The Killing Gene

The Killing Gene

Published by Howard R. Malis at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Howard R. Malis

Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever including Internet usage, without written permission of the author.

Digital edition created by GoPublished

www.gopublished.com

This is a work of fiction. While it includes references to actual locations, all of the characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Copyright Information

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Other Books by Howard R. Malis

For David Malis and Joel Sorkin

Gone too soon

I miss you guys

THE

KILLING

GENE

The first half of our lives is ruined by our parents,

and the second half by our children.

—Clarence Darrow

PROLOGUE

The man was on what he was sure would be the last visit to see the unconscious patient in bed 4B of the Intensive Care Unit. He looked around the room at the marvels of technology that were keeping the patient alive. There were machines that charted his heart rate, pulse and brain activity. Another machine did his breathing for him. All the while, the patient just looked like he was taking a nap.

The doctors believed that the next forty-eight hours were critical. If there were no change in the patient’s condition by then, the doctor’s would probably recommend pulling the plug on all of those wonderful machines. Ever since he had arrived today, the man could feel the presence of Death, hovering and waiting to claim another life. But you can’t have him, he thought. Not yet. He walked over to the bed, leaned over the protective rail and whispered to the unconscious patient, Be strong, damn you. You’re not going anywhere. We have unfinished business. The Reaper will just have to wait.

CHAPTER 1

The crowds of people were finally gone and the Building Department prepared to close for the week. A few customers lingered at the Customer Service desks finishing transactions and the cashiers sat in their cages totaling receipts for the day. A plan check engineer walked by with a large roll of plans hoisted over his shoulder preparing for a weekend of overtime.

Karolyn Shane sat at her desk in the Inspection Office of the City of Los Angeles’ Building and Safety Department. Brown hair framed an attractive face dominated by large, round blue eyes. Slight in build, she still had a terrific figure for a woman in her early forties. Fridays were casual dress day. She wore tight blue jeans, a yellow polo shirt and white tennis shoes. The Senior Administrative Assistant to the Manager of Building Inspection in the Van Nuys office for the last several years, Karolyn hated her job but after the events of the last two weeks, she had a newfound appreciation for it.

Earlier in the week, Karolyn transformed from a law-abiding citizen to a criminal but it didn’t particularly bother her. In the grand scheme of things, blackmail didn’t stack up to the crime perpetrated against her. Rape justified retaliation, at least in her mind. On Monday, she would cash the bastard’s payoff check and leave the whole sordid affair behind her.

Karolyn’s assistant, Marian Connor, returned from the copy room carrying copies of issued building permits. A constant battle with weight didn’t allow her to dress like Karolyn, which was why she never wore pants. It was always skirts and a blouse for the raven haired Marian. She was tired from a long day serving customers and collapsed into a chair behind her desk. She glanced over at Karolyn and said, You look like the cat that swallowed the canary. What’s up?

Karolyn smiled as she finished her last inspection call sheet. Marian stood up, walked over behind Karolyn and whispered, What are you and that boyfriend of yours going to do this week-end, besides the obvious?

You’ll just have to wait until Monday. If I decide to kiss and tell, that is.

I want all the details.

Karolyn laughed and looked at the clock on the wall. If I’m going to make it to Thousand Oaks sometime tonight, I better leave now. Rick is cooking for me and I have to pick up a bottle of wine.

Have a good time.

Thanks. Have a great weekend, Marian.

Karolyn walked through the lobby, made her way across the mall, and headed to the parking structure on Sylvan Street. Her thoughts centered on Rick and their plans for the weekend. They would drive to Santa Barbara in the morning for an overnight stay at a bed and breakfast on the beach. Next week, she would spend part of her blackmail money to buy him a nice present.

Karolyn had crossed the top deck of the parking structure and gotten into her car when a man in the parking stall next to her got out of his BMW and walked over to where she was parked. He poked his head inside the driver’s side window. Hello, Karolyn, he said. This is quite a coincidence.

Coincidence, my ass. God, you scared me, she said as she looked at his face in the window frame. What are you doing here?

You’ve been a big disappointment to me. I deserve an explanation for your behavior.

