Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
Franklin
I hated going to the coroner’s office. I hadn’t felt that way when I worked in Illinois. I wasn’t sure what was different about Dr. McCallister’s space. I only knew that it had an unwelcome feeling I couldn’t shake. That unpleasant feeling latched on and clung to me all day. Sometimes even a hot shower didn’t wash it away.
Regardless of my feelings, I needed to speak with the doctor—the sooner, the better. The autopsy report I’d gotten on Rebecca Mosely was boring as sin. Heart failure . That was the recorded cause of death.
Bull-fucking-shit . Maybe it was heart failure, but something caused a young woman’s heart to fail and that was where the key lay. I needed more from McCallister and I planned on getting it.
Striding down the air-conditioned hall, my dress shoes echoed with every step I took. Bucking an age-old trend, the coroner’s rooms weren’t in the basement, but on the first floor. Windows dotted every room I walked past, throwing muted, natural light into the hallway. That should have made the journey more enjoyable. It didn’t.
I turned a corner and nearly ran into Detective Harrison.
“Shit, sorry O’Hare.”
Given her diminutive size, had we truly connected, I’d have been helping Harrison off the floor. Don’t get me wrong, Harrison could kick my ass inside a boxing ring. But in the hall, unprepared and unsuspecting, I would have run her over like a semi.
“No worries.” I held up both hands and scooted around her, giving Harrison the breadth of the hall. She looked deep in thought. She also appeared cold. With a file clasped in one hand, she ran the other up and down her arm. I figured she had short sleeves on beneath her jacket but wasn’t sure. Either way, the jacket wasn’t doing enough to warm her.
Watching my gaze, Harrison shook her head. “It’s always so damn cold in here. I don’t care how many layers I wear.” Her gaze flicked down the hall to a door with the word MORGUE etched into the window.
A deep shiver racked her body before her feet started again. “I’ve got to get going, O’Hare. Good luck with your case. Let me know if you want or need to bounce any ideas around. I’m always good for it if an ear would help.”
I appreciated the offer. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Harrison slapped my arm with her folder before quickstepping down the hall. The sound of her hasty footfalls faded as she moved further away.
I stood there watching Harrison’s back until she turned another corner. My phone chimed with a text which I ignored. It wasn’t Captain Cicely’s ringtone. It wasn’t Boone’s either. My mind immediately translated that it wasn’t important enough to answer immediately.
Spinning on my heel, I headed back down the hall. The air grew cooler with every step. Every morgue was cold, but Dr. McCallister’s professional home was a degree or ten lower than most.
Not bothering to knock, I pushed the door open and headed inside. I hadn’t given the good doctor a heads-up. He had no idea I was on my way and, depending on his workload, might be a bit miffed, especially after Harrison had just left. I wasn’t up to date on her latest case but figured if she had walked all the way down to the morgue, it must be for something important.
The small reception area was silent as a…well, morgue.
“McCallister?” I raised my voice but not enough that one would consider it a yell. Hopefully, I didn’t sound unduly rude.
When no one answered, I stepped further inside and spoke a little louder. “Doc, you in here?” Harrison hadn’t said he wasn’t. If McCallister were out, she would have told me to turn around and not waste my time. That meant the man had to be here somewhere.
I was contemplating heading into the morgue proper when McCallister slammed his hand into the glass door, shoving it open. Eyes narrowed and mouth twisted into a thin, drawn line, he said, “I’m trying to work, Detective. These interruptions aren’t conducive to that process.”
I raised an eyebrow but kept my immediate, highly sarcastic remark to myself. “Sorry for the interruption, Doc.”
McCallister waved me off. It was odd, seeing him without his glasses. I realized it made his face a little unrecognizable, or maybe just different enough that it wasn’t familiar. The sleeves of his white work jacket were rolled up. McCallister removed his gloves, making a snap as they released his flesh.
“Did you get a new jacket?” I asked, suddenly preoccupied with how his white work jacket no longer swamped his slender body. McCallister had always struck me as a little boy playing dress-up in his father’s lab jacket. Given the tightness around his exposed forearm, that no longer appeared to be the case.
Tugging the sleeve down, McCallister gave a hasty nod. “Yes. I do have a clothing allowance written within my contract. I can get new work clothes when necessary.”
