Page 66 of Not This Night

She paused, glancing back at Ethan. His eyes met hers, a tumult of concern and commitment within them.

The cold metal handle chilled her palm as she pulled open the first door. A rush of frigid air escaped, carrying the faint, unmistakable scent of death. Inside, a body lay shrouded in white—a still, pale form that once breathed, laughed, lived. Lucy Thompson.

"Lucy," Rachel murmured, acknowledging the victim with a solemn nod.

Ethan stood by her side, his face a mask of professional detachment, but his eyes betrayed a hint of that unembarrassed empathy that Rachel and grown to appreciate in her tall partner.

Moving to the next, Rachel gripped the handle and braced herself. The door swung open to reveal another body, this one larger, more imposing even in repose. Miguel Ortiz.

"Damn," Ethan exhaled, the single word heavy with implication.

Rachel leaned in closer, the harsh overhead light casting deep shadows over the body's features. Something gnawed at her gut—a detail out of place. She squinted, scrutinizing the corpse of Miguel Ortiz.

This was why they’d come all this way. It had been nagging at her since they’d left…

The thought she’d had about Scott Hawkeye. He’d burned, and briefly she’d wondered if perhaps the body had been a decoy. If Scott had escaped.

But she’d missed the obvious. The charred remains of Scott… His face obscured.

The same with Miguel, though. She hadn’t received a confirmation of his identity. It was a simple request. A necessary one.

And she couldn’t wait until Saturday.

She pulled the gurney from inside the compartment, scanning the scars on the cold skin. So many cuts… the violence had been rageful.

But postmortem. That’s what the coroner had said… No, no quite. In Lucy’s case postmortem. But in Miguel’s case? He died horribly.

She scanned the roots of his hair. Dark.

Her eyes moved towards his fingernails… no defensive marks on his hands. No blood under his fingernails. He’d been struck hard.

She scanned the body meticulously, cataloguing each mark. “Did Miguel have any tattoos?” she asked.

“Unknown.”

She frowned, checking his forearms. His wrists. His legs…

Nothing.

Rolled down the collar. Rolled up the pant legs. More cuts.

She grimaced at the gaping flesh.

She reached down, carefully rolling back the stiff cuff of the body's shirt, exposing the wrist. A faint blue ink peeked from beneath the pale, lifeless skin.

“Bingo,” she whispered.

"Here," she called Ethan over with a jerk of her head, her pulse quickening.

He stepped closer, peering down at the small mark—a tattoo, no bigger than a quarter.

“Significance?”

“I don’t know,” She murmured. “Any photos of Miguel with this tattoo?”

“I can check…” he trailed off, frowning.

“What is it?”

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