Page 134 of Devoted in Death

“It’s Porter. DB’s, male, between twenty-five and thirty, mixed race. He’s a John Doe as his face was bashed in, then the fish—you know. And his fingers were severed.”

“By the killer, or the fish?”

“The killer. So it looks like maybe a mob hit, maybe. It sure looks like the killer didn’t want the DB ID’d if and when he surfaced.”

“DNA?”

“Yeah, I’ve got an order in, but they’re—surprise—backed up, and say at least another thirty-six. Maybe you can push them some on that.”

“I can, and will. COD?”

“Vic was stabbed, multiples, and Porter says the gut wound was COD. The finger-severing? Some ante-, some postmortem, like maybe they were trying to get information out of him, but he died—or they were trying for a ransom deal—sending his fingers as incentive.”

“What started out, potentially, as persuasion, and finished in an attempt to blur identification.”

“Yeah, that’s how it seems,” Peabody agreed. “The time in the water—the body was weighed down with old bricks, and forensic’s working on IDing those, stuffed in a jumbo recycler bag. The time in the water,” she said again, “and the fish did the usual number on the body. The bag came unsealed, so the fish got in.”

“Tox?”

“Hasn’t come in. I was leaning toward organized crime or gang, but the face-bashing—at least one blow was antemortem and broke several teeth—seems more personal. And the torture.”

“The fingers.”

“Those, yeah, that’s the big one, but there were other signs of torture.”

Eve lowered her mug. “What kind, what signs?”

“Some of the cuts and punctures were shallow, and Porter reports the vic’s left foot and ankle were smashed—heavy object. Antemortem. Both knees were broken.”

“Any burns?”

“Not in his report, but the fish...”

Eve turned on her heel, strode to her desk and tagged Morris at home.

He didn’t bother to block video—she’d never known him to. He answered, casually propped in bed, his hair loosely braided, his eyes still blurry with sleep.

“Campbell?”

“No, but possibly related. You’ve got a John Doe—Porter did the autopsy. Male, twenty-five to thirty, mixed race. Floater, surfaced Pier 40, been under six days. Signs of torture, Morris. Face beaten in beyond IDing, fingers severed. COD stabbing, abdomen. I need you on it, now, and I need you to push for immediate DNA. I want him ID’d yesterday.”

“I’ll order the DNA now.” He tossed aside the covers. Eve caught the Grim Reaper tat on his thigh, then a solid glimpse of his very well-toned ass before he moved out of screen range. “You’ll have it within the hour. I’m on my way in.”

“Thanks.”

“I never put it together.” Peabody was on her feet. “I never considered...”

“Peabody, it dropped on you less than twelve hours ago, in the middle of another prioritized investigation.”

“But I never—you thought of it in under five minutes, with just the basics I gave you.”

“And if I’d given you five minutes last night, we’d have moved on it sooner. We don’t know if it’s connected, but we’ll know once the John Doe is ID’d.”

“They’ve never done anything like this—it’s not the pattern. But I should’ve—”

“Should’ves are crap,” Eve shot back, “and who’s the LT here?”

“You are,” Peabody mumbled.