My left eyebrow rose to meet my right one. I’d always found Dr. Morgan McCallister a bit on the prickly side, but this was a new level of agitation I wasn’t used to.
Deciding small talk wasn’t the path to success, I got to the point. “I received your autopsy report on Rebecca Mosely.”
Finally pushing through the door and standing fully in the reception area, McCallister shoved his hands into his deep pockets. If anything, he appeared even more irritated than before.
“And?” he asked, tapping his foot.
“ And I find it difficult to believe that’s all there is to it. Heart failure?” I flipped through the folder containing the report. I’d brought it with me as evidence. It was woefully short. “What caused the heart failure?”
McCallister shrugged as his gaze drifted to the side. “No idea,” he answered.
“ No idea? ” My irritation was beginning to weave dangerously close to anger. “Why don’t we play a game and speculate, then?”
He scoffed. “I’m not in the business of speculating, Detective O’Hare. I list the facts. Whether you’re satisfied with them or not makes little difference. Rebecca Mosely’s cause of death was heart failure, causing cardiac arrest. I have no idea what preceded that deadly outcome. There were no signs of a chronic condition. Her heart had several infarcts into the muscle that were acute, not chronic. The muscle could no longer function properly and simply stopped working. There is little else I can say. No other organ damage could be found. For all intents and purposes, Rebecca Mosely was a healthy twenty-five-year-old witch.”
I bristled but attempted to maintain a cool and composed demeanor. Getting pissed with the coroner didn’t make for good future relations. “Is that a common cause of heart failure?” I asked.
McCallister’s lips twisted before he finally shook his head. “It is not. At least, not on that wide of a scale. Clots can block blood to certain areas, but this was throughout her heart. I don’t know how to describe it other than that and I have no idea what could have been the initiating cause. That is why I did not include such haphazard speculations in my report. Now, if that’s all, I really do have a lot of work to finish.”
My fingers tightened on the manila folder clasped between my fingers. It would be bent and mangled by the time I got back to my desk.
As McCallister turned, I asked, “Any initial report on Noland?”
Hand on the door, McCallister twisted ever so slightly. “I would be much further along if I weren’t constantly interrupted. I can inform you that the body is in good condition, given where it was found. It is fortunate the necromancer found the victim when he did. A few more days in that watery grave and the body’s condition would have deteriorated significantly.”
“Very fortunate,” I agreed easily.
“Curious how he’s found the last two.”
Every muscle stiffened and my voice turned into a low growl. “Curious? How so? As you are so fond of stating, Erasmus Boone is a necromancer.” I wasn’t certain what the good doctor was insinuating. Maybe it was nothing and I was just being overly sensitive.
The smirk McCallister threw over his shoulder told me that’s exactly how he saw it. “Easy, Detective. I was simply making an observation, nothing more. Detective work is your business. The dead are mine. Perhaps Erasmus Boone and I have more in common than I previously considered.”
Without another word, McCallister pushed back through the swinging door leading deeper into the morgue. Once again, I knew when I was dismissed.
P hineas Noland’s family connections were woefully thin. So thin that they were nonexistent. His human mother died over eight years ago, and his warlock father passed less than six months after that. Phineas had been a child born late in his father’s life. His human mother was in her late thirties when Phineas arrived, and she’d given him over to his warlock father to raise. Captain Cicely informed me that this was common practice, although human mothers often stayed in contact with their warlock offspring.
I didn’t know how much Noland’s mother had influenced his life. The woman had no living relatives. Phineas had no warlock relatives I could find either. For all intents and purposes, Phineas had no one that would miss him. No one who would report him missing. No one who would care that he’d died, let alone how he’d died.
I stared at the computer screen, a deep frown pulling my lips. My temples throbbed. No amount of hunting produced a single soul in need of notification.
“Christ, this is sad.” The room was busy with the background noise associated with all that activity. No one heard me. No one but me seemed to care how alone Phineas Noland was.
Scrubbing my hands over my face, my fingers scratched along the five-o’clock shadow that was heading into its seventh hour.
My phone pinged, the sound different from earlier. Snatching it, I woke my phone and stared at Boone’s message. Do you have a minute to talk? It’s about Phineas Noland.
I didn’t hesitate. I pulled up Boone’s contact and hit the call button. He answered on the second ring.
“That was fast,” Boone said. He sounded a hell of a lot better than he had when I’d dropped him off at his house yesterday.
