of the sheet and keeps going, peeling it away as he shuffles from one end of the table to the other.
"Ready?" I ask Hericane.
She nods.
"Let's get this over with." I walk over to the table as Charlie flicks on the bright lights above it.
He wasn't kidding about not recognizing much. Instead of a body, there's a pile of bloody bits oozing over the length of a black plastic trough. It looks like what you'd get if you put a person through a wood chipper.
Don't know how much of a blessing it is, though.
As Hericane draws up beside me, she covers her nose and mouth against the stench, which is atrocious. Her eyes glisten with tears as she stares down at the mess in the trough--all that's left of someone she adored.
And then the mightiest woman on Earth turns away. She turns her back on the sight and sobs.
I see the douche open his mouth to say something, and I shoot him a warning glare. Don't you dare. Ninety-nine percent of what comes out of your mouth is poison, so don't you dare.
Let's stick with the business at hand. Give her time to come around.
"Have you found anything?" I ask Charlie. "Any relevant trace evidence?"
Charlie shakes his head. "Honestly, I'm not sure where to start. We've got nothing bigger than a fingertip to work with." He hesitates and looks at Hericane, then continues. "No fingernails, though, mind you. Even her dental fillings were torn out."
"Overkill," says Tank. "Big time. Payback's a bitch."
"I don't know." I crook a finger against my lips as I gaze into the mess in the trough. "I've been thinking about that. Maybe they were looking for something."
Tank screws up his face in a scowl so deep, it pulls his right eye shut. "Something inside her?"
"Why else would they tear her to pieces like this?" I say. "To send a message? Then where's the message?" I shake my head. "To make sure she's gone for good?" I shake my head again. "She wasn't invulnerable. A bullet to the brain would've accomplished the same thing."
Tank unscrews his scowl and shrugs. "Say you're right, and the killer was looking for something. It doesn't matter. We'll never know what it was."
"Does it look like they found it?" I gesture at the trough. "Maybe it's still in there."
"If so," says Charlie, "how will we ever find it?"
Suddenly, Hericane stops sobbing and turns to face the table. "I'll bet the killer didn't have 21 senses." Her voice is steady and cold, her face tear-stained but stony. "Unlike me."
I give her my best "are you sure you're ready for this?" look, and she doesn't flinch. Heroine that she is, she's pulled herself together to deal with the crisis at hand.
No matter how awful it will be.
"Excuse me," she says to Charlie. "Can you give me some kind of--instrument--to, uh..." She moves her hand back and forth over the trough.
Charlie shuffles over to a tray of tools on a nearby metal counter. He fishes around for a moment, clattering things together, and comes back with a clawed, silver utensil. He hands it over without comment.
"Thank you." Hericane looks at me like she wants me to move, so I do. She steps in to take my place alongside the trough.
Then she hesitates. Looks up at the ceiling and takes a deep breath. Like she's bracing herself.
My hand twitches. Maybe she's not ready for this after all. I start to reach for her, to keep her from doing this thing no one should ever have to do.
But before I can make contact, she leans down over the remains and begins her work.
In the field of blazing bright light cast down from above by Charlie's lamps, she gazes at the contents of the trough. Wrinkles her nose once, and then never again.
Gently, she dips in the clawed instrument and stirs the mess, moving it around. I watch over her shoulder as she turns over the lumps, training her 21 senses on them at what has got to be maximum intensity.
She rakes the tool through the bloody mush for a long time with no sign of finding anything or even coming close. She doesn't linger over a particular bit or
"Ready?" I ask Hericane.
She nods.
"Let's get this over with." I walk over to the table as Charlie flicks on the bright lights above it.
He wasn't kidding about not recognizing much. Instead of a body, there's a pile of bloody bits oozing over the length of a black plastic trough. It looks like what you'd get if you put a person through a wood chipper.
Don't know how much of a blessing it is, though.
As Hericane draws up beside me, she covers her nose and mouth against the stench, which is atrocious. Her eyes glisten with tears as she stares down at the mess in the trough--all that's left of someone she adored.
And then the mightiest woman on Earth turns away. She turns her back on the sight and sobs.
I see the douche open his mouth to say something, and I shoot him a warning glare. Don't you dare. Ninety-nine percent of what comes out of your mouth is poison, so don't you dare.
Let's stick with the business at hand. Give her time to come around.
"Have you found anything?" I ask Charlie. "Any relevant trace evidence?"
Charlie shakes his head. "Honestly, I'm not sure where to start. We've got nothing bigger than a fingertip to work with." He hesitates and looks at Hericane, then continues. "No fingernails, though, mind you. Even her dental fillings were torn out."
"Overkill," says Tank. "Big time. Payback's a bitch."
"I don't know." I crook a finger against my lips as I gaze into the mess in the trough. "I've been thinking about that. Maybe they were looking for something."
Tank screws up his face in a scowl so deep, it pulls his right eye shut. "Something inside her?"
"Why else would they tear her to pieces like this?" I say. "To send a message? Then where's the message?" I shake my head. "To make sure she's gone for good?" I shake my head again. "She wasn't invulnerable. A bullet to the brain would've accomplished the same thing."
Tank unscrews his scowl and shrugs. "Say you're right, and the killer was looking for something. It doesn't matter. We'll never know what it was."
"Does it look like they found it?" I gesture at the trough. "Maybe it's still in there."
"If so," says Charlie, "how will we ever find it?"
Suddenly, Hericane stops sobbing and turns to face the table. "I'll bet the killer didn't have 21 senses." Her voice is steady and cold, her face tear-stained but stony. "Unlike me."
I give her my best "are you sure you're ready for this?" look, and she doesn't flinch. Heroine that she is, she's pulled herself together to deal with the crisis at hand.
No matter how awful it will be.
"Excuse me," she says to Charlie. "Can you give me some kind of--instrument--to, uh..." She moves her hand back and forth over the trough.
Charlie shuffles over to a tray of tools on a nearby metal counter. He fishes around for a moment, clattering things together, and comes back with a clawed, silver utensil. He hands it over without comment.
"Thank you." Hericane looks at me like she wants me to move, so I do. She steps in to take my place alongside the trough.
Then she hesitates. Looks up at the ceiling and takes a deep breath. Like she's bracing herself.
My hand twitches. Maybe she's not ready for this after all. I start to reach for her, to keep her from doing this thing no one should ever have to do.
But before I can make contact, she leans down over the remains and begins her work.
In the field of blazing bright light cast down from above by Charlie's lamps, she gazes at the contents of the trough. Wrinkles her nose once, and then never again.
Gently, she dips in the clawed instrument and stirs the mess, moving it around. I watch over her shoulder as she turns over the lumps, training her 21 senses on them at what has got to be maximum intensity.
She rakes the tool through the bloody mush for a long time with no sign of finding anything or even coming close. She doesn't linger over a particular bit or
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