Page 33 of The Birthday Girl
“You better not. Now, get the fuck out and get to work.” Harper pointed at his door.
12- ID Me
Vega's fingers had gone numb ten minutes ago, but he kept them jammed in his pockets anyway, shoulders hunched against the chill that would linger in his marrow until his third scotch later that night. Above them, a fluorescent tube flickered, casting Dr. Patel's face in a sickly hue as he peeled latex gloves from his wrists and dropped a manila folder onto the steel table between them.
“Three victims. Time of death is between twenty-four and thirty hours before discovery,” he said. “Female first. Mercedes Johnson, thirty-three. The primary cause of death is blunt force trauma to the skull. Linear and depressed fractures across the parietal region. She died within minutes of impact.”
Vega glanced down at the photo.
“The chest opening and removal of organs were postmortem,” Patel continued. “Clean midline incision, deliberate sternal spread, viscera removed and displayed. The cash was stuffed postmortem into the orbits, nasal passages, and oral cavity.There is thread residue and uniform knotting across the thoracic sutures. Someone took their time.”
Vega shook his head in disbelief. “And the men?”
“Male number one is Jimmy Johson. AFIS hit within the hour.” Patel slid the next photo free. “Multiple deep incised wounds to the anterior neck. The pattern shows repeated slicing with a short, notched edge. He aspirated blood. The ligature furrow is present but shallow, with minimal petechiae. He was hung after he was already dying.”
Vega wrote that down without looking at the page.
“Male number two is still a John Doe,” Patel said. “No prints in the system yet. The cause of death is a penetrating wound at the junction of the skull and cervical spine. The entry point is behind the right ear. The blade entered the foramen magnum and became twisted. There is catastrophic cord transection. He also presents with perimortem dislocation of the left shoulder and a separate penetrating injury through the supraclavicular fossa consistent with joint separation. The broken maxillary incisor is perimortem, consistent with facial compression to the floor.”
Vega let out a slow breath. “Three methods. Same hands.”
“It reads that way,” Patel said. “One weapon type for the woman’s postmortem work. A short, damaged edge for the throat. A narrow, rigid blade for the spinal entry. Whoever did this understands anatomy well enough to be efficient when they want to be.”
“IDs to next of kin.”
“Mercedes is confirmed, and Jimmy is confirmed by prints and by familial association. John Doe is pending.”
Vega closed the folder and glanced at Patel. “I’ll ride with the notification team,” he said. “Then I’ll come back for the rest.”
Patel gave a short nod. “I should have ID on the John Doe, the tox panels, and toolmark impressions to you as soon as they are ready.”
“Thanks, Patel,” Vega replied and turned for the door.
By the time Vega’s sedan rolled up to the narrow duplex on Keating Street, the sky had turned a bruised purple, streetlights flickering awake one by one. A patrol car was already parked out front, and two uniforms stood stiff on the curb.
“You ready, Detective?” one asked, though his tone carried none of the confidence the words required.
“No,” Vega replied flatly as he buttoned his coat.
Of all the duties his badge demanded, Vega hated this one the most. Crime scenes were brutal, but they were evidence. They could be measured, photographed, and logged. Even death on a slab was something he could catalog and control. However, knocking on a door and watching a mother’s world collapse in real time, that was the part that gutted him.
There was no procedure for grief, and no chain of custody for a broken heart. He could only stand there, bearing witness, and each time it took a piece of him that he knew he would never get back.
“But let’s do it anyway, boys,” Vega added and started up the path.
The porch light snapped on before they could knock. The door creaked open three inches, then wider, revealing a woman with silver-streaked hair pulled back in a loose bun. Her fingers twisted a damp dish towel into a rope as she scanned their faces. Her gaze stopped at Vega's chest, where his badge caught the yellow porch light.
“What’s this about?” Her pupils contracted to pinpoints, and the thin skin around her mouth went slack as her eyes bounced from officer to officer.
Her words cracked midstream, and her shoulders sagged as if someone had cut invisible strings. She swayed slightly, one hand rising to her throat, fingers splayed against her collarbone wherea pulse visibly hammered beneath thin skin. She knew, like most mothers did, that a visit from them didn’t come with good news.
“Mrs. Johnson,” Vega began, his voice low and filled with empathy, “I’m Detective Marcus Vega with Dallas PD. I need to speak with you inside.”
She staggered back a step, her heart racing faster than a champion steed at the Kentucky Derby. “No. Tell me here. Just tell me—”
The younger officer's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, his eyes darting to Vega like a rookie quarterback seeking direction from the sidelines. Vega inhaled through his nose, held it for three seconds, the same count he used before pulling a trigger, then squared his shoulders to the threshold where the woman trembled.
“Mrs. Johnson, there's no easy way to say this. We found Mercedes and Jimmy early this morning, and I regret to inform you that they're deceased.”
