Patrick parked the Mustang behind a police car and got out. He hooked his thumb around the chain of his badge to lift it off his chest when a uniformed police officer headed his way to order him somewhere else.
“SOA,” Patrick said as he locked the car and started walking.
The officer backed off, and Patrick passed through the police line without being accosted. Traffic was being rerouted around the Grand Army Plaza with the help of traffic cops. Patrick squinted through his sunglasses at the officers and CSU workers milling about beneath the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Arch. The monument reminded him of a scaled-down version of the Arc de Triomphe in Paris. This time he wasn’t fighting zombies though, but he was still dealing with the dead.
The stone monument rose up against a clear blue sky, the crowning sculpture that of a chariot ridden by Nike. Looking through the arch, Patrick could see a large fountain in the distance, and beyond it, Prospect Park. He frowned, a flicker of recognition running through his magic that spoke of the earth, a subtle sheen of something else pushing through the strangely brown flora of the park.
He shook his head and raised his shields, not sure what to make of that faint hint of magic drifting through the park. He didn’t sense a threat, and for all he knew, a coven could’ve performed a seasonal rite inside Prospect Park. Covens did that all time; all it took was a permit. Judging by how dead the park looked in the distance, maybe they’d done it to revive the plants and trees.
The media had set up on the other side of the wide street that curved in an oval around the plaza. They toed the police line, with every camera pointed in the direction of the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Arch. It appeared most of the television reporters were currently reporting live, though Patrick couldn’t be sure. Police cars and vans had been positioned to hide the view of the body as much as possible without putting up tarps.
Patrick saw the trishula first, before he saw Youssef’s body. It glinted in the sunlight, the gold of its making bright against the stone surrounding it. The artifact’s history said it carried magic, but Patrick discovered the Met’s director had been right when he dropped his shields. The trishula carried no magic now, but it was a receptacle that could, given the right situation or the right god.
Patrick made his way to Youssef’s body, bypassing a couple of frustrated-looking CSU workers. Casale stood near where the body had been dumped, but Patrick only had eyes for the dead.
Youssef lay on his back, nude, the trishula’s three long prongs buried in his chest all the way to the connecting point of the spear. Another wound was in his stomach—three deep jagged holes made by the trishula, the edges torn as if the person had ripped the weapon out in such a way to do as much damage as possible.
Both of Youssef’s arms were outspread, fingers curled tight against his palms. Patrick couldn’t see any defensive wounds on his skin upon first glance, but he wasn’t sure any would show up, not with how quickly werecreatures healed. The fact he carried two major wounds in his torso told Patrick the trishula might have been coated with aconite, or maybe a silver wash.
Or maybe Youssef had known whoever had killed him, and that was why he hadn’t fought back.
Both wounds were gruesome and deep. The lack of blood around the body was a strange detail that didn’t track with how he’d died. The only blood Patrick could see was dried and streaked around the wounds and coating Youssef’s chin and throat. If Patrick had to guess, he’d say the body had been dumped.
“Didn’t think the SOA would send you,” Casale said by way of greeting.
“The trishula is my case,” Patrick replied.
Casale stared at him, a frown deepening the lines around his mouth. He was in his white-shirt uniform today rather than a suit, cap with its braid sitting firmly on his head. Patrick wondered if it was a deliberate choice since a murder like this would require him to go in front of the cameras with people out of the Office of the Deputy Commissioner, Public Information. DCPI was going to have its hands full today.
“You know why I’m questioning your presence.”
Patrick met Casale’s gaze without blinking. “Are you saying I can’t do my job?”
“I know how you do your job, Collins. I just want to make sure this is done fairly.”
“You don’t need to worry about that. I’m here as support, not to take it over.”
Casale arched an eyebrow, keeping his voice low. “You realize that won’t look good, no matter how you try to spin it.”
Patrick looked away and focused his attention on the body. “Can you tell me what you know about the scene so far?”
He forcibly moved the conversation along, not wanting to talk about all the reasons he shouldn’t be standing there beneath the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Arch, cataloguing the dead.
Casale shook his head but didn’t ask Patrick to leave. “A jogger found the body about an hour ago. They called the police immediately, and we’re getting his statement. No one reported a fight last night or this morning in this area. Traffic camera feeds around the plaza have been pulled, but I don’t know what they’ll show us. Right now it appears to be a dump job.”
Patrick nodded in agreement. He didn’t ask about Youssef’s list of enemies. They both knew who would be at the top of it.
“If it was a dump job and no one saw anything, then magic was probably involved.”
“A CSU witch said there’s traces of magic on the weapon. Maybe a magical signature, but we can’t be sure until the crime lab runs the results.”
“You scanned it?”
Casale’s gaze never wavered. “Standard procedure if the magic lingers long enough, especially with a high-profile murder like this.”
The energy markers on a magic user’s signature could be detected on modern equipment. Everyone’s was different, like a fingerprint, and the SOA had a national database the PCB could check against. Most criminals tried not to leave traces behind, but if a spell was strong enough, some portion of their magic could remain. Patrick flexed his fingers, wanting to scan the area with his magic—but he couldn’t. It could too easily be considered tampering with evidence.
“Has the ME worked on the body yet?” Patrick asked.
