White Night Part 2

I hadn't come back since then. I had better things to do than revisit scenes like that. But once I was there and parked and heading for the doors, it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, and I went in without hesitation.

This was Molly's first visit. At my request, she had ditched much of the facial jewelry and wore an old Cubs baseball hat over her per-oxide locks. Even so, she didn't exactly cut a respectable businesslike figure, but I was content with damage control. Of course, my outfit barely qualified for business casual, and the heavy leather coat in the too-warm weather probably gave me a distinctive aura of eccentricity. Or at least it would have, if I made more money.

The guard sitting at the desk where Phil had been murdered was expecting me, but not Molly, and he told me she would have to wait. I said I'd wait, too, until b.u.t.ters verified her. The guard looked sullen about being forced to expend the enormous effort it took to punch an intercom number. He growled into the phone, grunted a few times, then thumped a switch and the security door buzzed. Molly and I went on through.

There are several examination rooms at the morgue, but it's never hard to figure out which one b.u.t.ters is inside. You just listen for the polka.

I homed in on a steady oom-pah, oom-pah oom-pah, oom-pah of a tuba, until I could pick up the strains of clarinet and accordion skirling along with it. Exam room three. I rapped briefly on the door and opened it without actually stepping inside. of a tuba, until I could pick up the strains of clarinet and accordion skirling along with it. Exam room three. I rapped briefly on the door and opened it without actually stepping inside.

Waldo b.u.t.ters was bent over his desk, squinting at his computer's screen, while his b.u.t.t and legs shuffled back and forth in time to the polka music. He muttered something to himself, nodded, and hit the s.p.a.ce bar on his keyboard with one elbow in time with his tapping heels, without looking up at me. "Hey, Harry."

I blinked. "Is that 'Bohemian Rhapsody'?"

"Yankovic. Man's a freaking genius," he replied. "Give me a sec to power down before you come all the way in."

"No problem," I told him.

"You've worked with him before?" Molly asked quietly.

"Uh-huh," I said. "He's clued."

b.u.t.ters waited until his printer started rattling, then shut down the computer and walked to the printer to pick up a couple of pages and staple them together. Then he dropped the pages onto a small stack of them and bound them with a large rubber band. "Okay, that should do it." He turned to face me with a grin.

b.u.t.ters was an odd little duck. He wasn't much taller than Murphy, and she probably had more muscle than he did. His shock of black hair resembled nothing so much as an explosion in a steel wool factory. He was all knees and elbows, especially in the surgical greens he was wearing, his face was lean and angular, his nose beaky, and his eyes were bright behind the prescription gla.s.ses.

"Harry," he said, offering his hand. "Long time, no see. How's the hand?"

I traded grips with him. b.u.t.ters had long, wiry fingers, very precise and not at all weak. He wasn't anyone's idea of dangerous, but the little guy had guts and brains. "Only three months or so. And not too bad." I held my gloved left hand up and wiggled all the fingers. My ring and pinkie fingers moved with little trembles and twitches, but by G.o.d they moved when I told them to.

The flesh of my left hand had practically melted in an unantic.i.p.ated conflagration during a battle with a scourge of vampires. The doctors had been shocked that they didn't have to amputate, but told me I'd never use it again. b.u.t.ters had helped me work out a regimen of physical therapy, and my fingers were mostly functional, though my hand still looked pretty horrible-but even that that had begun to change, at least a little. The ugly little lumps of scar tissue and flesh had begun to fade, and my hand looked considerably less like a melted wax model than it had before. The nails had grown back in, too. had begun to change, at least a little. The ugly little lumps of scar tissue and flesh had begun to fade, and my hand looked considerably less like a melted wax model than it had before. The nails had grown back in, too.

"Good," b.u.t.ters said. "Good. You still playing guitar?"

"I hold it. It makes noise. Might be a little generous to call it playing." I gestured to Molly. "Waldo b.u.t.ters, this is Molly Carpenter, my apprentice."

