“Probably, though I’ve never had occasion to sniff a live selkie.” Swallowing, Oliver paused to collect himself. “I need to check her mouth. People don’t usually like to watch this part.”
Felipe nodded but watched anyway. Oliver gritted his teeth as he struggled to pry the woman’s mouth farther. Between the cold and rigor, it wasn’t easy, and it would be impossible to return her to the way she previously was without wire or stitches. Angling her head toward the window and lamp, he pulled the forceps from his bag to inspect her tongue and throat. Her mouth was empty, but her tongue appeared to be slightly swollen. As Oliver tipped her head back, he could see a bit of blood inside her nostrils. With the dry, cold winter they were having, that might not be significant, but when he pulled back her eyelid to inspect her eyes, Felipe gasped behind him. Despite them finding very little evidence of violence on her body, Sister Mary Agnes’s eyes were dark red with blood. The tiny network of vessels had popped, and blood pooled in the whites of her eyes. Oliver’s gaze trailed over her cheeks, and what he had mistaken for freckles or frostbite were more broken capillaries. Oliver peeled back her other lid to reveal an equally mangled eye.
“This happens when people are suffocated but not usually to this extent,” he murmured. “I noticed before her lips were blue, but that can happen with cold or some poisons. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions.”
“So you think she was suffocated?”
“In a way. I believe she died somewhere inside or at least somewhere dry and was moved to the graveyard. I don’t have a test to confirm it, but there appears to be magic on her throat and chest. And she has extensive subconjunctival hemorrhaging, blood in her nose, and a slightly swollen tongue.”
“Which is consistent with being suffocated,” Galvan echoed.
“Or strangled.”
Nodding, Galvan retrieved a small Kodak from his bag. While Galvan carefully cataloged all they discovered on film, Oliver stared down at Sister Mary Agnes’s prone form. What had she done for someone to kill her like this? A woman whose life was fully contained within the walls of a monastery couldn’t have many friends or enemies outside her sisters. If one of them had killed her, one of the sisters must have powers of some sort. The other nun had mentioned Father Gareth not wanting to call in the police or Paranormal Society. Perhaps someone had shown up in the middle of the night looking for help, but surely one of the other sisters would have heard the bell. An outsider seemed unlikely.
“Are you going to take her in for a full autopsy?” Galvan whispered so close to Barlow’s ear that he bit back a shudder at the whisp of breath against his skin.
“I would like to, but I don’t think I can. Head Inspector Williams cautioned me against it, and with the sisters being skittish and the priest standing in the way, I doubt they’ll let me take her.”
“Could you do it here?”
Oliver’s jaw clenched. Releasing a tight breath through his nose, he reminded himself that Galvan didn’t know. None of them had any idea of the process, and he had been complicit in keeping them at arm’s length for all these years. Even if he could work on her here alone, he wouldn’t be able to reanimate her to ask what happened. One of her sisters would surely recognize her voice, and besides, her frozen tissue would make her difficult, if not impossible, to bring around.
Keeping his voice as tight and level as he could manage, Oliver replied, “I don’t think you fully appreciate the mess I would make doing so. The smell alone would probably require more cleaning than I would like to put on these nuns. Any body you’ve seen post-autopsy has been thoroughly tidied for the sake of the deceased’s family and to keep investigators from passing out in my lab. You work in the field, you know what organs smell like. Could I do a basic autopsy with the supplies I have? Probably. Will I? No.”
Oliver had tried to not sound angry, but when he looked back at Galvan, he looked like he had been struck. Regret washed over Oliver in a hot rush. Pulling the sheet back over Sister Mary Agnes’s form, he released a tight breath and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Frankly, Galvan, I don’t know how much we would even gain by performing an autopsy if she was killed with magic. Unless it’s a creature or something violent, there is very little left for me to trace. Should we go tell Sister Mary Margaret what we found?”
“Not yet. Let’s tell her that we do suspect foul play, but let’s keep how to ourselves. We still might find something of use outside, and as much as I like the sister, we can’t rule her out.”
Oliver nodded as he wiped down his tools and put them back in his bag. From the corner of his eye, he watched Galvan write in his notebook with his leg crooked against the wall as a makeshift table. A thick curl of dark brown hair flopped over Galvan’s forehead, and more than anything, Oliver wished he could whisk it back. If only they were close enough that Felipe Galvan would allow Oliver to touch him, that he would allow himself that intimacy. They had known each other for a decade with years of pleasantries and nothing further. Oliver couldn’t let that distance grow because he couldn’t control his tone.
“Galvan.” When the other man looked up with a frown that smoothed into a curious look, the words dried on Oliver’s tongue. “I’m sorry I snapped at you before.”
“It’s fine. I should have realized it wasn’t possible.”
“No, it was a perfectly reasonable question. You didn’t know, you couldn’t know. It’s not an excuse, but I’m not accustomed to working with other people. If they send me out of the Paranormal Society, it’s usually to pick up pieces and bring them back, not to help the investigators.”
A slow, knowing smile spread across Galvan’s face. “It isn’t easy. Most of us are an acquired taste.”
“I like working with you.” Oliver bit his lip at the earnestness that bled through every word. God, what would Galvan think? “Not Newman though. I don’t like people who are always late.”
Barking a laugh, Galvan placed the camera safely in his bag and slipped on his overcoat. “Me neither. Let’s go find Sister Mary Margaret and take a look at the crime scene.”
