“Petechiae. Yes. It’s also present on the conjunctiva. Considering the injuries to his neck, it is a theory. I can’t say definitively until he’s on my table.”
“Is that a flower spike?” Rue indicated the rose.
“It appears so.” Dominique moved toward his tote of instruments.
“Does it go through the heart?” my partner asked.
“I assume, but until he’s on the table—”
“You can’t tell me for certain. Gotcha. Pre or post?” my partner asked.
“Post.” I spoke before Dominique had a chance to answer. “There isn’t a lot of blood on that white shirt, which means the heart had already stopped pumping when he was stabbed.”
Rue skewered me with a challenging look. “Or the spike could have acted like a stopper, preventing it from bleeding profusely.”
We both looked at Dominique, who held up his hands, warding us off. “I’ll know conclusively once he’s on the table.”
Rue moved closer to the victim and angled her head as she studied the flapping piece of cardstock attached to the ribbon.
The scent hit me again, then faded. Frowning, I glanced around, certain one of the nearby CSIs must have been wearing perfume.
When I couldn’t ascertain its point of origin, I turned to the pathologist. “Do we have an approximate time of death?”
Dominique’s gaze never moved from the victim. “He’s close to full rigor, and although the cold day has dropped his body temperature significantly faster than usual, I’d say roughly between five and seven this morning, but I’ll have a better idea once he’s—”
“On your table. Got it.”
Dominique raised a brow as he glanced sidelong in my direction. “Yes.”
I smiled flirtatiously. “Every pathologist I’ve ever known falls back on that response.”
“Well,” Dominique wet his lips and ducked his chin, “every detective I’ve worked with over the years tends to demand answers before I get my hands dirty.”
“We’re assholes like that. No patience to speak of. Gotta put us in our place.”
Before Dominique could respond—if he was going to respond at all—Rue interrupted. “Haven. Look at this.”
With gloved fingers, my partner held the edge of the cardstock, her brows knit.
I joined her, bending to read the inked scrawl, and was hit with a punch of tropical perfume. I jolted back and glanced at my partner. “Is that you?”
“What?”
“The smell. Can’t you smell that? Are you wearing perfume?”
“No. It’s the rose.”
“Roses don’t smell like coconut.”
“It’s been sprayed,” Dominique said. “The chemical components were quite strong when I arrived. They’ve lessened significantly over the last hour.”
Sprayed?I leaned over the dead man and tentatively inhaled. He was right. The vibrant scent was coming from the rose. Not a natural, floral odor, but artificial. Tropical perfume of some sort.
“Read the tag,” Rue said, redirecting my attention.
I leaned in again as she angled the cardstock in my direction.A heartless bastard.
Handwritten cursive. Straightening, I propped my hands on my hips. “A heartless bastard? What do you think it means?”
