, so he probably thought he could lock himself in and wait his attacker out."

It was a shame the poor bastard hadn't succeeded. If he had, I'd still be in bed and he could have told the police what they needed to know about his attacker without me ever needing to get involved. Job done. No more having Ben shoved in my face as a reminder of what could have been if things had worked out differently. I could have returned to my life of whiskey and avoiding work. None of that had happened, though. Which meant I needed to look at the body. I mean, I had looked at it, but I hadn't looked at it.

I dropped my gaze to it, trying to study it with a dispassionate air. His position was awkward, half in and half out of the doorway, his torso propped up by the doorjamb, the dark head of hair lolling to one side. Naked. Young. Lean rather than muscular. Blood. Lots of blood. Presumably from the missing digits, the reality of seeing it first-hand far worse than the photos had been.

Patrick's voice cut through the buzzing in my head. "Is your specialist going to be sick? Because if so, he needs to get out of here before he contaminates the scene."

Ben's gaze shot to me, alarm present in his eyes. "I'm fine," I said before he could ask. "It's just…" I let my gaze drift around the small bedroom. Or maybe it wasn't small. Maybe it just seemed it because of all the people in it. Photographs—the camera flash going off at regular intervals. Discussions. "It's just a lot," I said.

Ben lifted his hand. It had barely moved an inch before it stilled, hung in mid-air for a few seconds, and then dropped back to his side. I assumed he'd been going to offer a reassuring touch or squeeze, but had thought better of it. Good. I didn't need him touching me on top of everything else.

"I'm going to ask again," Patrick said, his eyes focused on the bag on my shoulder. "What sort of specialist?"

Ben let out a sigh. "I thought someone would have spoken to you, given you pre-warning."

"They didn't. They haven't." Patrick's clipped tone said he was running out of patience.

"I'm a necromancer," I said as quietly as I could and it still be audible. "It's been decided…" I hoped my words made it crystal clear that it hadn't been my decision, that I was nothing more than the hired help. "That I'll bring the corpse back so DCI Weaver can ask it some questions."

Patrick's eyes flashed, his words coming out in a hiss. "Corpse? It? Who the fuck is this guy?"

I grimaced. I'd never been known for my sensitivity, but over the last few years, it had only worsened, until all the dead bodies I saw, young, old, women, men, merged into one, becoming nothing more than a means of earning my salary. More money meant more whiskey. More whiskey meant I could numb myself against the world. And on it went in a vicious cycle. Awareness of being trapped in it didn't mean I had the means to get out of it, or that I even wanted to. This wasn't just any body, though. This was a murder victim.

"I apologize," I said and meant it. "I wasn't thinking." What was the guy's name? Something posh. Something that made me think of a bear. "Rupert. Not the corpse. And I should have said he, not it. I won't make that mistake again." Ben didn't look any happier than Patrick. They should have sent Calisto. He oozed sincerity and goodness. He wouldn't have made that mistake. Except, I knew where Calisto would have been in this scenario: over in the corner throwing up. With John absent, Cade really hadn't had any choice but to send me. Lucky me.

Patrick shook his head, his jaw set. "What you're suggesting is unnatural. It's insane. It's—"

"It's a way of getting information," Ben interjected. "An irregular one, yes. But the authorities have cleared it, so…"

Patrick continued shaking his head as he peeled one of his gloves off and pulled a phone out of his pocket. "I don't believe you. They'd never authorize a change in policy like this without a hundred meetings first. You obviously think you can turn up here with a necromancer in tow and that I'll turn a blind eye and let you do whatever you want. Well, I'm not putting my arse on the line like that."

Ben and I shared a look as Patrick started talking rapidly into his phone. "Yeah, I've got some quack here at my crime scene." I'd been called many things in my life, but that was a new one. "Reckons he's going to bring the victim back. Do you know how damaging that would be to the evidence? Body position will change for a start. And who knows what else will be affected. It will make a mockery of the post mortem. Or are we just skipping that now in favor of mumbo jumbo? Someone should have told me that my skills are stuck firmly in the dark ages and they're not required anymore."

Either he ran out of steam or the person on the other end of the phone cut him off. The rush of color to his cheeks and the sheepishly muttered "yes, sir. Yes, I understand," that followed, said it was the latter.

The call ended soon after, Patrick heaving out a breath that said someone had given him short shrift. "I stay," he said, his jaw so tight that a headache would no doubt be on the cards later. "You need a witness, anyway."

Did we? We'd never discussed the ins and outs of how this would work. Did Ben know? Or were we both just playing it by ear? I suspected we were.

Ben gave a terse nod. "Fine with me."

He turned to me. Surprised to get a say, I shrugged. "Whatever."

Patrick let out a snort. The man didn't like me. That much was obvious. Either he'd taken exception to my face, which wouldn't have been the first occasion that had happened, or he just didn't like necromancers, which was also common. You didn't go into necromancy to be popular. You went into it because you'd been born with the ability to do what only a minute percentage of the population could, and it was either hide it or make the most of it. And yes, the money was good.

Ben took it upon himself to clear the room. Some immediately bowed to his air of authority. Others were less keen, a few more phone calls made before the three of us were alone. Someone had definitely fucked up with spreading the word about my presence here. But then I guess my meeting with Baros had only happened the previous day. It wasn't like anyone could have predicted victim number five arriving so soon. Memos were probably still languishing in pigeon holes.

"How long has he been dead?" Ben asked, as I bent over and unfastened my bag.

"Three hours tops." Patrick provided the information without taking his eyes off me. Despite his conversation on the phone, he still emanated a disapproval so sharp that it cut like a razorblade. Or at least it would have if I cared more about what people thought of me, but I'd given that up a long time ago.

"Three hours is good," I said as I pulled candles from the bag and arranged them around Rupert's still and lifeless body, the task made more difficult by his twisted and half upright position.

Patrick stepped closer. "You can't move him."

I spared him a glance. "We never do."

His snort said he thought I was bullshitting him. What did he think we did with the people we brought back? Lead them in a waltz like a crazed lunatic? As a forensic pathologist who only saw the worst of what nature had to offer, I should probably cut him some slack.

A pair of gloves appeared under my nose, Patrick shaking them when I didn't reach for them. I frowned and looked to Ben. "I don't know if it's possible wearing gloves."

"Try," he said. "And if you can't, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

I took the gloves and put them on before lighting the candles. When I pulled the knife out of the bag, Patrick's eyes went wide. Sensing the objection on the pathologist's lips, Ben beat him to it. "Just let him do what he needs to do. Yes, this is a long way from standard procedure. I know that. You know that. Griffin knows that, but we're here now, so let's just get this done. If he can tell us the murderer's name, it'll save hours of investigation, not to mention preventing any more murders."

Patrick said nothing, but I took his slight retreat as capitulation. With the gloves covering my hands, I drew the knife blade across my forearm rather than my palm.

"For fuck's sake," Patrick muttered in the background, his next words inaudible except for "contamination."

I got it. He didn't want anyone else's blood tainting his crime scene. Completely understandable. Luckily for him, I wasn't in the habit of spreading it around. Even the relatives of loved ones brought back for one last conversation weren't grateful enough that they'd ignore blood on their cream carpets. Not when they'd already paid a small fortune for the service.

Tension filled the room as I drew the sigil over the victim's heart with my blood. It wasn't crucial, but that and the candles positioned at ley lines sped the entire process up and meant I could call on energy that wasn't my own. And I was keen to get this done and get out of here. Very keen.