I don’t owe you an explanation for anything.

I think you do. We could have had something special if you could have kept your cool.

This is ridiculous, she replied. You’re out of your mind if you think we could have had anything resembling a relationship. You have a lot of balls to sneak up on me like this. I don’t even know why you’re here. Just leave me alone."

Starting the car and grinding gears, Karolyn thrust the transmission into reverse and almost trapped the man’s head in the window. He seethed as she roared away and disappeared down the parking ramp.

CHAPTER 2

Detective Tom Lemon tried to shield himself from the adolescent rage surrounding him at the dinner table. And, as usual when his wife wasn’t home, he failed. A police officer charged with apprehending dangerous criminals, he was helpless trying to control his two daughters during their evening meal battle. At a height of six feet and weighing one hundred eighty-five pounds, the brown haired, athletically built Lemon was still no match for his girls.

Give me some of that, his daughter Wendy bellowed.

At fifteen, Cheryl was the older of the two by six years. Without looking at her sister, she said, Drop dead.

Daddy, Cheryl won’t share.

Shut up, you little runt, Cheryl growled.

Daddy!

God, he thought, I’m more of a referee than a father. He grimaced at Cheryl and said, Can’t you just give your sister a piece of your pie? That’s all she wants.

Cheryl, who considered herself an adult, said, Mom said we should split the last two pieces. She had hers after school. She’s just being a baby because there isn’t any more. You don’t know what a pain she is. She won’t leave me alone. She bothers me and my friends, like, constantly.

Do I need to remind you what you were like when you were nine?

Come on, Daddy, I was never any trouble.

Of course not. You’re God’s gift to the world.

Lemon looked from one daughter to the other. Wendy took after his side of the family with her curly brown hair, almond shaped eyes and stocky build. Cheryl, a younger version of his wife, Maureen, had light blonde hair and blue eyes. She was also just as willful, just as cantankerous and, deep down, had the same caring heart. Both were special girls and Lemon was glad they were his daughters, even though they tortured him daily just because they could.

Lemon issued instructions to clean up the kitchen and got up from the table. He left the kitchen and went down the hall to the master bedroom to retrieve his badge and briefcase. Stopping in the hall on the way out, he took his gun out of the floor safe. Another night of working Homicide was about to begin.

Lemon headed over to the North Hollywood station where he had been promoted to Homicide from Burglary three years earlier.

The Lieutenant was George The Deacon Donovan. Looking younger than his fifty-three years and a veteran of the force for over twenty years, he had the same full head of curly black hair and muscular build from his youth on his six-foot frame. A trim moustache adorned his upper lip and a scar from a street fight when he was twelve ran across his left eyebrow. He picked up his nickname in college because he had considered becoming a priest while attending Notre Dame on a football scholarship.

When Lemon transferred to the department, he was warned by the rest of the detective’s not to curse or discuss anything of a prurient nature around the man because anyone who did was subject to a religious diatribe delivered with the intensity of a Baptist preacher. Apparently, the Lieutenant had counseled several detectives on their marriages, drinking habits, adulterous liaisons and other subjects that he felt might be corrupting their souls and could hamper their ability to protect and serve.

Donovan grilled Lemon on his first day with the squad and found his answers concerning life and family was satisfactory for a man entering his unit. In fact, Donovan approved of him so much that he decided to partner him with Gary Peters to help him stay on what Donovan called the path to righteousness. Peters had earned a reputation of being the biggest skirt chaser in the squad. The shortest man in the detail at five and a half feet tall, Peters only weighed one hundred and forty pounds and looked like a stiff wind could blow him over. But anyone that ever tangled with the wiry cop regretted underestimating him. Forty-seven years old with salt and pepper hair worn a little too long for Donovan’s taste and imbued with a twisted sense of humor, the feisty Peters challenged authority and sometimes pushed the envelope with his investigative methods. And even though the pursuit of female companionship seemed to be his only hobby, he was all business when it came to the job. Lemon was glad he was his partner, even if their colleagues referred them to as The Odd Couple.

