got troubles," Jerome murmured, as soon as Griffen was close enough to hear.
"Who is it?"
"Jesse Lee."
Griffen winced. "He was a good guy."
"One of our best. I had a lot of hopes for him."
"What happened?"
Jerome tilted his head toward the door. "You'd better come and see."
Griffen had never been inside a morgue. All the television shows had one thing right, though: The smell hit him before anything else. It wasn't decay that made his eyes water, it was antiseptic cleaning fluid. They must have used it by the gallon, undiluted. The industrial beige of the walls went well with the stink. He never believed in restless spirits before he had come to New Orleans and met a deceased voodoo priestess, but no self-respecting ghost would hang out here. All kinds of people, well dressed in suits and dresses or jeans and hoodies, huddling together for support, wept loudly into tissues. The staff behind the desk paid little attention to them. They had to deal with the details of death every day. Griffen didn't think he could ever get used to it. He didn't want to sit down. He had a feeling of deja vu from watching movies all night about animated corpses. If Jesse was really dead, Griffen hoped he wouldn't manifest on him unless he had information on what caused his death.
A familiar face leaned out the door next to the counter. Detective Harrison glared at Griffen.
"What took you so long?" he demanded. "Come on back."
The heavyset detective strode ahead of them on slightly bowed legs that always reminded Griffen of the gait of a longtime biker. His dark hair was thin on the crown of his head, and sweat beaded the thick flesh between his hair and the collar of his shirt. The usual leather jacket must be hanging up somewhere. It was much cooler in this office building than in most of New Orleans, but Griffen put that down to necessity. Harrison indicated a door on the left side and ushered them in.
The gray-painted room was not the kind of viewing chamber set aside for sensitive relatives to identify a loved one under genteel circumstances, with a curtain and a window. This laboratory had steel tables with hanging sprayers and scales, plus plenty of other devices and machines that Griffen did not want to know about.
Harrison brought them to a wall full of square steel doors. He nodded to a young black male technician wearing green scrubs and cloth baggies over his shoes and hair. The technician, whose name was Shore, according to the name badge attached to his tunic, nodded and pulled open a door. From inside the cubicle, he slid out a gurney. A narrow form covered by a white sheet lay upon it. He threw back the white sheet and withdrew to the side of the room out of earshot, but Griffen saw his keen gaze still on them. He looked down. The corpse's face was dark purple, and the eyes seemed to bulge unnaturally under the lids, which were closed, Griffen was grateful to observe. It was almost redundant to note the deep red line on the neck that indicated that Jesse had been strangled.
"Name?" Harrison asked. Griffen took a deep breath, as if to reassure himself that he could still take one.
"Jesse Lee. He was one of my poker dealers. Nice guy. Single. Decent and honest."
"I knew this guy was one of yours," Harrison said. "You are sure some lucky that I was on duty this morning when the call came in from a house on St. Ann's."
"You met him before?" Griffen asked.
"No," Harrison said. "But I could guess." He lifted the corpse's left hand. It looked completely normal except for the forefinger. It was covered in pale gold scales that almost blended with the rest of the skin, but the nail curved up in an arc and came to a fearsome point. "I could try and convince the medical examiner that he had some kind of exotic skin condition, but the claw's past my ability to lie with a straight face. Also, the corpse is resisting being autopsied. They can't get a knife into him. That's what made me figure he was one of yours. The ME is trying
"Who is it?"
"Jesse Lee."
Griffen winced. "He was a good guy."
"One of our best. I had a lot of hopes for him."
"What happened?"
Jerome tilted his head toward the door. "You'd better come and see."
Griffen had never been inside a morgue. All the television shows had one thing right, though: The smell hit him before anything else. It wasn't decay that made his eyes water, it was antiseptic cleaning fluid. They must have used it by the gallon, undiluted. The industrial beige of the walls went well with the stink. He never believed in restless spirits before he had come to New Orleans and met a deceased voodoo priestess, but no self-respecting ghost would hang out here. All kinds of people, well dressed in suits and dresses or jeans and hoodies, huddling together for support, wept loudly into tissues. The staff behind the desk paid little attention to them. They had to deal with the details of death every day. Griffen didn't think he could ever get used to it. He didn't want to sit down. He had a feeling of deja vu from watching movies all night about animated corpses. If Jesse was really dead, Griffen hoped he wouldn't manifest on him unless he had information on what caused his death.
A familiar face leaned out the door next to the counter. Detective Harrison glared at Griffen.
"What took you so long?" he demanded. "Come on back."
The heavyset detective strode ahead of them on slightly bowed legs that always reminded Griffen of the gait of a longtime biker. His dark hair was thin on the crown of his head, and sweat beaded the thick flesh between his hair and the collar of his shirt. The usual leather jacket must be hanging up somewhere. It was much cooler in this office building than in most of New Orleans, but Griffen put that down to necessity. Harrison indicated a door on the left side and ushered them in.
The gray-painted room was not the kind of viewing chamber set aside for sensitive relatives to identify a loved one under genteel circumstances, with a curtain and a window. This laboratory had steel tables with hanging sprayers and scales, plus plenty of other devices and machines that Griffen did not want to know about.
Harrison brought them to a wall full of square steel doors. He nodded to a young black male technician wearing green scrubs and cloth baggies over his shoes and hair. The technician, whose name was Shore, according to the name badge attached to his tunic, nodded and pulled open a door. From inside the cubicle, he slid out a gurney. A narrow form covered by a white sheet lay upon it. He threw back the white sheet and withdrew to the side of the room out of earshot, but Griffen saw his keen gaze still on them. He looked down. The corpse's face was dark purple, and the eyes seemed to bulge unnaturally under the lids, which were closed, Griffen was grateful to observe. It was almost redundant to note the deep red line on the neck that indicated that Jesse had been strangled.
"Name?" Harrison asked. Griffen took a deep breath, as if to reassure himself that he could still take one.
"Jesse Lee. He was one of my poker dealers. Nice guy. Single. Decent and honest."
"I knew this guy was one of yours," Harrison said. "You are sure some lucky that I was on duty this morning when the call came in from a house on St. Ann's."
"You met him before?" Griffen asked.
"No," Harrison said. "But I could guess." He lifted the corpse's left hand. It looked completely normal except for the forefinger. It was covered in pale gold scales that almost blended with the rest of the skin, but the nail curved up in an arc and came to a fearsome point. "I could try and convince the medical examiner that he had some kind of exotic skin condition, but the claw's past my ability to lie with a straight face. Also, the corpse is resisting being autopsied. They can't get a knife into him. That's what made me figure he was one of yours. The ME is trying
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