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“By who?”
“Considering Dr. Dante was alone, I can only assume it was him.”
Max laughed. “You’re seriously suggesting he killed this cur?”
She tipped the animal’s head to the side, exposing the sharp-force injury. “It was him or the Macropharyngodon choati. And it’s far more likely that Dr. Dante beheaded the animal than his leopard wrasse.”
“His what?”
“It’s a saltwater fish. He had quite the collection.”
“Don’t be acidulous. It’s unbecoming of you.”
“You asked. I answered. If you have another theory, then I’m more than willing to entertain it.” She waited, knowing full well he didn’t.
Max huffed. “I guess it’s possible. I mean, skydivers can survive a mile-high jump when their parachutes don’t open, can’t they?”
“Are you asking or telling?”
“I’m saying he got lucky.”
It would have taken more than luck to give Dr. Dante the physical strength to slice the head off a cur with one swing and give him the speed to do it before it gutted him.
No, whatever happened here had nothing to do with luck.
Laura shined the flashlight over the underside of the head.
The linear slice remained smooth until it reached the spinal cord. Bone fragments littered the area around the severed vertebrae, suggesting resistance before dispersing into the tissue where the weapon cleaved the flesh, exiting out the other side. Round indentions made a half-circle around the vertebra.
Laura prodded the tissue. It gaped. She did it again, and the cylindrical hole with the diameter of her pinky finger reappeared. Whatever made the puncture wound had been sharp, smooth, and hollow, designed to avoid becoming obstructed by packed tissue. The lack of clotting meant the puncture wound had happened postmortem. Even if Dr. Dante had a reason to take samples, he’d fled too quickly.
She moved to the body.
Max scraped his gaze from the toppled fridge to the counter to the massive corpse crumpled on the floor. “Why do you think it attacked him?”
“Why do curs attack anyone?” Laura examined the remains. There were no punctures in the exposed muscle.
“Because they’re ordered to.”
Laura prodded the shoulders, the side, the foreleg, the chest.
Air hissed with a wet sound. She traced the sound to the animal’s side. There were no holes in the ribs, no irregularities suggesting Dr. Dante stabbed it. But there were shards of glass similar in shape to those missing in the kitchen window.
“Curs don’t take orders, Honorable Denton. They perform tasks.”
“Semantics,” Max said.
“No. Orders can be disobeyed, which a cur isn’t capable of.” She lifted one of the front legs. The stiffened limb was reluctant to move. Laura aimed the flashlight into its armpit. A finger-length curved cut, too clean to be made by glass, followed the dip of muscle and bone under the shoulder. “The inability to make such an independent decision means they are a tool.” When a Sarvari made a cur, it created an extension of themselves. It’s why when the Sarvari died, the tie severed and the cur ceased to function.
“Then I guess this one wasbroken.”
Laura stood. “Interesting choice of words.”
“What else do you call it when a tool runs amok? The rest of the pack stayed together and this one….” He waved a hand, indicating the kitchen.
Did thistoolrun amok?
“Or it did exactly what its maker wanted,” Laura said it to herself as much as she said it to Max.