Donovan came to the entrance of his office and called out to Lemon and Peters. They sat facing each other at matching metal desks about ten feet from the Deacon’s office. Come on in guys, Donovan said, briefly looking up from his paperwork. Without another word, he turned and walked back inside.

Gentlemen, Donovan said in a deep bass voice, "a uniform called this in a half hour ago. A young woman’s been sliced up in her apartment over on Colfax Avenue in North Hollywood. Her throat’s been cut and she was sexually mutilated. I revere almighty God but when I hear about something like this, it shakes my faith in the Lord. The media will love this so I want containment quickly. You guys head over to the scene. The Coroner is on the way.

Donovan sat back in his recliner chair and stared at the ceiling. Taking a deep breath, he said I want this guy caught and I want him rehabilitated. Am I clear on this, gentlemen? Go to work.

Donovan believed all criminals needed rehabilitation. What everyone understood was that Donovan really did not care how they brought down a suspect and, for a religious man, he had very strong pro capital punishment feelings. The rehabilitation Donovan referred to would be taken care of by God after the guilty were punished.

Lemon and Peters left the Lieutenant’s office, picked up their coats and headed to the elevators to go down to the garage. Sounds like somebody was pissed, Peters said.

I’d say so. This is just what we need. Another sick fuck on the loose. I always wonder what motivates someone to carve up a person like they’re a piece of meat.

Do I look like a frigging shrink? I have a hard enough time figuring myself out without thinking about why some asshole decided to off some woman.

You know, it’s that kind of philosophy that makes me thank God every day that you’re my partner. How would I solve crimes without you?

They entered the garage and signed out an unmarked car. You know, pal, Peters said, the Deacon would be mighty proud to know that you pray to the Big Guy about me. I’ll be sure to tell him.

Shaking his head, Lemon said, Swell. Let’s just get over there, all right?

The trip to the crime scene took ten minutes. There were several black and whites parked on the street but the Coroner hadn’t arrived yet. Crime scene techs scurried back and forth to the building as Peters and Lemon made their way through the crowd gathered outside. They ducked under the crime scene tape, found the sergeant in charge and introduced themselves

Who got here first? Lemon asked.

The sergeant called over to a crowd of uniform officers and asked for Officer Morris. A short woman in her mid-twenties headed over to where Lemon stood. She was built like a small tank, with muscular arms bulging out of her short sleeve shirt, and her light, brown hair pinned up in a bun.

Lemon peered at her nametag. Officer Morris. I’m Detective Lemon. Come inside while you brief me.

Morris stared down at the ground, tugging at her Sam Browne. Sir, I’ve been on the force for 2 years now and I’ve never seen nothing like this one. This guy’s an animal.

Just take me through it step by step.

Peters had been talking to some other officers waiting at the bottom of the stairwell and looked up as Lemon and Morris approached the building. You guys ready? he said.

Yeah, Lemon said. Let’s go.

Morris told the detectives that the deceased lived in one of the upper units of the four dwelling building. It was an older apartment built in the 1950’s with air conditioning units stuck out of windows on two sides of the box building. The paint was fading but the yard was well maintained. The detectives and Officer Morris looked at the mail boxes attached to the front wall. Lemon stopped and asked Morris which unit belonged to the victim. She told him they were going upstairs to Unit 3, which according to the name taped above the mail slot, belonged to someone with the last name of Shane.

They ascended the stairs. The door to the apartment was open. Police officers and crime technicians were busy moving about inside. Cameras flashed, samples of various materials were being gathered and surfaces dusted for fingerprints.

The leader of the Crime Scene Unit was a tall, thin, black man, with a shaved head and a trim goatee named Warren Thomson. Thomson had earned a reputation as one of the top criminalists in the city. Lemon called out to him and held up one finger to indicate that he would talk with him shortly. Nodding his head in acknowledgement, Thomson returned to collecting a blood sample stuck on the doorjamb leading from the hallway to the rear of the unit.

Morris led the detectives into the living room while they put on protective gloves. OK, Peters said, opening a small, spiral notepad. Let’s have the play by play.