"Apprentice, eh?" b.u.t.ters extended an amiable hand. "Pleased to meetcha," he said. "So does he turn you into squirrels and fishes and stuff, like in The Sword in the Stone?" The Sword in the Stone?"

Molly sighed. "I wish. I keep trying to get him to show me how to change form, but he won't."

"I promised your parents I wouldn't let you melt yourself into a pile of goo," I told her. "b.u.t.ters, I a.s.sume someone-and I won't name any names-told you I'd be dropping by?"

"Yowsa," the little ME said, nodding. He held up a finger, went to the door, and locked it, before turning to lean his back against it. "Look, Dresden. I have to be careful what kind of information I share, right? It comes with the job."

"Sure."

"So you didn't hear it from me."

I looked at Molly. "Who said that?"

"Groovy," b.u.t.ters said. He walked back over to me and offered me the packet of papers. "Names and addresses of the deceased," he said.

I frowned and flipped through them: columns of text, much of it technical; ugly photographs. "The victims?"

"Officially, they're the deceased." His mouth tightened. "But yeah. I'm pretty sure they're victims."

"Why?"

He opened his mouth, closed it again, and frowned. "You ever see something out of the corner of your eye? But when you look at it, there's nothing there? Or at least, it doesn't look like what you thought it was?"

"Sure."

"Same thing here," he said. "Most of these folks show cla.s.sic, obvious suicides. There are just a few little details wrong. You know?"

"No," I said. "Enlighten me."

"Take that top one," he said. "Pauline Moskowitz. Thirty-nine, mother of two, husband, two dogs. She disappears on a Friday night and opens up her wrists in a hotel bathtub around three A.M. Sat.u.r.day morning."

I read over it. "Am I reading this right? She was on antidepressants?"

"Uh-huh," b.u.t.ters said, "but nothing extreme, and she'd been on them and stable for eight years. Never showed suicidal tendencies before, either."

I looked at the ugly picture of a very ordinary-looking woman lying naked and dead in a tub of cloudy liquid. "So what's got your scalpel in a knot?"

"The cuts," b.u.t.ters said. "She used a box knife. It was in the tub with her. She severed tendons in both wrists."

"So?"

"So," b.u.t.ters said. "Once she'd cut the tendons on one wrist, she'd have had very little controlled movement with the fingers in that hand. So what'd she do to cut them both? Use two box knives at the same time? Where's the other knife?"

"Maybe she held it with her teeth," I said.

"Maybe I'll close my eyes and throw a rock out over the lake and it will land in a boat," b.u.t.ters said. "It's technically possible, but it isn't really likely. The second wound almost certainly wouldn't be as deep or as clean. I've seen 'em look like someone was cutting up a block of Parmesan into slivers. These two cuts are almost identical."

"I guess it's not conclusive, though," I said.

"Not officially."

"I've been hearing that a lot today." I frowned. "What's Brioche think?"

At the mention of his boss, b.u.t.ters grimaced. "Occam's razor, to use his own spectacularly insensitive yet ironic phrasing. They're suicides. End of story."

"But your guess is that someone else was holding the knife?"

The little ME's face turned bleak, and he nodded without speaking.

"Good enough for me," I said. "What about the body today?"

"Can't say until I look," b.u.t.ters said. He gave me a shrewd glance. "But you think it's another murder."

"I know it is," I replied. "But I'm the only one, until Murphy's off the clock."

"Right." b.u.t.ters sighed.

I flipped past Mrs. Moskowitz's pages to the next set of ugly pictures. Also a woman. The pages named her Maria Ca.s.selli. Maria had been twenty-three when she washed down thirty Valium with a bottle of drain cleaner.

"Another hotel room," I noted quietly.

Molly glanced over my shoulder at the printout of the photo at the scene. She turned pale and took several steps away from me.

"Yeah," b.u.t.ters said, concerned eyes on my apprentice. "It's a little unusual. Most suicides are at home. They usually go somewhere else only if they need to jump off a bridge or drive their car into a lake or something."

