Diana Rowland - Sins of the Demon

But as a thirteen-year-old, I wasn’t ready to be unique. What I’d needed was to fit in, to be a little invisible until I could find my comfort zone. That was impossible with Tessa. Was it any wonder that I’d rebelled and found a different way to hide and feel comfortable? Or at least, what felt like comfort.

Carl remained silent, but it didn’t feel judgmental. It simply seemed as if he was waiting for me to digest his comment on my own, and he’d be there to pick up the conversation when I did. I felt an odd surge of gratitude toward him. I had a few friends who knew that I summoned demons, but somehow talking it out with Carl was different, and it felt oddly freeing to be able to discuss bizarre shit like this.

“She’s different,” I said at last.

“That she is,” Carl agreed.

I shook my head. “No, I mean…since she woke up.” My aunt’s essence had been stripped from her body by a serial killer, and it had taken me several weeks to find a way to call her back to herself.

His eyes met mine. “I know.”

“I don’t think she wants to summon anymore.”

“I think you’re right.”

I tilted my head. “Do you know why? I mean…has she said anything?”

“Not to me.”

Our conversation was cut off by the entrance of Dr. Lanza. A slender man about my height with distinct Italian coloring and features, he had an easygoing manner that had done much to put me at ease when I was still learning the ropes of investigating homicides. And now I’m an old hand at this whole find-the-murderer thing , I thought with mild amusement.

Dr. Lanza shot me a warm smile as he pulled protective clothing over his jeans and New Orleans Hornets T-shirt. “You must have some dark suspicions, Kara,” he said, his smile teasing.

“C’mon, Doc, I always have dark suspicions,” I replied with an easy grin, automatically slipping away from the confiding and open mood of the conversation with Carl and into the tone that I maintained with everyone else—the ones who had no clue that there was more to our world than what was apparent to the usual five senses. I was used to it. Humor, and lots of caution about what I said and asked. But I was damn grateful that there were people with whom I could discuss the more bizarre details.

“Luckily, that’s part of your job description,” Doc said as he lifted a scalpel and started in on the Y incision. “So, yes, your two victims both had nosebleeds, but those can be caused by a lot of things,” Doc said as he filleted the skin and flesh away from the ribs. I retreated even farther as Carl stepped up to cut through the ribs with the pruning shears. “I’d be willing to bet that the second victim’s was caused by the air bag.”

I simply gave a nod and a slight shrug. I had no intention of sharing the other, more personal connection. At least not until I knew more.

I waited patiently while Doc went through the procedures, and I did my usual escape from the room when Carl used the bone saw to cut through the skull. He wore a breathing mask for this part, since the saw kicked up all sorts of bone dust—which, of course, had blood and other yuck in it. Not only did I have no desire to breathe it in, I didn’t want it in my hair or anywhere else. Nasty.

As soon as the brain was revealed, though, I ducked back in, not hiding my eagerness very well as I waited for Doc to do his examination.

He took the brain from the scale and began to slice it into neat sections. I watched as he narrowed his eyes and frowned. “Well, this one definitely stroked out.” He let out a low whistle. “Fucking hell. Looks like he had several at once. I’ve never seen anything like this. This guy never had a chance.” He motioned me over with the bloody scalpel. “Come see, Kara.”

I really didn’t want to see it, but I knew I had to look, for my pride as much as for my own personal education. I moved to his side and peered at the pink and grey convolutions. He didn’t even have to point anything out. I had no trouble seeing the damage and clots of blood. “What could have caused that?”

He blew out his breath. “Not sure. Perhaps a cancer…” He trailed off, mumbling under his breath about occult large cell carcinoma and some other stuff I couldn’t make out. His brow drew together in a frown as he continued his examination. “No obvious sign of cancer, though. I’ll have to take a look under the microscope later.”

I wasn’t surprised when he asked Carl to preserve the brain, and the sections he’d cut, in formalin. Doc seemed perplexed but also a little excited, as if he couldn’t wait to dig into the mystery of why this man had died this way. Heck, it was probably a welcome change from the usual boring parade of drug overdoses and heart attacks. Doc continued the autopsy, peering carefully at the quick test that showed if any of the most commonly abused drugs were in the victim’s system.

“Clean,” he muttered. “But I’ll order a comprehensive toxicological screening.”

He retreated to write up his notes while Carl put the body of Barry Landrieu back into the cooler and got Evelyn Stark prepped and ready to go.

Carl laid the woman’s body out on the table and snapped pictures, then removed her clothing and took more pictures, expression emotionless and clinical. He wiped away the blood on her face, but I could still see it clotted up in her nostrils. Evelyn had been an attractive woman, but it was clear she’d been awfully close to that point in life when even the best of genetics weren’t enough. She had a slim, leggy build, but the skin of her belly sagged and her thighs were flabby and had no muscle tone.

He glanced up at me after he set the camera aside. “Can you give me a hand?”

“With what?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at him in distrust. He had a habit of asking me to do gross and nasty things during autopsies.

He silently held out a syringe. His face was expressionless, but humor danced in his eyes.

He was asking me to get the vitreous—the fluid in the eyeball. The process for this involved sticking a needle into the side of the eye. Needless to say, it squicked me out big time. I usually shied away from this. Emphatically.

But this time I took the syringe from his hand. He cocked an eyebrow at me in mild astonishment, then smiled and gestured to the body. “You know how to do it?”

I gave him a stiff nod. I’d seen it done a few dozen times. Time to stop being a weenie. The needle slid in with barely any resistance. A shiver raced down my spine at the sight of the needle tip going through the pupil, but it came with an absurd sense of satisfaction. I’d finally won a round of “make Kara do something nasty.” I carefully drew out the fluid, pulled the needle back out, and then carefully handed it to Carl.

“Don’t ever ask me to do that again,” I said.

He burst out laughing, then quickly squirted the fluid into a tube. “I won’t. I promise.” He put the tube away, then turned back to me. “Do you want to try cutting the head open?”

“No!”

He grinned. “Your loss,” he said.

“And on that, I will gladly accept defeat,” I told him.

We suspended our banter as Doc returned to the cutting room. He remained largely quiet during the autopsy of Evelyn Stark. I had the feeling that his mind was already running through possibilities on why Barry Landrieu’s brain had exploded, so to speak.

I watched his face as he began to cut through Evelyn Stark’s brain, could see the instant he saw it from the way his face went still and pale. He gave his head a slight shake of disbelief, then yanked his gaze up to me. “What’s the connection?” he asked. “There has to be some sort of connection. This isn’t possible.”