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“Agent Rollins is on his way,” Aubrey says as he completes his own findings.
That information doesn’t help the tremble of my hands. “Almost done.” As quickly and as competently as I can, I finish the report and then send Quinn another text. I want Quinn to have the update, but it’s more than looking out for his department, for his team. I don’t want to be alone with the Feds as they eye my lab.
Finally, he returns the text: On my way.
I breathe through my climbing heart rate, slowing my breaths until the dizziness subsides. So far the FBI hasn’t asked for more than a breakdown on the Trifecta to list the illegal drug content, but I’m still hyperaware of Aubrey’s presence in my lab. He’s closer to the link than he realizes. At any moment, an origin report could expose the truth.
I try to let Quinn’s words reassure me. The only way he found my connection was because I gave it to him. The FBI and task force are more focused on sex trafficking than they are on chasing down some unknown person selling ambergris through the darknet.
Besides, since I was abducted and forced to develop the drug, my link is well established. Anything I do now can constitute as further testing on the drug for the crime lab. At least, that’s the cover I’ve been working on in preparation to Aubrey’s pending questions.
The swing doors open, and Agent Rollins enters, trailed by the head of the FBI’s Organized Crime Division, Agent Bell.
Shit. I drop a metal pan. The loud clatter bounces off the walls and echos through the main lab. Aubrey graciously ignores my fumble and meets the agents up front. I brace my hands on the edge of an autopsy cart, letting the cool metal ground my thoughts.
Agent Bell scans the lab, her gaze roving over the equipment, then her pale eyes alight on me. My back tenses immediately. Both times she’s entered my lab, I feel as if I’m being observed. Judged.
Unlike most people, she doesn’t purposely try to avoid staring at my scar. Instead, like as she advances now, she stares openly at it before she finds my eyes.
It does make me feel somewhat intimidated, but I also appreciate her brashness. I get no sympathy from her. There’s a silent ruthlessness about her. She’s a dominant in her field. Like me, she probably has to be. What most men call a bitch is merely dedication, determination. I guess I can relate to her on that level. Ironically, we no longer need men to hold us back and make us feel inferior; we have each other for that.
“Doctor Johnson discovered the connection,” Aubrey says, drawing my attention as they approach.
I pull on a smile and extend my hand. “I can’t allow Doctor Paulson to give me all the credit. He’s been an amazing asset to us.”
Agent Bell accepts my hand, hers soft yet firm, giving a secure squeeze to denote her combination of grace and grit. She’s everything Quinn said, and beautiful—something he failed to mention.
“I’m glad,” she says, her voice just as elegant as the woman. “I never had any doubt of putting you two brilliant minds together.”
Aubrey accepts her flattery with a crimson flush, but I’m not charmed enough to miss her self-indulgent praise. She complimented herself more in that statement. I nod, my gaze seeking the entrance.
“Doctor Johnson, could you start your findings?” Agent Bell asks. “We’re pressed for time.”
I nod, mentally devising a way to stall until Quinn arrives. I can give him this information later, of course, but he knows the politics better than me. Anything conflicting between the ACPD and the FBI, I want his presence here to establish.
I pull the cart with a laptop in front of me, like a barrier between me and the Feds. Aubrey adjusts the settings on the projection screen as I begin. “DNA analysis determined the blood on the pen to be a match to the first victim, Marcy Beloff. We further confirmed this by measuring the circular wound in her liver, the cause of death, to the pen and its holder, which—after acco
unting for swelling and blood loss—is a match, as well.” I click on a screen, and the projected image comparing the wound to the pen and the calculations appears on the screen.
Aubrey points to the COD diagram. “The pen impaled the victim, but she didn’t die immediately after the attack—”
“Attack?” Agent Bell interrupts. “How did you determine she was attacked?”
Aubrey glances at me as if seeking an answer. Damn. The FBI medical examiner has only worked with me for a short while, and he’s already stepping outside the FBI’s comfort zones.
I take over for him. “Contusions and lacerations show signs of a struggle between the victim and perpetrator. The degree and placement of bruising leads me to believe she was battered over time, some in the process of healing, and her more recent injuries—” I change the image to one of the victim after processing “—denotes the perpetrator grabbed her arms roughly, manhandling her. The sharp, severe bruising along her hip differs from the others, however. After measuring the edge of the desk, we’ve concluded the contusion aligns.” I take a breath. “The perpetrator pushed the victim into the edge of the desk, where the pen impaled her, resulting in an injury that bled out over time and ultimately killed the victim.”
Silence thickens the room. The hum of the equipment grows louder, until Agent Bell breaks the quiet. “You’re telling me her death was an accident.”
“If you see the beating of a woman that resulted in her death as an accident, then we’re not working on the same side, agent.” Quinn stalks toward us, his steps heavy in the still air.
I didn’t see him enter, but he obviously heard enough of my report to counter the agent’s claim. My constricted lungs loosen with every step that brings him closer. I meet his resolute expression with a slight smile.
“Detective Quinn is correct,” I say, my voice steadier. “No matter the intent, the victim was killed as a result of the abuse, the attack on her.” I glance at Aubrey, assuring him his assessment was also correct.
Agent Bell shakes her head and jots a note on her tablet. Then, looking up, she glances between me and Quinn. “I’m not debating semantics,” she says, the inflection in her voice a note edgier. “My point is that her death doesn’t match the other victims. There’s a glaring difference between mutilated intestines and victim falls on pen.” She holds up a hand. “Victim gets shoved on pen,” she amends.
“I have to agree, detective,” Agent Rollins says as he turns toward Quinn. “This discovery doesn’t do anything but complicate the investigation.”
