Richard Castle: Heat Rises

“Three little discoveries worth testing for any significance,” said the ME. She led Heat across the room to one of the storage cabinets. She slid the glass door aside and took one of the blue cardboard evidence buckets off the shelf. Nikki remembered how, after his first visit, Rook saw one and said he’d never buy a bucket of chicken again. Lauren took a small plastic vial out of the bucket with “GRAF” on the bar code and gave it to Nikki. “See that speck?”

The detective held it up to the light. In the bottom of the container was a dark spot about the size of a bacon bit. “Found that under a fingernail,” Parry continued. “Under a microscope it looks like a piece of leather, but it doesn’t match the leather on the wrist restraints or the posture collar.” She returned it to the bucket. “Gonna lab that puppy.”

She then walked Nikki down to the dehumidifying closet where they placed victims’ clothes to dry, to preserve DNA for testing. Sheets of brown paper separated bloodstained clothes that hung there from numerous victims. At the nearest end, Heat could see Graf’s black clothing and his white Roman collar. “Funny thing about that collar. There’s a tiny bloody smear on it. Odd, considering that for all the abrasions on him, no skin was broken above his shoulders or on his hands.”

“Right,” said Nikki considering the possibilities. “That could be blood from an assailant, or killer.”

“Or dom or domme, who knows yet?” Lauren was right. It could have been from foul play but just as easily from a practitioner with a cut from the torture session who stashed the clothes and ran in panic. “We’ll also ship that down to Twenty-sixth Street for DNA testing.”

Next Lauren called in one of the orderlies, who helped her roll the priest’s body on its side, exposing his back. It was a thatch-work of whip welts and bruises, the sight of which caused Nikki to draw a deep breath through her nose, which she immediately regretted. She held it together, though, and leaned close when the ME pointed to a geometric bruise pattern on the small of his back. “One of these contusions is not like the others,” said Lauren. Her eye for those details had helped Heat on numerous cases. Most recently, by spotting the marks left by a ring worn by a Russian thug who killed a famous real estate developer. This lower-back bruise was about two inches long, rectangular, and with evenly spaced horizontal lines.

“Looks like a mark made by a small ladder,” said Heat.

“I took some stills that I’ll e-mail you with my report.” Parry nodded to the orderly, who gently returned Graf to lie faceup and then left the room.

“Sweet anomalies,” said Nikki.

“Not done yet, Detective.” Lauren picked up her clipboard again. “Now, cause of death. I’m going with asphyxia by strangulation.”

“You hesitated this morning, though,” Nikki reminded her.

“Right. The signs were there, as I told you. The obvious being the circumstances, the leather collar, eyeball hemorrhaging, and so on. But I balked because I saw other indicators that could mean acute myocardial infarction.”

Heat said, “The bluish color I saw near his fingertips and on his nose?”

“Excuse me, who’s the ME here?”

“I get the significance, though. A heart attack could eliminate homicidal intent.”

“Well, guess what? He did have a heart attack. Turns out it wasn’t fatal, he was choked before it could be, but it was a hell of a footrace to see which would kill him first.”

Heat looked at the sheeted corpse. “You did say you smelled cigarettes and alcohol.”

“And his organs proved all that. But.” She gave Nikki a look of significance and raised the sheet. “Take a look at these burns on his skin. These are electrical burns. Probably from a TENS,” said Lauren, referring to a transcutaneous electrical nerve stimulator, a portable electrical generator used in torture play.

“I’ve seen TENS,” said Nikki. “I came across them in Vice.”

“Then you also know they warn against ever using it near the chest.” She lowered the sheet to expose Graf’s torso, where the electrical burns were intense, especially near his heart. “Looks to me like someone wanted to put a big hurt on him.”

“The question,” said Nikki, “is why?”

They rode up together to the first floor. Heat said, “Got a question for you. You ever seen anything like that before?”

“TENS burns as severe as those? Not like that.” As they reached the door to the NYPD office, Lauren said, “Know who I hear had some? That actor’s kid who was always in trouble and got killed in ’04 or ’05.”

“Gene Huddleston, Jr.?” said Nikki.

“Yeah, him.”

“But he was shot to death. Some drug deal, right?”

Lauren said, “Right. It happened before I started here, but conversation was that he also had TENS burns all over. He was one wild kid. They figured it was part of his freak.”

The NYPD office was empty. Nikki got her coat off the hook, but before she left, sat down at one of the computers. She logged on to the department server and requested a digital copy of the case file for Gene Huddleston, Jr.

As Nikki made her way through the vestibule to the precinct lobby, a woman standing near the blue velvet rope that cordoned off the wall of honor roll photos and plaques took a step into her path. “Excuse me, Detective Heat?”

“That’s me.” The detective stopped but made a quick check of the woman’s rising hand. Someone had decided it was open season on cops this year, even in police stations, and Heat’s natural caution kicked in. But all the woman held was a business card. It read, “Tam Svejda, Metro Reporter, New York Ledger.”

“I was wondering if I could have a few moments to ask you a couple of questions.”

Heat returned the reporter’s smile politely but said, “Look, I’m sorry, Ms…” She looked at the card again. Nikki had seen her name in the byline but wasn’t sure how to pronounce it.

“Shfay-dah,” came the assist. “My dad’s Czech. Don’t feel bad, it stops everybody in their tracks. Go with Tam.” She gave Nikki a warm grin, revealing a perfect row of gleaming teeth. In fact, her whole look was one-off supermodel: highlighted blonde with a great cut, wide green eyes that showed intelligence and a hint of mischief, young enough to get away without much makeup-probably not yet thirty, tall and slender. It was a look you’d associate more with a TV reporter than the pencil press.

“Good. All right, Tam works,” said Nikki. “But I’m just here for a minute and then I’m on my way out of here. I’m really sorry.” She took a step toward the inner doors, but Tam moved with her. She was taking out her reporter’s notebook. A spiral Ampad, same as Heat used.

“A minute will do nicely, then I won’t keep you. Are you classifying Father Graf’s death murder or accidental?”

“Well, I can keep this short for you, Ms. Svejda,” she said with flawless pronunciation. “It’s too early in our investigation to comment on any of that yet.”

The reporter looked up from her notes. “A sensational murder-a parish priest gets tortured and killed in a bondage dungeon-and you really want me to go with just that? A stock ‘no comment?’ ”

“What you print is up to you. This is a young investigation. I promise when we have something to share, we will.” Like any good interrogator, Heat found herself gaining information even when she was the one being questioned. And what she was learning from Tam Svejda’s interest in the Graf case was that Nikki wasn’t the only one who felt something more than just another homicide was going on.

The reporter said, “Got ya,” but without missing a beat added, “Now, what can you tell me about Captain Montrose?” Heat studied her, knowing even her next “no comment” had to be carefully delivered. Tam Svejda would be writing this, not she, and Nikki didn’t want to inspire some reporter-ese about circled wagons or tight-lipped cops. At last Svejda said, “If this is uncomfortable we can go off the record. I’m just hearing a lot of not so flattering things, and if you can steer me in my investigation, you could be doing him some good.. .. If the rumors are untrue.”