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“It’s one of those canvas deals. Crime scene bagged it, but I doubt they’ll get a useful print. The FBI has a way to lift prints off fabric, so I’ll submit the wallet and duffel to them and see what we get back.” Ben sighed. “It’ll take weeks to hear anything, though.”
“Maybe you’ll be lucky and the dude will have DNA under his fingernails.”
“That would make my day.” He glanced toward the privacy screens and got a nod from a tech. “Okay, y’all are up.”
Nick and I followed Ben around the screens. I thought I heard someone snicker at my gaudy rain boots, but screw ’em. My feet were obnoxious, but they were also dry and mud-free.
The victim was, indeed, missing a head. A messy, hacked stump of neck topped what looked like an otherwise healthy body. He wore a disturbingly familiar flannel shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a white t-shirt with several long rips in it, smeared in mud and blood. My gaze traveled down similarly ripped and stained jeans, to the hand-painted Zombie Pinup Girl high-tops on his feet.
“Oh my god!” I blurted in shock. “I know this guy!”
Ben wheeled toward me so fast he almost fell over. “How?”
“I don’t know him, but I talked to him last night at the movie premiere. He was with the production company.” I waved a hand at his shoes. “He had those on. I told him they were cool.” A sharp pang went through me, and I couldn’t speak for a few seconds. “He was really nice,” I finally managed. Damn it. I took a long breath and got the ache settled to where it wouldn’t interfere. “He was in these clothes, dressed up like a zombie. The rips were in his shirt, and I bet some of that blood is paint.” I yanked gloves on and crouched, lifted one of his hands and peered at it. “See, there’s a bit of makeup here.”
Ben waved a tech over to take pictures of the makeup. “Angel, I could kiss you.”
I smiled. “I don’t want to make your boyfriend mad.”
“He’d understand, once I explained the reason,” Ben said. “Can you describe the vic’s hair and face?”
“Dark brown hair, almost black. Blue eyes.” And he wasn’t a zombie. I’d been close enough to know. At least I’d confirmed that real zombies weren’t being targeted again. “He had a cleft in his chin, like a friggin’ comic book superhero.”
Ben nodded. “That description matches the DL pic.”
“Still need to verify with the prints,” Nick muttered as he shone a penlight onto the neck stump. “He might’ve swapped clothes with someone else after Angel saw him. Not likely, but can’t assume he didn’t.”
“I’ll take his prints as soon as I get him to the morgue,” I reassured Nick, but my own thoughts weren’t as comforting. Grayson Seeger had been nice, but he’d also been fidgety and nervous. Concerned about security. It was possible that whoever he was freaked about had caught up with him. I drew breath to tell Ben about Seeger’s paranoia then released it. Shit. That info might help Ben’s investigation, but what if the “fed” thing Seeger was worried about tied into the FBI agent who was checking out funeral homes? And what if the funeral home thing tied into the Tribe and brains and real zombies? Ben was a damn good detective because he was a tenacious son of a bitch who never gave up on a case and pursued every possible lead to its very end. If there was even the slightest teeny tiny thread of a link between Seeger’s murder and real zombies, Ben would dig it out. And the last thing we needed was the cops poking into our business. I felt as if I was betraying Ben by keeping the Seeger paranoia thing to myself, but I simply couldn’t risk the Tribe. Best to keep my mouth shut until I knew more.
But, damn, it would have been a whole lot easier to find out what Seeger was up to if he hadn’t gone and gotten himself murdered. As soon as I had what was left of him tucked away in the morgue cooler, I needed to call the Tribe. I’d keep them in the loop, even if they didn’t do the same for me. ’Cause I was considerate.
As soon as Nick finished his examination, I paper-bagged the dead guy’s hands to preserve potential evidence, then rolled him over to let crime scene take pics of his back and the ground beneath him.
A tiny wink of sunlight on chrome caught my eye. “Ben, there’s something in the mud here.”
Ben squinted at where I pointed then signaled to the tech who deftly uncovered what turned out to be a battered yellow
disposable lighter.
The tech bagged it. “No telling how long it’s been here, but I’ll see if I can bring up any prints.”
A yellow lighter.
Judd. Lighting his stupid hand-rolled cigarette in the alley behind the Bear’s Den.
Which had nothing to do with a brutal murder. Crazy how the mind stuck random details together. Millions of those lighters were sold every year. I probably had a couple in a kitchen drawer at home.
Randy. With a zombie hunter duffel slung over his shoulder.
Along with a hundred and sixteen other buyers. Sure, one of those might’ve been Judd. But that still didn’t mean anything. Judd was with Randy and Coy last night. No way in hell would those two do something like this.
“Angel?” Nick said. “You going to bag the guy or what?”
I realized with chagrin that everyone was waiting for me. “Oh. Sorry.” I got the guy into the body bag and zipped it up, then Ben and Nick were nice and helped me carry it up to the highway. Leaving them to babysit the corpse, I returned to the van to bring it closer, stomping my way there in a futile effort to get the mud off the boots. Not that I gave a crap about the condition of the boots, but I didn’t want to spend the rest of the day cleaning out the van.
Both TV trucks had left, creating a big gap between the van and the next vehicle as if I’d parked far away on purpose. The news guy had left the towel by the front right wheel along with a neatly printed note, weighted down with a piece of gravel.
Thanks again for the towel! Call me if you ever want to cash in that favor, or even just to grab a coffee together. —Brennan Masters
