Page 4 of Identity Unknown

“Believe me, I know how hard this is, Fabian. But if you can’t control your emotions, it will be your undoing.” I’m firm but kind. “It’s something all of us have to learn. We have to work at it constantly.”

“Ryder Briley’s a fucker. I know he did it.” Fabian’s eyes are glassy behind his face shield. “He thinks with all his power and money he doesn’t have to play by the rules or even be a decent person.”

“Don’t get caught up in this…”

“The whole time we were there yesterday he was sneering at us like we’re stupid. His daughter’s dead body is on the bedroom floor and he’s practically laughing. Plus, the shit he said about you behind your back. Asking me what it was like working for a C-word.”

“He’s a calculating bully, his goal to distract and intimidate. Don’t let him.” I take off the Tyvek gown covering my scrubs. “I need you to begin tracking down Luna Briley’s medical records. I want all details of visits to the doctor or hospital for any reason. I won’t be satisfied until her every injury old and new is accounted for.”

“When can she be picked up? Shady Acres is already checking on her.”

“That’s too bad, and it figures the Brileys would use them.” I’m no fan of the greedy funeral service.

“Jesse Spanks.” Fabian tells me who’s been leaving messages.

“I’m not releasing the body for several days.” I take off my safety glasses. “Please make a note of it in the electronic case log right away. I don’t want any confusion. Certainly not when Shady Acres and the Brileys are involved.”

“What really got me was the mother boohooing the entire time we were there.” Anger flashes as Fabian lifts the plastic bag of sectioned organs out of the bucket under the table. “Probably the same thing she did while looking the other way. What kind of person could do that? She’s just as guilty as the father.”

“I’m guessing she’s abused too. That’s usually how these things work.”

“I don’t give a shit.” He places the bag inside the empty chest cavity. “There’s no excuse. It’s evil.”

“I agree it’s unforgivable.” I pluck off my hair cover and Tyvek booties.

“In Louisiana, it’s not unusual to have cases related to the occult, Satan worship, voodoo, as you might imagine.” He’s sweating and breathing fast, his surgical mask sucking in and out. “I used to go with my dad to some of the scenes and could feel the dark forces. That’s what I felt yesterday in the Briley house. I felt evil.”

He’s talking at top speed while threading a surgical needle with cotton twine. I notice his hands are trembling slightly.

“Are you all right, Fabian?”

“Was too wound up to sleep much after I got home last night. Whenever I’d close my eyes, I’d see things I didn’t want to see. I started thinking that something evil followed me from the Briley house. Faye could feel it too.”

Faye Hanaday is the top tool marks and firearms examiner, her lab upstairs. She and Fabian live together in a converted carriage house that they swear is haunted.

“We walked around burning sage. And that seems to have cleared out the negativity.” He wipes his forehead with a towel.

“Do you need to sit down?”

“Way too much coffee, and my adrenaline’s going bonkers. Plus, I’ve got a headache. Maybe it’s my blood sugar dropping.”

“Easy does it,” I tell him. “Slow, deep breaths. We don’t want you hyperventilating.”

“Last night I kept thinking, if only I’d been her big brother. Or her neighbor. It wouldn’t have happened. I wouldn’t have allowed anyone to hurt her.” His eyes are bright with tears as he talks about Luna Briley. “She had nobody.”

“I didn’t sleep much either. But if I’m emotionally bent out of shape, I’m no help to her or anyone, and neither are you.”

“What else do you want me to do?” He takes off his face shield, wiping his eyes.

“When her pajamas have air-dried, please receipt them and the bullet fragments to the firearms lab.” I’m filling out the evidence analysis request forms that he’ll take upstairs. “Tell Faye we’ll want test fires for trajectory and distance as soon as possible. While you’re at it, check with trace evidence on the status of the GSR swabs. Especially the ones for the hands.”

As I’m telling him this, the wall phone begins to ring again. Off go my gloves again.

“Who this time?” Reluctantly, I grab the receiver.

“Morgue.” My blunt greeting isn’t answered, a talk show faintly playing in the background again. “Hello?” Nothing.

I hang up. The push-button phone down here is ancient. It’s not used often and doesn’t display caller ID.

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