ANGEL BLUE [1]

LEAD 7: sticks and [grave] stones

      “Henry Nikita is not your killer,” Snag spoons the stomach contents of Mitsudome Ishizuma into a jar to send up to the lab. “He’s your patsy at best, but for all we know, it could simply be a Shifter.” 

      “That’s impossible,” Sam says, “the man broke my nose!”

      “A man broke your nose,” Snag corrects. “Of the knives used to butcher the Kitsune, none had prints matching to Henry Nikita. There were no riddles or photos at the scene and the eyeballs weren’t found in or around the body, this brutality was sloppy compared to the other murders―I’m telling you, Nikita is not your guy,” Snag looks up at me, “Akira’s witness sketch of your suspected Henry Nikita figure didn’t have the tattoo in his mug shot. Shifters can only replicate their victims to a certain extent depending on their experience.”

      Some arsehole didn’t put that in the file.

      I walk over to the table where Joseph is cleaning the paper found lodged in the gash in Mitsudome’s throat. He uses a squeeze bottle filled with clear liquid to wash the blood from the paper. Unlike the other pieces of paper, the ink bleeds slightly, obscuring the lettering.

      “Snag’s right,” I say. “This is some copycat killer, or just a sick son of a bitch,” my hand brushes over Mitsudome’s clothes in the evidence bag. My fist clenches over the plastic, I should’ve done something. “Joseph, did Trace come back on the saliva exemplars?”

      “It was inconclusive to all our samples, but we don’t have all exemplars for the list. Judging by the wound pattern, we’re looking for something that doesn’t take blood but has teeth or mandibles thin enough to make a puncture mark like that,” Joseph turns his Red Sox cap so the brim is facing the wrong way.

      I close my eyes and pace the morgue. I can feel Snag and Sam stare at me, I mutter beneath my breath as the Diablo gene kicks in. Officer Cheung was found in an alley next to Franks E. Campbell Funeral Chapel on Madison Avenue in the Upper East of Manhattan―there were no puncture marks recorded on his body before it was released for burial. Only one creature on the list has permission to lurk around death and cemeteries.

      “Vrykokolas,” I say suddenly. “They’re arch enemies are Aries since they both originate from Greece. It makes sense; Snag said that Vrykokolas feed off the souls. What if a Vrykokolas approached Officer Langley and Dianne Hemming and they gave their souls for some reason―that could explain the wounds.” 

      “It’s plausible,” Sam says but I ignore him. “We can go up there anyway since we have to interview them for answers regarding Officer Cheung’s murder.”

      I’ve ignored him for the past thirty-six hours since Mitsudome’s homicide. I have no intention of speaking to him―despite his attempt at an apology, his words cut deep. He’s a selfish prat and needs to realise that the nicotine patches won’t work, he needs to realise that words do hurt.

      I thank Joseph and Snag for their time and promptly leave the morgue. Sam runs to catch up to the closing doors to the elevator or else he’s stuck with Snag for the next twenty years of his life. He sticks his foot in the door and they open again.

      Sam is now back into prat-mode. He’s in his black suit with the exception of his sky-blue button-up and the navy blue tie given to him by his father. There’s no trace of his light-hearted attitude that he expressed at the Four Horsemen, he’s back to being a tight arse and it’s getting on my nerves. I suppose it doesn’t matter what approach Sam takes, he thinks he’s better than everyone else because he has Federal Bureau of Investigations after his name. He probably thinks Agent is his first name.