lift anything up out of the ooze. She just keeps looking, aiming her 21 senses invisibly at the gruesome slop that used to be her lover.
After a while, it seems like nothing will ever come of this. Charlie pulls up a wheeled stool and takes a load off. The douche paces the floor, scratching his head. Even I begin to lose hope.
But not Hericane. She just keeps patiently combing the instrument through the remains, silently searching for some kind of revelation.
Would I have been able to do this, I wonder? If it was Jimmy or one of the boys in that trough? Could I have done what she's doing for even a single moment, let alone an hour?
No fucking way. I would've snapped at the first glimpse of that mess. But not Hericane.
My admiration for her grows with each passing second.
After a while longer, Tank stops pacing. "I gotta hit the head. Be right back."
He's halfway out the door when Hericane finally stops raking. "Hold on."
Tank returns to the table. Charlie gets up off his stool. And all of us lean closer to the mush, straining to see what's gotten her attention.
"Okay." Carefully, she steers a stubby object, a half-inch long, to the edge of the trough. "Forceps, please."
Charlie shuffles to a nearby tray and hurries back with a fresh instrument. He gives it to her handle-first.
"Thanks." Hericane slips her thumb and forefinger through the looped handles and cranks them apart, scissoring the hinged forceps open. Then she lowers the instrument to the trough and clamps the ridged jaws around the object she has found.
As she lifts it out, Charlie brings over a small metal basin without being asked and holds it under the forceps. Hericane opens the jaws, and the stubby object drops into the basin.
"What the hell is it?" says Tank.
Hericane raises the basin under the bright lights. Charlie hands her a pair of tweezers--again without being asked--and she uses them to prod at what she's found. "The tip of a left pinky finger."
"Without the nail," says Tank, stating the obvious.
"Which I think was what the killer was looking for." Hericane turns over the fingertip and pokes the tweezers at the area once covered by the missing nail. "Mardi Gras must have had a microchip planted under there. Which tells me that whatever she was investigating, it was pretty huge."
"Like a cover-up by the Protectorate, maybe?" says Tank.
I notice Charlie perk up a little when he hears that one. Apparently, Tank didn't fill him in on all the details before our private autopsy.
"So the killer got the chip." I start to lose hope again. "So we're back to square one."
Hericane shakes her head and pokes the fingertip again. "The chip left an imprint on the nail bed. An imprint I can read with my twelfth and sixteenth senses." She squints as she gazes at the fingertip. "Can somebody point me to a computer? There's a bunch of code we need to transcribe."
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*****
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Tank gets us an IT guy with a smokin' laptop, and we put him to work. Hericane reads off endless streams of numbers, and Gary the IT guy types them into his machine as fast as he can. Hericane could do it faster, of course, but her hyper-speed typing would melt the keyboard.
"This is ASCII code," says Gary. "It converts to simple text."
I stare at the laptop screen and shake my head. "I didn't know Mardi Gras was such a computer whiz."
"She had help," says Gary. "The one and only King Crypto. Dude signed his work." He taps the screen and smiles.
"An old boyfriend of hers." Hericane frowns. "I didn't know they were still in touch." Her voice trails off.
There's a moment of awkward silence. Hericane stares at the fingertip in the basin. Gary watches the screen, keeping his hands poised over the keyboard. The douche, who's sitting with his feet up on a stool, snores.
Then, Hericane shakes her head, clears her throat, and keeps reading code from the nail bed of her dead lover's pinky finger.
And Gary keeps typing like a maniac.
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*****
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When Hericane finishes
After a while, it seems like nothing will ever come of this. Charlie pulls up a wheeled stool and takes a load off. The douche paces the floor, scratching his head. Even I begin to lose hope.
But not Hericane. She just keeps patiently combing the instrument through the remains, silently searching for some kind of revelation.
Would I have been able to do this, I wonder? If it was Jimmy or one of the boys in that trough? Could I have done what she's doing for even a single moment, let alone an hour?
No fucking way. I would've snapped at the first glimpse of that mess. But not Hericane.
My admiration for her grows with each passing second.
After a while longer, Tank stops pacing. "I gotta hit the head. Be right back."
He's halfway out the door when Hericane finally stops raking. "Hold on."
Tank returns to the table. Charlie gets up off his stool. And all of us lean closer to the mush, straining to see what's gotten her attention.
"Okay." Carefully, she steers a stubby object, a half-inch long, to the edge of the trough. "Forceps, please."
Charlie shuffles to a nearby tray and hurries back with a fresh instrument. He gives it to her handle-first.
"Thanks." Hericane slips her thumb and forefinger through the looped handles and cranks them apart, scissoring the hinged forceps open. Then she lowers the instrument to the trough and clamps the ridged jaws around the object she has found.
As she lifts it out, Charlie brings over a small metal basin without being asked and holds it under the forceps. Hericane opens the jaws, and the stubby object drops into the basin.
"What the hell is it?" says Tank.
Hericane raises the basin under the bright lights. Charlie hands her a pair of tweezers--again without being asked--and she uses them to prod at what she's found. "The tip of a left pinky finger."
"Without the nail," says Tank, stating the obvious.
"Which I think was what the killer was looking for." Hericane turns over the fingertip and pokes the tweezers at the area once covered by the missing nail. "Mardi Gras must have had a microchip planted under there. Which tells me that whatever she was investigating, it was pretty huge."
"Like a cover-up by the Protectorate, maybe?" says Tank.
I notice Charlie perk up a little when he hears that one. Apparently, Tank didn't fill him in on all the details before our private autopsy.
"So the killer got the chip." I start to lose hope again. "So we're back to square one."
Hericane shakes her head and pokes the fingertip again. "The chip left an imprint on the nail bed. An imprint I can read with my twelfth and sixteenth senses." She squints as she gazes at the fingertip. "Can somebody point me to a computer? There's a bunch of code we need to transcribe."
Â
*****
Â
Tank gets us an IT guy with a smokin' laptop, and we put him to work. Hericane reads off endless streams of numbers, and Gary the IT guy types them into his machine as fast as he can. Hericane could do it faster, of course, but her hyper-speed typing would melt the keyboard.
"This is ASCII code," says Gary. "It converts to simple text."
I stare at the laptop screen and shake my head. "I didn't know Mardi Gras was such a computer whiz."
"She had help," says Gary. "The one and only King Crypto. Dude signed his work." He taps the screen and smiles.
"An old boyfriend of hers." Hericane frowns. "I didn't know they were still in touch." Her voice trails off.
There's a moment of awkward silence. Hericane stares at the fingertip in the basin. Gary watches the screen, keeping his hands poised over the keyboard. The douche, who's sitting with his feet up on a stool, snores.
Then, Hericane shakes her head, clears her throat, and keeps reading code from the nail bed of her dead lover's pinky finger.
And Gary keeps typing like a maniac.
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*****
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When Hericane finishes
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