Page 6 of Goblins Don't Count
“A judge! Which one?”
“That’s right. You know all the court people. Judge Stevens.”
I frowned at him. “He was old. Took medication for his heart.”
“Really?” He sounded impressed with my in-depth knowledge of a judge’s medical condition, then frowned and didn’t say anything else.
“What does Lieutenant Joss think was the cause of death?”
“He wants a fresh pair of eyes. I won’t tell you anything that could make you biased.”
“Oh. Okay.” I frowned at him, but he was focused on driving and didn’t meet my eyes. Brannigan was never focused on his driving, but maybe he was irritated because he had to come in on Sunday.
I opened my mouth to comment on his girlfriend being angry about messing up their weekend plans, then closed it again. I’d worked hard to have a professional relationship with everyone at the office, and I wasn’t about to muddy the waters. I didn’t know if he had a girlfriend, or if he still lived with his parents. And I didn’t need to.
It wasn’t far to the courthouse, and after we’d parked, it was a short walk past reporters who crowded the front steps, and into the vaulted ceiling of the interior. I nodded at a guard I knew well, but got out my ID anyway.
He checked it and nodded at me. “Looks like they’re calling in the whole police force for this case.”
“Judge Stevens deserves a good send-off,” I said with a sober nod.
He looked slightly shocked, but I was already walking off with Brannigan. We climbed the stairs to get to the level with the offices, and then ducked under the police line that secured the small perimeter around the nice corner office where Judge Stevens was lying in a pool of his own blood.
I gasped and took in the scene. Feet pointed towards the door. 9mm in his right hand, pointed slightly above his temple where the first bullet hole was made. The second bullet hole wasn’t so tidy, as exit wounds tend to be. Close range shot. Obviously, because he’d shot himself. But why in the world would Judge Stevens shoot himself? Ah. I shouldn’t have said that about Judge Stevens’ send-off, not if it was a suicide.
“Is there a note?” I asked, finally looking up at the rest of the people in the room.
Lieutenant Joss came over to me, looking more flushed than usual. “No note. You call it suicide? You can see it with your magic?”
I frowned at him. “I can only read auras.”
“So, read his aura.”
“I can’t read a dead person’s aura. There’s no aura once a person dies, unless they become undead.”
He scowled at me. “You’re here for your magic. You think I need another person to look at the body and call it suicide? No. You need to tell me about the aura. Make it sound convincing. Why did he want to die? What was he feeling?”
I stared at him. I’d just told him that I couldn’t read a dead person’s aura, but he refused to believe me. Almost like magic was a made-up thing that you could adapt to suit different circumstances by sheer will.
“I’ll go over by the body. Maybe his aura will speak to me there.”
He nodded, frown fierce. “Good.”
I sighed and then went to step on the tidier side of his body, where there was less blood on the floor. These were my lawyer loafers, not my street shoes. I knelt down and inhaled deeply, centering myself and getting ready to open my third eye. I struggled, like I did when I was tired or overworked, but I pushed through and finally saw the glimmery nimbus of color around everyone in the office other than the judge. He was dead. Dead don’t have auras. If he had a ghost, I’d have no idea. I couldn’t see ghosts, just auras. I’d tried to stretch my gift my whole life, but no matter what I did, that was all I could do with my inherent magic. I could cast a few spells, but just the basics.
Brannigan’s aura was pink and yellow, uncomfortable being here on his day off, but also proud to be called in, to be necessary. Lieutenant Joss was worried, frustrated, and angry. I already knew all that. Everyone else was bored, excited, or hungover. No, that was just the shaggy guy taking photos of the room.
I caught Lieutenant Joss’s glare and refocused on the body. I was supposed to be reading his aura. The judge was wearing a black suit, gold watch, black leather shoes, high quality, but well-worn. He’d been wearing those shoes the first time I met him, when I interned here while I was going through the police academy. With a warm smile, he’d reached out his hand and…
I looked down at my hands in shock. I’d fumbled because I’d reached out with my right, but he already had his left out. The judge was left-handed, but the gun was in his right. I guess that was fine. The temple wasn’t exactly a hard target to hit when it was your own. Still, how many people would shoot themselves with their non-dominant hand?
Also, the longer I knelt there, the fishier things smelled. Like the room, the judge, it all smelled off. Literally. The scent, like my shampoo this morning, smelled wrong. It stank of fear, not hopelessness. I leaned closer and sniffed the body, and the scent of decomposition was almost as strong as the fear that still soaked into his skin.
“You got something?” Lieutenant Joss asked, breaking me out of my weird new sensory exploration.
I looked up at him, startled and confused. I could smell his worry, like I could smell Brannigan’s self-confidence. “It’s not a suicide.”
He blinked at me, something like fear flashing through his eyes and scent before he snorted. “What do you mean, it’s not suicide?”
