Page 13 of Killer Clone

Patrick Marrion certainly didn’t.

They found him lying naked on the slab. The victim’s eyes were open but sunken. His face was decorated with only the lightest of stubble, which barely reached above his jaw. The lines of his ribs showed through his thin chest, and the red markHagen had seen on the crime scene photos was brighter than he expected up close. An old, healed burn scar ran across the young man’s cheek and covered the top of his left shoulder before disappearing down his back.

But it was the victim’s pallor that stood out the most. Marrion’s skin was pale, his color vanished with the blood drained from him. Even his lips had lost their luster, so that only his scar and his small, hairless nipples displayed any tone at all.

A sharp intake of breath sounded from Ander. “Jeez.”

Hagen braced himself for the revulsion he usually experienced in morgues. But it didn’t come. He’d recently seen two corpses in a similar state. Perhaps he adjusted better to exsanguination cases? Putrefaction and decay were delayed without blood in the body, so some of the gnarlier side effects of death were mitigated.

He approached the corpse and indicated the bottom of the victim’s thighs and the edge of his buttocks. “Do you see how there’s little discoloration here? Usually, you’d expect to find the blood pooled at the lowest point. He was found in a seated position, so this part of the body,” he lowered his pointed finger to the hip and buttock area, “should be darker than the rest. The fact there’s so little discoloration here indicates he was moved after death. Right, Doc?”

Dr. Brennan tilted his head. “Very good, Agent Yates. We’ll have you elbow-deep in cadavers any day now. Want to guess the time of death?”

Hagen shook his head. He’d leave the details to the experts.

Dr. Brennan checked his notes. “We can probably say it was sometime late Friday afternoon. The report said he was found in the early hours of Saturday morning. He hadn’t been sitting in the cold for long.”

Ander kept his distance, but Hagen drew nearer the body. In Claymore, the victims had been killed by deep slashes acrosstheir necks, the depth and savagery of the cuts opening the carotid arteries. The bleeding had been fast.

But Patrick Marrion’s neck was intact. Besides the bruising around the victim’s ankles, wrists, and neck, the only obvious wound Hagen could identify was a single cut on the right side of the victim’s neck—a straight line, no more than an inch long—which appeared to be done with precision.

“I see you’ve found our cause of death.” Dr. Brennan hovered over Hagen’s shoulder.

Ander took a step forward and stood at Hagen’s other shoulder. “That’s what killed him?” He sounded skeptical. “I was expecting something more gruesome.”

The medical examiner rocked on his heels. “Yes. That incision, as small as it seems, is deep. Goes all the way to the carotid artery.”

The M.E. placed a gloved finger at the bottom of the cut and pulled down. The skin separated easily, the end of a severed artery visible under a thin layer of fat. Still holding the cut open, Dr. Brennan toyed with the edge of the artery with the tip of his gloved finger. The tissue bounced like rubber.

Hagen forced himself to relax his jaw. Dr. Brennan always made things a bit weird.

“The carotid artery. Cut that, and you’ve had it without immediate help, gentlemen. If you can’t stop the bleeding, you’ll be unconscious in minutes and dead as a doornail shortly afterward. In two to five minutes, if you want to be precise about it.”

Ander pushed a loose curl away from his eye. “Could it have been an accident? A fight, and the blade made a lucky hit?”

Dr. Brennan released the cut. The edge of the skin slowly returned to its place, its elasticity all but gone.

“There are no other wounds. Nothing defensive. The bruising around the neck suggests the victim was asphyxiated,which might imply a minor struggle.” He paused. “At best, you might be able to say he was held down while the killer bound him at the wrists and ankles before the killer made their precise cut.”

The medical examiner was right. There was nothing on the victim’s face that suggested more than the lightest of struggles.

Hagen crossed his arms. This didn’t look anything like the Pennsylvania cases. “Why make such a strange incision?”

“It reminds me of the cuts morticians make during the embalming process.” Dr. Brennan crossed his arms too.

“Can we see his back?”

Dr. Brennan smiled. “Thought you’d want to see that. It’s something. Give me a hand here, will you?”

As Dr. Brennan placed his hands under the victim’s ribs, Hagen lifted from beneath the shoulders.

The body twisted, then flopped face down on the slab. Dr. Brennan pulled out the arm trapped under Marrion’s chest and straightened it next to his side.

A red scar started on the victim’s left cheek and neck, cascaded over his shoulder, and covered much of his upper back, stopping just below the rib cage in a rough, curving line.

“Quite a sight, isn’t it?”

Ander swallowed. “What is it?”

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