Rough Justice (The Scarecrow and Lady Kingston Book 1) by Tristan Vick

Author:Tristan Vick [Vick, Tristan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Winlock Press
Published: 2015-07-13T07:00:00+00:00

Jersey Blair, a tall blonde with short, bobbed hair and long legs in a short black skirt, cut in front of Julie, edging into the morgue first. Julie rolled her eyes in exasperation and followed after her. One thing was for certain; Feds were always the same. By the book and on time.

Stepping up to the body on the table, Jersey brushed her black blazer down, smoothing out the wrinkles, and asked, “What do we have here?”

Dr. Baudrillard put out his cigarette in the nearby bedpan and grumbled, “What does it look like? It’s a goddamn dead body.”

Julie smiled. “You’ll have to pardon Special Agent Blair,” she said. “She’s with the FBI.”

The doctor’s face remained unimpressed as he reached over and grabbed the chart on the end of the exam table, then handed it to Special Agent Blair without saying a single word. Jersey inspected the report but couldn’t make heads or tails of it. She quickly handed the chart off to Julie to inspect.

Baudrillard peeled off the crimson-splotched latex gloves and threw them in a nearby dustbin. He walked over to the sink and washed his hands with special sanitizing soap while Julie looked over the chart. After washing, Baudrillard pulled another pack of smokes out of his jacket and tapped on the pack until the tip of a fresh cigarette budded, then kissed it up with his lips. Pulling out a gold lighter, he held it up to his mouth, but just as he was about to light up, Julie spoke out.

“Crotalase?” Her eyes were as big as saucers. She recognized the MO, but she couldn’t believe he was back. For starters, she knew that the perpetrator responsible for the string of hiker’s deaths was serving time in California’s state penitentiary. This had to be something new, which worried her.

Looking at the doctor with a blank expression, Jersey asked, “What is Crotalase?”

Baudrillard ignored Jersey’s question and addressed Julie instead. “Not only that, but over seven-hundred milligrams with a toxicity of LD-50, which would lead to a lethal neurotoxicity, causing respiratory failure and tachycardia.”

“C. adamanteus has a venom yield and toxicity that high.”

“C. adamanteus fits,” the doctor replied. “But so do a handful of vipers and a few types of cobra.”

“Snakes? Are we talking about venom?” inquired Blair, feeling worsted by Julie’s intellectual performance. “So you’re saying she died of a snake bite?”

“No,” growled the doctor, impatient as usual. He continued on with his diagnosis. “I think she has all the pathophysiological signs of having died of snake toxins except for one small problem.”

Julie remembered her examination of the body at the crime scene earlier and quickly filled in the rest. “Except for the fact that there is no snake bite.”

“There’s not a mark on this body,” Baudrillard informed. “But check this out,” he said, grabbing the deceased victim’s bottom lip. He pulled it back and revealed a tenderized area. “At first, I didn’t make anything of it. There’s nothing unusual of a woman in her line of work to show signs of tenderness from, how shall I put it, intense foreplay.

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