Read Online Bloody Bones by Laurell K. Hamilton - Free Book Online
Authors: Laurell K. Hamilton
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was dark with dried blood, sticking up at an odd angle as if the entire arm had been broken at the shoulder and no longer moved. More violent. Had this one struggled a little?
My eyes flicked back to his face. I didnât want to look again, but I hadnât really examined it. There was something horribly personal about disfiguring a personâs face. If it hadbeen humanly possible to do all this, Iâd have said check their nearest and dearest. As a general rule, only people who love you will cut up your face. It implies passion that you canât get from strangers. One exception is serial killers. Theyâre working through a pathology in which the victims can represent someone else. Someone that the killer has a personal passion for. When cutting up the faces of strangers theyâd be symbolically cutting up, say, a hated father figure.
The fine bones of the boyâs sinus cavities had been cracked open. The maxillary was gone, making the face look incomplete. Part of the mandible was still there, but it had been cracked apart back to the rear molars. Some trick of blood flow had left two teeth white and clean. One of the teeth had a filling in it. I stared at that ruined face. Iâd been doing pretty good at thinking of it as so much meat, just dead meat. But dead meat didnât get cavities, didnât go to dentists. It was suddenly a teenager, or maybe even younger. I was only judging on height and the apparent age of the other two. Maybe this one with no face was a child, a tall child. A little boy.
The spring afternoon wavered around me. I took a deep breath to steady myself, and it was a mistake. I got a big whiff of bowels and stale death. I scrambled for the side of the hollow. Never throw up on the murder victims. Pisses off the cops.
I fell to my knees at the top of the small rise where all the cops were gathered. I hadnât exactly fallen so much as thrown myself down. I took deep, cleansing breaths of the cool air. It helped. A small breeze was blowing up here, thinning out the smell of death. It helped more.
Cops of all shapes and sizes were huddled at the top of the rise. Nobody was spending more time than they had to down among the dead. There were ambulances waiting on the distant road, but everybody else had had their piece of the bodies. They had been videotaped and trooped through with the crime scene technicians. Everybody had done their job, except me.
âAre you going to be sick, Ms. Blake?â The voice was that of Sergeant Freemont, Division of Drug and CrimeControl, DD/CCâaffectionately known as D2C2. Her tone was gentle but disapproving. I understood the tone. We were the only two women at the crime scene, which meant we were playing with the big boys. You had to be tougher than the men, stronger, better, or they held it against you. Or they treated you like a girl. I was betting Sergeant Freemont hadnât gotten sick. She wouldnât have allowed it.
I took another cleansing breath and let it out. I looked up at her. From my knees she looked every inch of her five-foot-eight. Her hair was straight, dark, cut just below her chin. The ends were curled under to frame her face. Her pants were a bright sunny yellow, jacket black, blouse a softer yellow. I had a good view of her polished black loafers. There was a gold wedding band on her left hand, but no engagement ring. Deep smile lines put her on the far side of forty, but she wasnât smiling now.
I swallowed once more, trying not to taste that smell on the back of my tongue. I got to my feet. âNo, Sergeant Freemont, Iâm not going to be sick.â I was glad that it was true. I just hoped she didnât make me go back down into the hollow. Iâd toss my cookies if I had to look at the bodies again.
âWhat did that?â She asked. I didnât turn and look where she pointed. I knew what was down there.
I shrugged. âI donât know.â
Her brown eyes were
My eyes flicked back to his face. I didnât want to look again, but I hadnât really examined it. There was something horribly personal about disfiguring a personâs face. If it hadbeen humanly possible to do all this, Iâd have said check their nearest and dearest. As a general rule, only people who love you will cut up your face. It implies passion that you canât get from strangers. One exception is serial killers. Theyâre working through a pathology in which the victims can represent someone else. Someone that the killer has a personal passion for. When cutting up the faces of strangers theyâd be symbolically cutting up, say, a hated father figure.
The fine bones of the boyâs sinus cavities had been cracked open. The maxillary was gone, making the face look incomplete. Part of the mandible was still there, but it had been cracked apart back to the rear molars. Some trick of blood flow had left two teeth white and clean. One of the teeth had a filling in it. I stared at that ruined face. Iâd been doing pretty good at thinking of it as so much meat, just dead meat. But dead meat didnât get cavities, didnât go to dentists. It was suddenly a teenager, or maybe even younger. I was only judging on height and the apparent age of the other two. Maybe this one with no face was a child, a tall child. A little boy.
The spring afternoon wavered around me. I took a deep breath to steady myself, and it was a mistake. I got a big whiff of bowels and stale death. I scrambled for the side of the hollow. Never throw up on the murder victims. Pisses off the cops.
I fell to my knees at the top of the small rise where all the cops were gathered. I hadnât exactly fallen so much as thrown myself down. I took deep, cleansing breaths of the cool air. It helped. A small breeze was blowing up here, thinning out the smell of death. It helped more.
Cops of all shapes and sizes were huddled at the top of the rise. Nobody was spending more time than they had to down among the dead. There were ambulances waiting on the distant road, but everybody else had had their piece of the bodies. They had been videotaped and trooped through with the crime scene technicians. Everybody had done their job, except me.
âAre you going to be sick, Ms. Blake?â The voice was that of Sergeant Freemont, Division of Drug and CrimeControl, DD/CCâaffectionately known as D2C2. Her tone was gentle but disapproving. I understood the tone. We were the only two women at the crime scene, which meant we were playing with the big boys. You had to be tougher than the men, stronger, better, or they held it against you. Or they treated you like a girl. I was betting Sergeant Freemont hadnât gotten sick. She wouldnât have allowed it.
I took another cleansing breath and let it out. I looked up at her. From my knees she looked every inch of her five-foot-eight. Her hair was straight, dark, cut just below her chin. The ends were curled under to frame her face. Her pants were a bright sunny yellow, jacket black, blouse a softer yellow. I had a good view of her polished black loafers. There was a gold wedding band on her left hand, but no engagement ring. Deep smile lines put her on the far side of forty, but she wasnât smiling now.
I swallowed once more, trying not to taste that smell on the back of my tongue. I got to my feet. âNo, Sergeant Freemont, Iâm not going to be sick.â I was glad that it was true. I just hoped she didnât make me go back down into the hollow. Iâd toss my cookies if I had to look at the bodies again.
âWhat did that?â She asked. I didnât turn and look where she pointed. I knew what was down there.
I shrugged. âI donât know.â
Her brown eyes were
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