I flip my plastic shield up and study Agosti’s organs. “He was a smoker, huh?”
Intrigued, Number-One tilts closer, his chest pushed forward, though his feet remain rooted firmly in place. “You can tell that already?”
“Sure.” I cock my hip against the edge of the table and carefully drag the tip of my finger along Agosti’s diseased thymus. “We all come into this world with an average life expectancy of eighty-ish years, right? Eighty-three, eighty-four. Whatever. Naturally, not everyone makes it that far, but for argument’s sake, let’s consider averages. Our organs—heart, lungs, liver—they’re probably supposed to stay with us that entire time. Once again, outliers exist. But the average human being does not receive donororgans. So we’re born with these lungs, and they’re supposed to last us eighty years. Smoking fast-forwards that aging process exponentially. Our John Doe is in his fifties, but his lungs appear much, much older. It’s entirely possible he was headed to the oncology ward within the next few months if he hadn’t already put a blade to his wrists.”
“Did he have cancer?” Number-Two questions.We won’t mention the sweat beading above his top lip, or the way his cheeks glow a rosy pink.“Could you tell by looking?”
“Sure. I’ll dissect his lungs shortly and give you my professional opinion. If you require one-hundred-percent accuracy, we’ll need to biopsy whatever growths we find. Discovering abnormalities within his lungs would, however, provide a strong indication.”
Satisfied, Number-Two leans back again and lifts his chin.
“Our John Doe treated his body poorly. The fatty layer surrounding his stomach and organs is quite thick. I suspect we’ll find significant blockage in his aortic valve, which might have led to failure.”
“Heart attack?” Number-Two queries again. The guy is desperate for a concrete answer to take back to his boss.Preferably before he loses his breakfast.“Could you estimate when failure was expected?”
“Mmhm. Within reason, and with room for error. I’ll dissect his heart, too. This is all pretty standard for an autopsy.” I drop my gaze to Two’s clenched fists. “Could I see your fingers?”
Stunned, his eyes whip back to mine. “What?”
“Your fingers.” I pick Agosti’s hand up and study the yellowing tips. “I didn’t need to open his chest and look at his organs to know he smoked. Are your fingertips discolored, too? Surely you know better than to age your lungs and destroy your heart with this terrible habit?”
Number-One snorts, catching himself and turning serious again. “Sorry.”
“You do?” Faux-sighing, I shake my head. “I suggest you find a new hobby if you hope to hang around for your eighty-three years.”
“Get back to work, Chief.” He slides his hands behind his back and stands taller. “Mr. Cordoza demands the results of your autopsy as soon as possible. Useless chatter slows you down.”
“On the contrary. We’ve only been at this for thirty minutes, and I’ve already discovered quite a lot about the man none of us like.” I lower my voice. “I won’t tell Cordoza you said so. But it’s easy to tell. Anthony Agosti was a bastard, he bred a bastard son, and now they’ve reunited in hell, where the devil may treat them as well as they treated those who knew them.” I lift a single shoulder and shrug. “That’s my hope, anyway.For everyone. May the afterlife treat all humans to the same standard they forced on others while they lived.”
My phone chirps in my coat pocket, an obnoxious ringtone that typically sets my temper on edge and my tolerance to below zero. But Simon and Garfunkel’s Feeling Groovy weaves in the air and brings a smile to my face… and a scowl to the faces of my guards.
“Work, Chief Mayet. Not social discussions.”
I peel one glove off and snatch the device. “Lucky for us both, I can multitask. Now shush.” I swipe the screen and place our call on speaker. “Hi, Aubree. How’s your honeymoon week going?”
“You sound…” Suspicious already—dammit—Aubree hums in the back of her throat. “Oddly happy. What happened?”
“Nothing.” I toss my phone onto the counter by the window, and, grabbing a fresh glove, I turn back to my task. “I’m elbows deep in a chest cavity, which always cheers me up. Haven’t heard a single peep from you and Timmy since you escaped your own reception on Saturday night. Busy?”
“I know you’re being inappropriate right now,” she drawls. “But since you asked: yep. I’ve been incredibly busy in all the best ways. Sex is fun. Sex is exhilarating. Sex is the best kind of exercise I’ve ever known.”
Grunting, Number-Two goes back to staring at the floor.
“You still have your stitches in, right?”
I take a step away from the table and look down at my pants-covered legs. “How did you move from sex to stitches? That doesn’t even make sense.”
“I’m asking because I wouldn’t put it past you to have removed them on your own, and I’m not there to stop you from doing dumb shit.”
“I think you forgot you’re talking to your chief, Doctor Emeri. Wish to rephrase your accusation?”
“I stand by what I said. Are they still in?”
I inch forward again and draw Agosti’s intestines out of his body. “Yes. Archer’s been riding me about them, too. He said I have to keep them in.”
“At least one of you has common sense.”
“Did you call only to badger me, Doctor Emeri? Because I’m down an autopsy tech this week, and my workload is kinda heavy.”