Morris took a deep breath. My partner and I got a call from dispatch at 5:40 P.M. about a disturbance reported by a neighbor, Bea Bloomberg, in Unit 4. We arrived at 5:48 P.M. and came upstairs to the apartment. After identifying ourselves and not getting any response, we tried the door. It was unlocked so we went inside.

It sure doesn’t look like robbery was the motive. The computer, TV and stereo equipment are still here, Lemon said as he surveyed the room.

No, sir. I think the creep was after her. You can see there was a struggle in here. Two dining room chairs were on their sides, a small coffee table had been turned over and several broken pieces of glassware were on the floor.

Peters said, Let’s look at the back of the unit. There were bloody footprints on the rug adjacent to and in the bathroom. The detectives stepped inside and saw more footprints leading to the shower as well as water and blood in the stall.

Looks like he cleaned up after himself, Lemon said. We have a killer concerned with his personal hygiene.

Lovely, Peters responded. Let’s check the bedroom.

Morris followed the two men inside. Pointing at the body on the bed, she said, This is exactly how we found her.

Lemon and Peters looked around the room. Furniture was sparse. In addition to the dresser near the door, there was a brass bed, which now rested at an angle in the corner. From the dust pattern on the floor, it appeared that the bed had been pushed to its current location from the center of the rear wall. A nightstand with peeling, white paint was wedged between the bed and the wall. The last piece was a small makeup table adjacent to the dresser.

The victim was lying on her back on the bed. She had no clothes on and there was blood everywhere. The bed, the walls, the floor. A pungent, copper odor filled the room.

Lemon pulled on latex gloves and examined the contents of her purse, which was still on the dresser. Her name is Karolyn Shane, he said looking at her driver’s license. She’s forty-one years old. There’s $61.00 in her pocketbook and her keys are still here.

The only cars in the rear of the building were in the spaces for Units 3 and 4, Morris said. Ms. Bloomberg confirmed that the Mazda was hers and the Toyota wagon belonged to the victim.

I assume Ms. Bloomberg is still in her apartment? Lemon asked.

Yes, sir. I told her to wait there until you got here. She’s pretty shook up. Morris glanced over at the body and said, That poor woman.

She lowered her head and Lemon wanted to put his arms around her and tell her it was going to be fine but he knew better. It would be a long time, if ever, before Morris would forget this crime scene.

You did a good job here, said Peters breaking the momentary silence. Go on downstairs now and we’ll take it from here.

She nodded and moved through the crowd of people back into the living room and went outside.

Lemon sighed. Shit, Gary. What a mess.

Karolyn had been savagely attacked. Blood matted her brown hair and there was severe bruising on her face, chest and arms. Her eyes were open and staring at the ceiling. She looked like she could have been meditating except for two things: the gaping hole in her throat that ran from ear to ear and the horrific destruction of her vaginal area.

Peters said, What do you think he used to cut her?

Lemon brushed the hair away from Karolyn’s face for a closer look. It had to be something like a carving knife or a tool with a razor blade. Maybe a box cutter. Her throat was cut cleanly but he chopped her up between her legs. Cutting her tongue off and stuffing it back in her mouth was a nice touch.

I hope she was dead before the sexual attack.

We’ll have to see what the Coroner says.

Speaking of which, where is the esteemed Doctor?

As if that were a cue, a petite middle-aged woman with red hair, a slim figure and big oval glasses on a chain around her neck walked into the room carrying a bag. She had on a blue windbreaker that said Coroner’s Office on the back. Several men accompanied her with other bags of equipment and a gurney.

Dr. Merriman, we meet again, Peters said as grinned at her lasciviously.

How do you put up with this guy, Tom? Has he put a move on you yet?

No. He knows I’m not that easy. Everyone smiled at Lemon’s remark. Gallows humor.

OK, boys, Merriman said. Give me some room here so I can take a look. You guys didn’t move the body, did you?

Peters gave her an exasperated look. We’re not rookies, you know.

I know Lemon isn’t, Merriman cracked, but as for you Gary, well…

Lemon grabbed Peters by the shoulder. Come on Romeo, let’s leave the Doctor to do her job in peace.

Returning to the living room, Lemon and Peters saw Thomson putting some supplies away in his kit. They walked over to him and Lemon tapped him on the shoulder. What’ve you got for us, Warren?

