“Might break a nail, ruin your manicure. It’s a woman. Women,” Eve added.
“No defensive wounds.”
Because they didn’t give him a chance to fight back, Eve concluded. “Stun marks?”
“One, barely visible even with microgoggles. In the groin.”
“The groin.”
“I sense a theme. A mild stun, enough, in my opinion, to debilitate—and hurt, considering that sensitive area, like a swarm of angry wasps—but not enough to render him unconscious. Which plays to them being female.”
She walked it through. “Two of them could easily get him into the chair. One works on him, the other holds the stunner. Mr. Mira walks in, and they adjust.”
“How is Dennis?”
“He’s good. He’s dealing. What else can you tell me?”
“From the ligature marks on the wrists, recent injuries to the rotator cuffs, arm and shoulder muscles, the victim was restrained with cord, arms above his head, with his full weight pulling downward. The restraints were removed an hour, no more than two, before TOD.”
“He was alive when they hanged him.”
“Yes, he was, and his hands free so he attempted to drag the noose from his neck. It’s his own skin under his fingernails, along with fiber from the cord.”
Morris shifted his attention, and Eve’s, to the neck. “This wasn’t a sharp drop—not the trapdoor on the gallows, or a chair kicked out that could snap the neck, but a gradual strangulation. The drag of his own weight tightened the cord, increased the pressure, choking him. He died slowly, and painfully.”
“Not just an execution. Those are done quickly, efficiently. They wanted him to know, to feel, to suffer. It was torture to the end.”
“Yes. A torturous death. Other than that, I can tell you there were no other injuries. He’d had regular face and body work—what you’d call tune-ups—and was in excellent health. His last meal, consumed approximately fourteen hours before his death, included lobster bisque, a field green salad, and some Pouilly-Fuissé. As there were traces of vomit in his mouth, I can only guess at the amounts consumed.”
“What did he do—did they do—to earn this level of vengeance? I’m looking at rape, but this brutality? It’s beyond even that.”
“Kids maybe.” Steadier, Peabody took a testing sip from her fizzy. “Maybe they went for kids.”
“Pedophilia . . . Yeah, that could work up this sort of rage. There’s not even a whiff of that around either, and the first, at least, had regular sex with adults. But we’ll look. Because anyone who considered this justice believes the crime is horrific.”
“If it was,” Morris commented, “both men kept it well hidden. They lived public lives, where the media slides every act under the microscope. Hiding the horrific takes a great deal of skill and work, particularly if more than one person is involved. Secrets rarely hold.”
“Agreed. Now that we know we’re looking for secrets, and possibly the horrific, it should be easier to find. He’s going to run about the same,” Eve said, glancing at Wymann. “His injuries, COD, the works. But if you come up with any surprises, let me know.”
“I will, of course, but that reminds me. I thought little of it at the time, but the senator has a small tattoo.”
“Lots do.”
“Including myself. His was barely visible, again, due to the bruising. Groin area.”
“He has a tat there?” Eve said as Peabody went, “Ouch!”
“Just to the left of the root, we’ll say, of the penis.” He offered Eve microgoggles, took a pair for himself.
“Check the new guy,” she told Morris as she put on the goggles, bent down, searched. “Yeah, yeah, I see it now. Barely. It . . . it looks Celtic, right? Like one of those Celtic symbols. Mira’s not Irish or Scots, though. Is it?”
“Arabic, perhaps, or American Indian. But . . . yes, your second victim has the same. Same tat, same area.”
“Can you tell me when? How long ago they got the ink?”
“I’ll work on that. I’ll excise the dermis, test it myself, and send it to the lab.”
“What the hell does it mean? Peabody, get a picture of it. Let’s run it, see if it has a specific meaning.”
“You’re already there, ah, with the goggles.”
Eve only rolled her eyes, dragged out her ’link. She called up the camera function, took three shots. “It’s going to need to be enhanced, cleaned up.”
“I can do that,” Peabody began, but Eve was already tagging her expert.
“Hey.”
“And a hey back to you,” Roarke said.
“Quick one, just in case you know. What’s this symbolize or mean? Wait a sec.”
She fumbled a little, but managed to send him the image.
“Can you see the tat? There’s a lot of bruising and discoloration, but—”
“I see it, yes. And it happens I do know its meaning, as my mates and I nearly had the same done one memorably drunken evening. It’s a Celtic symbol for brotherhood.”
“‘Brotherhood.’ Yeah, that fits. Why didn’t you get the ink if you were drunk enough to think about it?”
Amusement sparked in his eyes. “Not quite drunk enough to forget identifying marks aren’t wise for some of us in certain areas of business. I’ve a meeting in a moment, unless you need more.”
“No, that’s great. Thanks. Buy that solar system.”
