Robert Walker - Blind Instinct

In time, the poison would have reached its full deadly power. His killers, banking on getting away, meant to leave him with a little something extra.

“Someone desperately wanted Horace dead.”

Their eyes had met over the autopsy a hundred times, matching the number of punctures to the body. Each realizing that Horace could not have lived long even had he somehow miraculously been able to find an escape route from the gang of starved and rabid animals that'd repeatedly bitten and torn away at him. In fact, Horace's corpse remained riddled with the rabies virus, frozen in place. Perhaps his killers believed it a fitting gift to leave him with in the hereafter, a kind of forged chain for his ghost to rattle for eternity.

J. T. said, “Police in Chesterfield, New Jersey, tell us by all indications that Horace had put up a hell of a fight. He broke some doggy legs and bit off a couple of ears during the struggle.”

This made Holbrook and Chen gulp in unison.

Jessica continued the assault on the young interns by saying, “They also surmise from cigarette butts, chewing tobacco wrappers, and a woman's cosmetic case dropped at the gate where Horace's final moments of agony ended, that his killers had had a front-row party, applauding the man's death even as he must have begged their mercy.”

“Still,” cautioned J. T., “all the speculation remains circumstantial with the consistency of candlewick smoke, nothing that can hold a DA's attention. The most interesting element about the case, aside from the full-body tattoos, so far as Jessica and I are concerned, is the total lack of identification save the tattoos. Perhaps our only hope of ever IDing this brutalized man is here in his skin-art.” J. T. punctuated by jabbing his ballpoint at Horace.

Jessica felt a great pang of remorse for the unidentified man, telling the others in the room that “Horace, here, suffered a death as no one should, in a trap from which he could not survive even if he had managed to somehow claw his way free of the dog attack. Given the remoteness of the area and the time of death, which the New Jersey coroner placed at between two and three in the a.m., what hope did he have for survival? His blood loss alone was massive.”

J. T. fielded the question with a question, replying, “Short of stumbling over a ten-foot-high fence and then stumbling on a medical team, what chance did poor Horace have?”

“He… he had no hope whatsoever,” replied young Holbrook, who then bit back his lower lip.

“What kind of devious mind could concoct so heinous a murder and so pitiable a death?” Jessica now asked, as much to herself as her two interns. “Six dogs, each one infected, the dogs themselves at the slavering stage of the rabid animal. All timed perfectly. The dogs had to've belonged to some one-or to more than someone; they had to have had a sales history, a past of their own.”

“Needle marks screamed out, located after the hair on each dog carcass had been shaved and the skin microscopically examined, revealing the puncture wounds where the rabies had been introduced to the dogs,” explained J. T., who lifted a set of photos from a nearby table, adding, “We have photos of the dog autopsies. If we solve this case, believe me, it will be one for the books.”

Jessica continued, using her scalpel like an index finger and saying, “Whoever the killer or killers are, they knew about animal venoms, and how to handle them. The doctor in Jersey who examined the executed dogs knew her stuff as well. She was said to have once been a veterinarian before becoming an autopsy specialist. This helped tremendously. Any other well-meaning autopsiest might not have taken as much time and care with the executed animals.”

“Meanwhile,” added J. T., “local authorities scoured every pet shop and animal shelter and anyone with a license to raise dogs, and anyone with a history of killing or brutalizing animals. For the dogs, too, are victims in this crime.”

The two young people stood dumbfounded at such intentional brutality. Jessica feared for both that the first case involving them, even peripherally, could prove their last if their stomachs gave out. Still, Jessica believed in throwing the young who dared enter the field of death investigation into the deep end of the cesspool.

When neither student had anything to add, and it became painfully obvious that this was so, Jessica nearly shouted at her young Asian intern, Yon Chen, “Get a lot of photos, rolls and rolls of photos. And I want close-ups of every tattoo remaining intact.”

“You mean? Effery wound, jes?“ That, too, but I want clear and large shots of the tattoos, understand? And I want them blown up to eight by tens, got it?”

“Got it?” Yon Chen bit back another question, letting it slide. “No, Yon… Don't ask me if I've got it, do you got-have it? Do you know what 1 want?”

“Jes, got it.”

Jessica gnashed her teeth, hoping nothing was lost in the translation, and went on. “Then we're finished here, Yon, except for those photos. See to it they're on my desk by tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, Doctor. First thing 'morrow on your desk.”

Jessica looked dubiously at the girl whose big, innocent, black marble eyes seemed to mark her as entirely wrong for this profession, yet she'd never had a more enthusiastic intern. Despite her frail refugee appearance, she possessed an enormous capacity to learn. She seemed to feed on knowledge, reminding Jessica of herself at that age.

Jessica asked, “J. T., will you please oversee our two young interns from here alone.”

“Sure, sure, Jess. Get out of here for a while.”

Jessica stripped off her blood-smeared gloves and lab coat, preparing to exit the room. Glancing at her watch, she saw that 5:40 p.m. had crept up on them. She shouted over her shoulder at J. T. and the others, 'Time to get a life, people. Have a nice night. What's left of it…”

Exhausted, Jessica stepped into her office, only to find her divisional chief, Eriq Santiva, waiting there with two distinctly unfamiliar, well-dressed gentlemen. The men with their rumpled London Fog coats, equally rumpled three-piece suits, and inexpensive ties hanging limp about their necks, looked the part of a pair of weary travelers-two wise men from afar, she flashed-who have come not bearing gifts but bad news.

Santiva forced a smile while still fondling the female skull which Jessica used as one half of a pair of bookends-the other a male skull-from her bookshelf. He stood just behind her desk with the visitors, one sitting and the taller, more good-looking one, staring out the window. It appeared Santiva had timed her arrival fairly closely to meet with the visitors. Obviously, Gloria had kept him informed of her movements. She'd called down to the autopsy room for Jessica's estimated time of arrival, and Jessica had told Gloria to go home for the night.

“Dr. Coran!” Eriq began, bouncing the skull in his hands as if it were a Nerf ball. “I want you to meet our guests from New Scotland Yard. They are here on an unusual mission.”

Jessica immediately reclaimed her skull and space. Eriq Santiva, inching from behind the desk now, gave ground to Jessica. “Afternoon, gentlemen,” she said, replacing the skull against the books Santiva had disturbed. She noticed that DiMaio's Forensic Science and Helpern's Autopsy had their spines upside down. “I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” she continued while straightening the books, making a show of it for Eriq's sake.

“Please, forgive me. This is Inspector Richard Sharpe, CID, New Scotland Yard and-”