He took off his gloves, looked at the detectives and said, "Hell of a thing, boys. Hell of a thing. What a fucking mess.

Anyway, we’re still collecting evidence but I don’t think we’re gonna get very much. It may not look like it but whoever did this was careful. No sign of forced entry. I believe she let him in and then all hell broke loose."

So, she may have known him, Peters said, or it could have been a delivery guy.

Thomson nodded. There was torn clothing on the bed except for her panties assuming she was wearing any.

Great, Lemon said. The bastard’s a souvenir collector. What else have you got?

The struggle started in the living room and moved to the back of the unit. We found bloodstains on the doorjamb at the hallway. You saw the footprints in the bathroom and the shower was recently used. The tracks look to be from some type of a work boot because of the thick tread. We’ll see what we can do to match it up with something currently on the market. The fact that there are no footprints leading out of the bathroom and across the living room to the front door is a good indication that he cleaned himself up before leaving. Hell, he probably had a change of shoes and clothes.

Peters scribbled Thomson’s information in his notepad. I don’t like the sound of this. The guy’s methodical. He planned this out. This probably isn’t his first kill.

We’ll check cases with similar MO’s, Lemon said. What can you tell us about the weapon?

She was cut almost all the way down to the spinal column with something very sharp, Thomson said. He cut her throat first before he mutilated her genitals because there was more blood under her head and on the walls than collected under her buttocks. I’m sure you saw that the tongue was cut out and stuffed in her mouth. You’ll have to talk to the Coroner to find out what else he may have done to her.

Lemon said, Merriman’s working on her now. Look, Warren, I don’t have to tell you that…

You want everything I’ve got immediately if not sooner, Thompson said, smiling. I’ll send you my report as soon as possible. That’s assuming, of course, that I don’t have to go to another one of these tonight."

Thanks, Warren. We’ll talk soon, Lemon said. Turning to Peters, he said, OK. Let’s take another look around and see if we can find anything about her friends and family. Maybe one of them had a grudge.

CHAPTER 3

The first twenty-four hours after a homicide are critical, as the trail can turn cold quickly. Since someone known to the victim commits most murders, the detectives reviewed an address book found in Karolyn’s apartment, made a list of names and dispatched several officers to interview family members, friends and co-workers.

Lemon spoke with Karolyn’s boyfriend, Rick Taylor. He had called her apartment while the two detectives were still at the scene and Lemon had the distasteful duty of telling him that Karolyn was dead. Taylor’s voice cracked with emotion but he agreed to come into the station the next day and answer questions.

The detectives went next door to interview Bea Bloomberg. Short and stout, with braided silver hair, the old woman opened several locks and invited them in. Her apartment had old furniture in the living room and few modern amenities. There was a TV but no VCR and a record player but no cassette or CD machine. Old pictures and dusty keepsakes adorned the walls.

I’m glad I put those extra locks on the door last year. The landlord was a pain about it. Can I offer you gentlemen some tea and cookies? she asked.

No, thanks, Lemon said. We just have a few questions.

Bea sat down on the couch, a handkerchief clutched in her hand. Dabbing at her eyes, she said, Karolyn was so sweet. This is just terrible. I’ve lived here forty years, you know. I’ve never had a neighbor as nice as that girl.

Peters said, Can you tell us what you heard?

Did you know I taught at North Hollywood High just down the street here?

No, we didn’t, Lemon sighed. Please Ms. Bloomberg, just tell us what you heard and what you saw.

Well, there was a knock on her door. I heard Karolyn say, ‘What are you doing here?’ and then the door closed. About five minutes later, I heard crashing and yelling. Then she screamed. Nearly frightened me to death. That’s when I called the police and went into my bathroom and locked the door. I didn’t hear anyone leave. Oh, Lord, maybe I should have gone over there.

You did the right thing by calling in, Ms. Bloomberg, Peters said. Believe me, there was nothing you could have done.

Thanks for your time, Lemon said as he handed her his card. If you think of anything else, give me a call.

Peters opened the door and Lemon followed him back across the landing. They heard deadbolts sliding into place as they entered Karolyn’s apartment.