“Just sitting here, staring at my computer, wishing it would tell me something more than it is. What have you got?”
Boone sighed. “Not much. I told Pops about Phineas. I thought he might know him.”
“Did he?” I sat up a little straighter.
“No.”
I deflated instantly.
“But he did find some information. I’m afraid it’s not much and might already be what you know, although I doubt it. Pops went through the warlock network. They aren’t a very close-knit group, but when it comes to murder, warlocks tend to get a bit more sentimental.”
“I’ll take your word for that,” I said. My few warlock dealings hadn’t given me a lot of reason to consider them a sentimental species.
“Yeah, trust me, I know what you’re thinking. Anyway, Pops just called me and said Phineas’s family is almost all gone.”
I nodded before that precious word— almost —clicked. “Who’s left?” I scrambled for my pen and a random sheet of paper.
“Well, that’s the tricky part.”
Of fucking course it was. “Why?” I asked, keeping my tone devoid of my seething frustration.
Boone grew quiet. I was on the verge of asking him if he was okay when he inhaled deeply and said, “Phineas’s father had two other children, only they weren’t warlocks.”
“Necromancers,” I said more than asked.
“Yeah. Like most warlocks, he abandoned them and they were left to their human mothers. Pops says it’s unusual for a warlock to have more than one necromancer child. It might be why Phineas’s dad waited so long before trying again. My gut says that after his first two tries, he probably gave up hope of having a warlock child.”
I didn’t like how easily I agreed with Boone’s logic. “But then he got old.”
“Yeah. Time was running out and he knew he wouldn’t be around a lot longer. Maybe just long enough to train a warlock son. So he decided it might be worth another shot.”
“And this time he got what he wanted.”
“Yeah.” There was a touch of pain twisting that singular word. “He finally got his warlock son.”
“And if he were still alive—”
“He would have lost him far too early,” Boone finished. “Probably best he’d already passed. If not, Pops says this news would have killed him.”
“I’ll take Warlock Holland’s word for that.”
“Probably best,” Boone easily agreed.
I considered what I’d learned and asked, “And what of his necromancer children?”
“That’s where it gets tricky. Warlocks don’t really keep track of those kids.” Boone’s tone was as neutral as Switzerland.
“Somehow I doubt your father would allow that to happen with you.”
Boone’s soft chuckle warmed its way across the line. “No, that’s true. Pops told me he proudly placed my name in his family history. Erasmus Boone is listed within the warlock archives.”
“As it should be.” I didn’t understand warlock mentality when it came to their necromancer children.
“I suppose that is debatable, but not something I want to get into right now. The point is, it’s unknown what happened with his two necromancer children. Pops says the oldest would have passed by now. The second might still be alive, but if so, very old. It’s unlikely Phineas even knew they existed.”
Instead of writing something definitive, I leaned back into my chair and tapped the tip of my pen against a scribble-laden piece of scrap paper.
“And what about other descendants? Do we know if any of these necromancer children had offspring?”
“No. And like I said, I doubt it would be important anyway. The chances of Phineas knowing he had necromancer siblings at all would have been slim, let alone nieces or nephews. If there are any relatives out there, I doubt they’d care that Phineas is dead.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. It was a lead that most likely led to a dead end. If no one stepped up, Phineas would be cremated and the State of Mississippi—or rather, its taxpayers—would foot the bill. That part didn’t bother me so much as the issue of only a handful of strangers knowing or caring about his fate.
As if he read my mind, Boone said, “If no one claims the body, Pops wants to take care of Phineas. He’s acting on behalf of the warlock community. They’ll make certain he gets a proper service.”
I wasn’t sure what all that entailed. Regardless, the ache in my chest eased a little. “I’m glad to hear that.”
“When Pops told me he couldn’t find anyone in Phineas’s family, I figured he’d step up.” Surety rang through Boone’s words. It was the kind of confidence secure children had in those that raised them. “Do you know when the body will be released?”
Boone’s innocent question immediately tossed my mind back to my latest interaction with Dr. McCallister. While I’d never considered asking the man to go out for an after-work drink, I also didn’t harbor any harsh feelings towards him either. I wasn’t sure why McCallister had grown increasingly prickly the last few months.
