Leaving his partner to her phone call, Kobe abandoned his coffee in a nearby bin and closed the distance with a hop in his step. The officer guarding the crime scene halted him with a hand to the chest and only let him through after earning a thumbs-up from me.
Kobe logged his badge number and fit covers over his winter boots before tugging on a pair of nitrile gloves. As he approached, the shy countenance I’d witnessed the previous week returned. The poor guy had no idea how to act around me, and I could hardly blame him since I’d been wishy-washy about his advances.
“Hey, stranger.” He stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets. “You must be on call again.”
I shrugged. “I take most weekends. It’s easier to get a sitter during the day than in the middle of the night. Those calls can go to someone without a toddler.”
“Makes sense.” Kobe gnawed his lower lip and rocked on his heels. “So? How’ve you been?”
“No complaints. You?”
“Good. Good. Still working that case, but… You know.”
I didn’t but nodded regardless.
A silent and awkward moment followed, so I volleyed his comment back. “You must be on call again too.”
“Nope. It doesn’t work that way in homicide. I’m ruled by obligation. Weekends off are a rare commodity.” Kobe craned his neck toward the crime scene, but a line of trees blocked our view. “I was told the details are strikingly similar to our Dr. Kordestani, so Sarge wanted us here instead of regular PD getting involved.”
I hitched a brow. “Similar?”
“That’s what they’re telling me. I don’t know more. We haven’t got up close and personal yet. They wouldn’t let us through until they got the okay from you.”
“I see. Shall we?”
Kobe stayed a generous distance behind as I circled a cluster of trees and aimed for the main attraction—a dead man seated on a wooden bench overlooking the icy path of the outdoor rink. CSIs surrounded the area, documenting everything and dropping tags over evidence.
Kobe’s superior was correct. At first glance, I noted many similarities to Navid Kordestani, but the overall impression was unique.
“Oh, Jesus.” Kobe winced when we circled the bench to view the scene head-on. He sucked air between his teeth and palmed his crotch. “Ow. Who the fuck does something like that?”
I said nothing, taking in every nuance of the display before approaching the dead body. Unlike forty-seven-year-old Navid, the man occupying the bench that morning was not far into his twenties. He, too, carried marks on his neck that suggested strangulation. He, too, had his hands positioned on his lap as though in supplication. Whereas Navid had been dressed for running, this man was naked, his clothes folded in a neat pile at his side. Navid’s heart had been impaled. The victim on the bench had a similar flower spike inserted through the shaft of his penis—hence Kobe’s reaction.
Another rose.
Another note.
“Same perp,” Kobe said, still grimacing. “Gotta be. Flower spike, white rose, cardstock tied with a ribbon. Even his positioning on the bench is identical.”
I hummed in agreement, still scanning and analyzing every detail.
“Tabarnak,” Kobe muttered. “No wonder Sarge called us. Can I approach?”
“Yes. Don’t touch anything.”
“Not my first day, Doc.” He smacked my arm and winked before aiming for the bench.
I stared after him, thinking, wondering, and feeling… things I shouldn’t. Things resembling attraction. Desire. Giving my head a shake, grounding myself in reality, I followed Kobe and got to work.
Kobe circled the victim, ensuring he kept a wide berth so as not to impede my initial survey of the body. He wore the introspective expression I’d seen the previous weekend. It contradicted the boyish smile and flirtatious behavior I’d been privy to more than once. It was the face of a man absorbing details and rewinding time as he reconstructed a murder. Kobe was astute. Focused.
A photographer joined me, and I directed him through several shots, taking pictures of the victim at various angles. The dead man’s neck. The first signs of bruising and the various shallow scratches. The positioning of his hands and the state of his fingernails. The signs of petechiae around his unseeing eyes. His protruding tongue with a small trace of blood on its tip. He’d likely bitten it during the struggle.
Then, I instructed my helper to focus his lens on the impaled penis.
Kobe’s partner joined him a few minutes later, and I listened to them converse as I documented my findings, took measurements, readings, and inspected various abrasions on the naked man’s torso.
“Can you estimate the time of death, Doc?” Kobe asked as I took the victim’s temperature via a slit in the abdomen to access the liver.