A canvas of the neighborhood brought the usual I didn’t see anything or hear anything litany. It was hard not to be cynical about these types of responses but also not hard to believe. Most people minded their own business. They weren’t on the lookout for anything out of the ordinary and wouldn’t have wanted to be involved anyway.

The crime occurred in the late afternoon on a Friday when most people were either still at work or on their way home. By the time the murder took place, it was dark outside. The possibility of an ID was a long shot. Their best hope for information had been with Bea and her interview was worthless.

The detectives arranged for an early morning meeting with Dr. Merriman at the Coroner’s office to review her preliminary report. As they entered the building, the smell of chemicals and disinfectant permeated the air. Unlike a hospital or emergency room, there was no hustle bustle here. There was no sense of urgency to assist the dead.

The morgue was a strange place and most cops thought someone had to have a screw loose to spend all that time in medical school just so they could dissect cadavers as a profession.

As they walked the hallway to Merriman’s office, Peters whispered to Lemon, Do you think pathologists have to take a course in bedside manner?

Where in your mind does this crap come from?

They turned a corner and headed into Merriman’s reception area. Come on, Tom, Peters said. "This place has always freaked me out. I hate watching autopsies. All those body parts. And the fluids, cutting and sawing. You have to be part ghoul to do this job. Your wife is a doctor. What does she think about you coming down here and stepping into a gown and mask to watch some poor soul hacked up in the name of forensic science?"

She knows it’s part of my job. Maureen delivers babies so she’s seen more than her share of pain and death since she started practicing and was concerned how I’d deal with it. Having two young daughters doesn’t exactly allow us to discuss my work at the dinner table. To be honest with you, it can be tough sometimes but we’re ok.

The two men stopped at the reception desk and told a young woman on the other side of the counter that they had an appointment with the doctor. The receptionist wasn’t familiar to either man. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties, had long blonde hair and round, blue eyes. She wore form fitting slacks and a tight sweater that concealed what looked like cosmetically enhanced breasts. With the need to keep the office cool, it was obvious she wasn’t wearing a bra as she stood to go tell the doctor they were there.

Peters glanced at her breasts and let his eyes hang there long enough to make it clear he was staring and then raised his eyes to her face to make contact. She smiled as she turned to go into the back of the office, returned a minute later and told them to go in.

As they walked back, Lemon said, Could you be any more obvious? She’s young enough to be your daughter.

If she’s over eighteen, she’s street legal, my friend.

As far as you’re concerned, if the woman’s breathing she’d be ready for you. Just keep your mind on the case.

Doctor Merriman’s office was a disaster. A small room in need of a paint job, the doctor’s office was too small to hold all of her files and equipment. A computer terminal and printer were on a credenza behind her battered desk. The desk itself was covered with stacks of files, telephone messages and reports. A Dictaphone was placed on her in-basket for the simple reason there was no place else to put it.

She stood as they came in and cleared paperwork from two chairs up against the wall. Welcome once again to my humble home.

How the hell do you keep all this stuff straight? Lemon asked, looking at the mess and thumbing through a report on the edge of her desk.

Laughing as she pulled it away from him, she said, Who says I do?

They sat down as she pulled a couple of sheets of paper out of a pile and scanned them before looking across the desk.

This is just the preliminary report. I’ll send you my complete findings as soon as they’re available. Your Lieutenant has already called me twice. I put your victim at the front of the line. You guys owe me big time.

We’re eternally grateful, Peters said. If you’d like, I can take you out to dinner to show you my personal gratitude.

Dream on, detective, Merriman said without looking up from the report.

Peters was about to respond when Lemon raised his hand and cut him off. How about you kids knock it off so we can we get on with this?

Turning serious, Merriman said, "I’ll start with the obvious. The cause of death was exsanguination. Ms. Shane suffered severe shock and bled out. The throat wound was enough to kill her. The assault on her genital area and the removal of her tongue were post-mortem. In addition to her wounds, there were multiple bruises and abrasions on her face, chest and arms. Some of the cuts on her arms look like defensive wounds. She hadn’t eaten since around lunchtime. We