"Ms. Ca.s.selli had a family," I said. "Husband, her younger sister living with her."

"Yeah," b.u.t.ters said. "You can guess what Brioche had to say."

"She walked in on her hubby and baby sister, decided to end it all?"

"Uh-huh."

"Uh," Molly said. "I think-"

"Outside," b.u.t.ters provided, unlocking the door. "First door on the right."

Molly hurried from the room, down to the bathroom b.u.t.ters had directed her to.

"Jesus, Harry," b.u.t.ters said. "Kid's a little young for this."

I held up the picture of Maria's body. "Lot of that going around."

"She's actually a wizard? Like you?"

"Someday," I said. "If she survives." I read over the next two profiles, both of women in their twenties, both apparent suicides in hotel rooms, both of them with housemates of one sort or another.

The last profile was different. I read over it and glanced up at b.u.t.ters. "What's with this one?"

"Fits the same general profile," b.u.t.ters said. "Women, dead in hotel rooms."

I frowned down at the papers. "Where's the cause of death?"

"That's the thing," b.u.t.ters said. "I couldn't find one."

I lifted both eyebrows at him.

He spread his hands. "Harry, I know my trade. I like figuring this stuff out. And I haven't got the foggiest why the woman is dead. Every test I ran came up negative; every theory I put together fell apart. Medically speaking, she's in good shape. It's like her whole system just... got the switch turned off. Everything at once. Never seen anything like it."

"Jessica Blanche." I checked the profiles. "Nineteen. And pretty. Or at least prettyish."

"Hard to tell with dead girls," b.u.t.ters said. "But yeah, that was my take."

"But not a suicide."

"Like I said. Dead, and in hotel rooms."

"Then what's the connection to the other deaths?"

"Little things," b.u.t.ters said. "Like, she had a purse with ID in it, but no clothes."

"Meaning someone had to have taken them away." I rolled up the papers into a tube and thumped them against my leg, thoughtfully. The door opened, and Molly came back in, wiping at her mouth with a paper towel. "This girl still here?"

b.u.t.ters lifted his eyebrows. "Yeah. Miss Blanche. Why?"

"I think maybe Molly can help."

Molly blinked and looked up at me. "Um. What?"

"I doubt it's going to be pleasant, Molly," I told her. "But you might be able to read something."

"Off of a dead girl?" Molly asked quietly.

"You're the one who wanted to come along," I said.

She frowned, facing me, and then took a deep breath. "Yes. Um. Yes, I was. I mean, yes, I will. Try."

"Will you?" I asked. "You sure? Won't be fun. But if it gets us more information, it could save someone's life."

I watched her for a moment, until her expression set in determination and she met my eyes. She straightened and nodded once. "Yes."

"All right," I said. "Get yourself set for it. b.u.t.ters, we need to give her a few minutes alone. Can we go get Miss Blanche?"

"Um," b.u.t.ters said. "What's this going to entail, exactly?"

"Nothing much. I'll explain it on the way."

He chewed on his lip for a moment, and then nodded once. "This way."

He led me down the hall to the storage room. It was another exam room, like the one we'd just been in, but it also featured a wall of body-sized refrigerated storage units like morgues are supposed to have. This was the room we'd been in when a necromancer and a gaggle of zombies had put a bullet through the head of b.u.t.ters's capacity to ignore the world of the supernatural.

b.u.t.ters got out a gurney, consulted a record sheet on a clipboard, and wheeled it over to the fridges. "I don't like to come in here anymore. Not since Phil."

"Me either," I said.

He nodded. "Here, get that side."

I didn't want to. I am a wizard, sure, but corpses are inherently icky, even if they aren't animated and trying to kill you. But I tried to pretend we were sliding a heavy load of groceries onto a cart, and helped him draw a body, resting upon a metal tray and covered in a heavy cloth, onto the gurney.

"So," he said. "What is she going to do?"

"Look into its eyes," I said.