Page 106 of Kismet

Danica, along with the rest of the crime scene investigators, would further mark every identifiable piece of evidence, from a footprint to a fallen coin. Then, and only then, could Kobe enter and assess the scene.

A detective’s role in an investigation came last. They used everyone else’s information to form theories and chase downsuspects. For that reason, it was imperative that all resources were used, and all evidence was gathered and documented correctly. With such a disturbed scene, I needed to have first access. If a detective didn’t abide by protocol, I was within my rights to authorize his removal.

I didn’t want to be an ass, but I still harbored a tiny seed of distrust when it came to Kobe the Cop and his motives at the end of the day.

Sharing a bed didn’t exempt him from following the rules.

Clearly stung by my harsh words, Kobe nodded and backed off. I sensed his perturbation and felt instantly guilty for snapping.

It wasn’t the time for a conversation. Besides, I didn’t know how to explain myself, and it was freezing. I didn’t want to be out there any longer than was necessary.

I got to work, instructing Danica through several photographs as I visually scanned the dead man, noting his positioning, his visible wounds, and the surrounding terrain. The man was naked, like the previous two, but the attempt at presentation had failed on several levels.

The man’s complexion was so bloodless, his skin had turned papery white with a faint tinge of blue. It nearly matched the landscape. Snow coated his dark hair and clung to his bare shoulders. Crystalized flakes stuck to his lashes. His open eyes stared at nothing, their color a washed-out gray.

Curious, I crouched to examine him more closely and touched one of his hands to see if I could uncurl his fingers. I couldn’t. They were stiff, and based on the darkening tips, it wasn’t rigor. The man had been outside long enough in the subzero temperatures that he had turned to a block of ice.

“How long has he been out here, do you think?” Kobe shouted from a distance away, where he paced, looking on.

I didn’t respond and located the thermometer in my carrier. Using a scalpel, I attempted to make an incision to access the liver but was unsuccessful. “He’s frozen solid,” I announced to no one and everyone.

Moving on, I inspected the deep gashes around the ligature mark on his neck. He had gouged several trenches with his fingernails as he’d tried and failed to free himself from the strangling noose, which had deprived him of oxygen.

Danica took photographs.

The corpse’s hands were not positioned on his lap like the others—in supplication—and he had slumped sideways, not quite falling over, but it was close. Other clear marks littered his skin, standing out starkly against his colorless frame. A graze along the knuckles of his right hand. A gash on the top of the left.

“Defensive wounds,” Kobe shouted as I examined them.

Again, I ignored him.

The flower spike lay on the ground, the rose beside it, damaged. A few petals had come off. The main body of the flower was crushed. Stepped on. Shreds of tree bark decorated the snow next to it. A perforation in the penis indicated where the spike had once been inserted—not under the crown like the other two we had discovered, but lower on the shaft and slightly off center. A rush job that didn’t stick.

I stared at the violation for a long time before waving Danica in for a picture.

Kobe was right. The scene was a mess.

The man’s clothing lay in a heap beside the body, unfolded, discarded without care. Sleek black trousers, the pressed seam down the legs still visible. An expensive white dress shirt and undershirt. A trendy leather jacket. A bloodred tie poked out from the bottom of the pile. Polished black dress shoes, unsuitable for the weather, lay haphazardly a few feet away, socks balled up inside.

“The wallet is on the ground by his leg,” Kobe said, closer than before.

“I’m aware.” I didn’t give him hell for approaching. What was the point? I’d performed my examination of the body. I’d collected my evidence and taken plenty of notes. Danica had photographed everything as instructed. I might as well let Kobe take over.

I gave him the okay to proceed, but hung close, taking in details and listening as he talked through his own discoveries. His analytical brain interested me. It had from the day I met him. He picked up on things others missed, and I was curious what he would find. The entire time he surveyed the scene, I remained alert, never taking my eyes off him, listening to him mutter and talk it out.

He started with the fallen rose and the note that lay face down in the snow. Using gloved fingers, he plucked it from the ground and turned it over. The ink had smeared from the wet terrain, but the words were still mostly legible.

“A cocky manipulator,” Kobe read. He glanced at the perforation in the frozen man’s penis. “That’s three of the four who were speared through the dick. I’m more and more convinced this is vengeance for a sexual assault.”

He replaced the note and examined the crushed rose and flakes of tree bark. “Our perp was in a hurry or rattled. Something didn’t go as planned. We have a partial boot tread. Was it photographed?”

“Of course it was.” I aimed for a leveler tone, needing to calm down.

“Good.”

He turned his attention to the wounds on the body’s pale flesh. “He fought back. I don’t think our unsub walked away unharmed this time. We need to swab for DNA.”

“We always do.”