“Dr. McCallister is still working on the autopsy. I’ll let you know when he’s finished.” Hopefully, Noland’s autopsy would be more informative than Rebecca Mosely’s. That little, irritating voice niggling the back of my brain told me not to get my hopes up. That voice was typically correct.
“Okay.” Boone paused before he asked, “Is there anything you can tell me about Rebecca’s cause of death?”
I didn’t typically share details of a case, especially an ongoing investigation, but Boone was different. He was also technically on the payroll. I’d had enough dealings with him in the past to understand he was also discrete.
“Heart failure,” I grudgingly answered. “And before you ask, Dr. McCallister doesn’t know the initiating cause. All he told me was that the heart muscle—all of it—had micro-clotting that led to tissue death and subsequent cardiac arrest.”
“That’s…”
“Unhelpful,” I guessed.
“As far as I know, yeah. It might mean something to someone else. I’ll ask Pops first, but I’ve got other networks I can work too.”
“I’ll make sure Captain Cicely knows the report is back. Maybe she can make more of it than me.”
“Sounds good. You’ve got the witch angle covered and I’ve got the warlock one handled. I know a shifter or two and have an in with a vampire. Possibly a fairy, although I’m not sure about that one.”
“When it comes to fairies, I don’t think anyone is ever certain.” I had no desire to track one down and strike up a conversation.
“True.” Boone chuckled lightly. “They’re a tough crowd.”
“Understatement, but not wrong.”
Boone hummed before adding, “Acquaintance adjacent, I might be able to filter some questions to a brownie and a priestess.”
My eyes widened. “You have a much broader social circle than me.”
Boone’s chuckle became louder. “Yeah, well, you’re human and you’ve got good self-preservation instincts. Just to be complete, I know a pixie or four, but I seriously doubt any of them would have much to offer. Except maybe Frost.”
“Frost?” My attention narrowed. “You know Agent Frost?”
“A little. I met him during the same job where I met Aurelia. How do you know him?”
“I don’t, not personally. Captain Cicely mentioned his name earlier. We’d hoped for some help from the Magical Usage Council but evidently, they’re currently short-staffed.” I didn’t care to think about the reasons why that would be. “She was told they’d typically send in Agent Frost, but he’s newly vampire claimed.”
“Well, I can confirm the Magical Usage Council isn’t feeding you a line. Frost is double mated. He’s not your typical pixie. Frost’s both a pixie and a Pallas’s cat shifter. He claimed his vampire mate, and said vampire claimed Frost as his beloved. I don’t think they can spend a lot of time apart right now and his vampire, Leon, is King Lucroy Moony’s second.”
“King Moony?” Even I’d heard the name. Lucroy Moony’s nest stretched to the middle of Louisiana, and Mississippi’s vampires were under his authority.
“Interesting vamp,” Boone said with a hint of genuine curiosity. “Not what I expected when I met him.”
As interesting as this conversation was, we were getting off track. I think Boone realized that too because his next words brought us back to the point. “Anyway, there are some options there I might be able to utilize. I’m not sure if they’ll know more than us, but it’s worth an ask.”
“Agreed. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Like I said, I might not turn up anything.”
“I still appreciate the effort, especially after the week you’ve had.” Clearing my throat, I asked, “How are you feeling?”
“I’m not in danger of passing out in my cereal bowl if that’s what you’re asking.” Boone snickered.
“Good to know, but that’s not entirely what I’m asking.”
“You’re no fun.”
“I’ve been accused of worse.” Interactions with Boone over the past few years highlighted our differences. I envied his relaxed, casual confidence, the ease with which he spoke and his gentle movements when he walked. While Boone stood at the edge of a crime scene in loose cargo shorts, flip-flops, and a worn t-shirt, I sweated it out in a button-up shirt, tie, and jacket. We were polar opposites, and yet I felt more comfortable in his presence than anyone in the precinct.
“I think you could be a lot of fun, Franklin. You just have to be in the right atmosphere.”
I was probably losing my mind, but I swore Boone was flirting with me. I paused, unsure how to respond. Thankfully, Boone saved me by finally answering. “I’m tired and it would be ridiculously stupid to try and pull even the most congenial, willing soul back from beyond the veil. It’ll take a few days, but I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me, Detective. You just concentrate on catching the sick fucker who’s doing this.”
“I’ll do my best,” I promised, hoping it would be enough.
“I know you will, Franklin. It’s what I’m counting on.”