plate down, she pivoted on her tiny feet and scurried back toward the kitchen.
“Thank you,” O’Dell shouted, but the woman didn’t take time to turn, instead she raised her bird-like hand to wave her acknowledgment.
A run would have been better at calming her, but she bit into the soft cake doughnut and decided this was a well-deserved treat for putting up with Kunze’s floater assignment.
She had brought her laptop, a notebook, pen, and a color printout of the photo she had snapped of the victim’s tattoo. It hadn’t taken her long to find similar images, despite the red pustules that marred this victim’s skin. Her first impression had been wrong, but not by much. The tattoo wasn’t a version of the Grim Reaper but rather a female skeleton referred to as Santa Muerte, the saint of death.
Turns out people prayed to Santa Muerte for “otherworldly help”for a variety of things, such as landing better jobs or stopping a lover from cheating. O’Dell had been raised Catholic, but the idea of praying to some mediator other than God had always seemed like a waste of time and effort. Her mother, however, prayed to Saint Anthony when she couldn’t find something and invoked Saint Christopher before she stepped from the Jetway onto an airplane. Of course, the prayers to her favorite saints were usually fortified with her earthly companions, Jim Beam and Johnnie Walker.
Having tracked serial killers, mass murderers, and terrorists, O’Dell had grown weary of and impatient with those who used religious icons and ideology simply to promote and validate their predilections. So she wasn’t surprised when she discovered that some prayed to Santa Muerte for fending off wrongdoing and carrying out vengeance. Nor was she surprised to learn that Mexican and Colombian drug runners often sought out Santa Muerte’s protection to ward off law enforcement. Safe houses set up shrines with miniature altars. Smugglers placed small statues of the saint on the dashboards of their vehicles, even as they drove across the border.
The more O’Dell read, the more she believed the victim from the river probably didn’t tattoo his left shoulder blade with the saint so he could find a better job. Chances are it was to protect him from the job he already had. And O’Dell had made up her mind about the man before her cell phone started vibrating on the tabletop.
She glanced at the caller ID as she grabbed the phone. It was an extension she recognized from the ME’s office.
“This is Agent O’Dell.”
“I’m confirming fire ants,” Stan Wenhoff said without an introduction. “The blisters contain a toxic alkaloid venom called solenopsin. It’s from the class of piperidines. The liquid is both insecticidal and antibiotic. Odd combination, I know.”
“So fire ants inject this when they bite?”
“Fire ants bite only to get a grip. They actually sting and inject from their abdomen.”
“Impressive little buggers. Can this stuff cause death?”
“This many stings could certainly have sent him into anaphylaxis. He’d have difficulty breathing, rapid heart rate. His throat would swell. Certainly may have contributed to his death. His lungs and heart tissue showed signs of congestion, consistent with undue pressure. Probable cause of death was suffocation. I need to wait for blood analysis results, but I suspect a high concentration of cocaine will have also contributed to his demise.”
“What about the ligature marks?”
“Definitely restrained. Both the wrists and ankles. I can’t estimate for how long, but there was a good amount of struggle.”
“I’m looking at similar images of the tattoo,” O’Dell told him.
Before she could go on, Stan interrupted. “And you’re discovering it might be linked to the drug trade.”
“So you recognize it?”
“No, can’t say that I do. But I’m guessing a man who puts a tattoo of a female skeleton that looks like the Grim Reaper on his back, a man who may have died
“Thank you,” O’Dell shouted, but the woman didn’t take time to turn, instead she raised her bird-like hand to wave her acknowledgment.
A run would have been better at calming her, but she bit into the soft cake doughnut and decided this was a well-deserved treat for putting up with Kunze’s floater assignment.
She had brought her laptop, a notebook, pen, and a color printout of the photo she had snapped of the victim’s tattoo. It hadn’t taken her long to find similar images, despite the red pustules that marred this victim’s skin. Her first impression had been wrong, but not by much. The tattoo wasn’t a version of the Grim Reaper but rather a female skeleton referred to as Santa Muerte, the saint of death.
Turns out people prayed to Santa Muerte for “otherworldly help”for a variety of things, such as landing better jobs or stopping a lover from cheating. O’Dell had been raised Catholic, but the idea of praying to some mediator other than God had always seemed like a waste of time and effort. Her mother, however, prayed to Saint Anthony when she couldn’t find something and invoked Saint Christopher before she stepped from the Jetway onto an airplane. Of course, the prayers to her favorite saints were usually fortified with her earthly companions, Jim Beam and Johnnie Walker.
Having tracked serial killers, mass murderers, and terrorists, O’Dell had grown weary of and impatient with those who used religious icons and ideology simply to promote and validate their predilections. So she wasn’t surprised when she discovered that some prayed to Santa Muerte for fending off wrongdoing and carrying out vengeance. Nor was she surprised to learn that Mexican and Colombian drug runners often sought out Santa Muerte’s protection to ward off law enforcement. Safe houses set up shrines with miniature altars. Smugglers placed small statues of the saint on the dashboards of their vehicles, even as they drove across the border.
The more O’Dell read, the more she believed the victim from the river probably didn’t tattoo his left shoulder blade with the saint so he could find a better job. Chances are it was to protect him from the job he already had. And O’Dell had made up her mind about the man before her cell phone started vibrating on the tabletop.
She glanced at the caller ID as she grabbed the phone. It was an extension she recognized from the ME’s office.
“This is Agent O’Dell.”
“I’m confirming fire ants,” Stan Wenhoff said without an introduction. “The blisters contain a toxic alkaloid venom called solenopsin. It’s from the class of piperidines. The liquid is both insecticidal and antibiotic. Odd combination, I know.”
“So fire ants inject this when they bite?”
“Fire ants bite only to get a grip. They actually sting and inject from their abdomen.”
“Impressive little buggers. Can this stuff cause death?”
“This many stings could certainly have sent him into anaphylaxis. He’d have difficulty breathing, rapid heart rate. His throat would swell. Certainly may have contributed to his death. His lungs and heart tissue showed signs of congestion, consistent with undue pressure. Probable cause of death was suffocation. I need to wait for blood analysis results, but I suspect a high concentration of cocaine will have also contributed to his demise.”
“What about the ligature marks?”
“Definitely restrained. Both the wrists and ankles. I can’t estimate for how long, but there was a good amount of struggle.”
“I’m looking at similar images of the tattoo,” O’Dell told him.
Before she could go on, Stan interrupted. “And you’re discovering it might be linked to the drug trade.”
“So you recognize it?”
“No, can’t say that I do. But I’m guessing a man who puts a tattoo of a female skeleton that looks like the Grim Reaper on his back, a man who may have died
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