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“Ah, here’s Finestein. Be nice,” Morse murmured to Eve.
“What am I?”
“An ass-kicker,” Morse said pleasantly and laid a friendly hand on her shoulder. “Herbert, Lieutenant Dallas would like an update on the DOS I assigned to you this afternoon.”
“Yes, the Dead on-Scene. Quim, Linus, white male, fifty-six years. Cause of death strangulation by hanging.” Finestein, a skinny mixed race with black skin and pale eyes, spoke in quick, piping tones and fiddled nervously with a small forest of pencils tucked in a breast pocket protector.
Not only a rookie, Eve thought with frustration, a nerd rookie.
“Did you want to review the body?”
“I’m standing here, aren’t I?” Eve began, then relented with a quick gnashing of teeth when Morse’s long fingers squeezed her shoulder. “Yes, thank you, I’d like to review the body and your report. Please.”
“Just this way.”
Eve rolled her eyes at Morse as Finestein hurried across the room. “He’s fucking twelve years old.”
“He’s twenty-six. Patience, Dallas.”
“I hate patience. Slows everything down.” But she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling line of drawers, waited while Finestein uncoded one, pulled it open with a frigid puff of cold gas.
“As you can see…” Finestein cleared his throat. “There are no marks of violence on the body other than those caused by the strangulation. No offensive or defensive wounds. There were microscopic fibers of the rope found under the subject’s nails, indicating he secured the rope personally. By all appearances, the subject willingly hanged himself.”
“You’re handing me self-termination?” Eve demanded. “Just like that? Where’s the tox report, the blood work?”
“I’m—I’m getting to that, Lieutenant. There were traces of ageloxite and—”
“Give her the street names, Herbert,” Morse said mildly. “She’s a cop, not a scientist.”
“Oh, yes, sir. Sorry. Traces of um…Ease-Up were found in the victim’s system, along with a small amount of home brew. This mix is quite commonly ingested by self-terminators to calm any nerves.”
“This guy didn’t pull his own plug, damn it.”
“Yes, sir, I agree.” Finestein’s quiet agreement cut off Eve’s tirade before it could begin.
“You agree?”
“Yes. The victim also ingested a large pretzel with considerable mustard less than an hour before death. Prior to this, he enjoyed a breakfast of wheat wafers, powdered eggs, and the equivalent of three cups of coffee.”
“So?”
“If the subject knew enough to mix a cocktail of Ease-Up and alcohol before termination, he would have known that coffee can potentially counteract and cause anxiety. This, and the fact that the alcohol consumed was in very small proportion to the drug casts some doubt on self-termination.”
“So, you’re ruling homicide.”
“I’m ruling suspicious death—undetermined.” He swallowed as Eve’s eyes bored into him. “Until more evidence weighs in on either side, I feel it’s impossible to make the call.”
“Just so. Well done, Herbert.” Morse nodded. “The lieutenant will feed you details as she finds them.”
Finestein looked relieved, and he fled.
“You give me nothing,” Eve complained.
“On the contrary. Herbert’s given you a window. Most MEs would have slammed it shut, ruling ST. Instead, he’s cautious, exacting, and thorough, and he considers the attitude of the victim rather than only the cold facts. Medically, undetermined was the best you were going to get.”
• • •
“Undetermined,” Eve muttered as she slid behind the wheel.
