Martyr's Moon

(Nip/Tuck / CSI:Miami)

by wordwolf

Disclaimers in Part I.

PART II.

It was midmorning Tuesday when Horatio Caine surveyed his assembled team as they gathered in the autopsy lab. The autopsy report was in his hand, the DNA results on the counter behind him, the body of Blair Blackwood on the examination table, and the electricity of the hunt in the air. "So what have we got?"

Dr. Alexx Woods answered first. "We've got the late Miss Blackwood, twenty-nine, star of the stained S&M screen. Cause of death: massive brain trauma consistent with falling thirteen stories to land on a poured concrete walk directly on her head. Death was instantaneous; she probably never felt a thing. The mule-stunning quantity of cocaine in her system probably helped, too."

"Let's see." The CSI team gathered alongside the examination table as Woods drew back the drape. Caine and the medical examiner kept their composure, but the three other criminalists didn't hold back their astonishment when they saw the huge black scorpion-shape, stretched, distorted, and age-blurred, defacing her body.

"Jesus, that's disgusting!" Calleigh Duquesne exclaimed.

Beside her, Eric Delko shook his head. "Man. No wonder they called her Mistress Scorpio."

"Without it, she might have found a more respectable line of work," Caine observed coolly.

"What are you getting at, Horatio?" asked Duquesne.

"That's a very old tattoo. And as you can tell from the all-over distortion and the deterioration of the line – once a very precise line, as you can see – it was applied some time fairly early in her childhood." Caine addressed the ME. "How would you date it, Doctor?"

"From the extent of growth indicated by the stretching, I'd estimate that she wasn't a day over six when this was inflicted on her." Woods almost growled. "And I'd like to get my hands on the degenerate who did it. And her parents. Probably the same."

"Actually, it wasn't, Alexx." Caine flourished another report. "Background on Blair, here. Our victim was an orphan. She spent her whole childhood in the system: eleven different foster homes, a couple of institutional stints. None of her foster parents or social workers, it seems, saw fit to record when, why, or how their young charge got a giant scorpion tattooed on her torso."

"God bless the system," muttered Woods.

Tim Speedle swallowed hard as he looked at the body, then moved the subject on. "What about the DNA results?"

"We've got them, but they're not as useful as we'd hoped," said Caine. "We swabbed everyone in the victim's condo, but found no matches with the semen in her vagina. Nothing on record for the DNA profile, either; this may be his first time."

"Or maybe he's just never been caught," Delko speculated darkly.

Caine nodded a grim, silent agreement, and went on. "The robe had two partial handprints on the back, both inconclusive. In short, ladies and gentlemen – " the CSI commander slapped the reports back onto the counter – "welcome to Square One."

Duquesne tossed her long hair with a fierce air of frustration. "Damn. I almost wish she'd been shot; then maybe I wouldn't feel so useless."

"No one on this team is ever useless," the ME reminded her gently.

"Absolutely," Caine agreed. "Calleigh, time for a bit of psychological ballistics. We're going to re-interview every one of those witnesses. The ones who can remember exactly what the victim said and what pose she struck seconds before her murder, but can look her killer in the face, let him walk away, and swear they can't even describe him."

XX

Christian Troy felt the usual touch of hunter's excitement as he approached the store. It hadn't been hard to find out where Karen Avalon worked: a look at her insurance forms for a daytime phone number, then a call to the public library, where they were more than willing to check their reverse directory for the address. The place turned out to be a big Barnes and Noble just a few blocks too far from the beach to be a fashionable location. And now, let the game begin...

He stepped in casually, feeling pleasantly like a spy as he slid his shades off, subtly checking out the faces as he wandered past the cashiers. Not there. Maybe she'd be at the center, at the customer service station. Or even in the children's department. He chuckled to himself at that thought: such a nice girl, a natural to work with the kids – until the boss found out about the scorpion. She probably never wore white blouses.

Not at the info desk, either. Troy tried not to look as if he were looking, pretending to check out a display of new religious books. Damn, these stores were BIG. Maybe she just wasn't working today, or was in the stock room...

On the PA system, Mozart's Third Horn Concerto cadenced to its end. What followed it caught his attention instantly: the sound of crisp footsteps, a car door opening and slamming, engine revving to life with the drum roll and bass line suddenly rumbling up to answer it, then the rest of the band – there was only one song that began that way.

"Aggravated, spare for days

I troll downtown, the red lights blaze

Jump up, bubble up, what's in store?

Love is the drug and I need to score

Showing out, showing out, hit and run

Boy meets girl where the beat goes on

Stitched up tight, can't break free

Love is the drug got a hook in me..."

"Dr. Troy!" exclaimed a voice that hadn't yet become familiar and dull. "Such a pleasure to see you here. May I help you?"

Troy turned toward the voice. "Miss Avalon!" He faked surprise very effectively, he thought. He pretended to notice the name tag pinned to the bodice of her sky-blue shirtwaist dress. "You work here?"

"I'm the first-shift manager. So what can I do for you?"

He peered at her questioningly, a suspicion rising. "You changed the music when you saw me, didn't you?"

"Was it that obvious?"

He chuckled. "Not really. How did you know I like Roxy Music?"

"Because you remind me of Bryan Ferry. And when a man reminds a woman of Bryan Ferry, the effect has to be at least partly intentional."

Now he laughed outright. This one was a bit more perceptive than most. But now it was his turn to charm her. "Maybe you can help me find something. You must have fifty thousand titles in here. Which one would be most worth my time?"

Not a second's hesitation. "The new Thwaite edition of the collected poems of Philip Larkin."

That certainly wasn't high on his list of expected answers. "Why that?"

"Because Larkin always told the truth. Would you like me to show you where it is, or would you like to be my six-hundredth customer to ask for 'The Da Vinci Code'?"

Troy found himself laughing yet again. "I definitely don't have time for that crap. Show me the Larkin."

The poetry section was small and select, the Larkin volume large and complete. "You don't read this cover to cover," Troy surmised.

"That's not the best way to go about it. Serendipity's better. Start anywhere."

So he did...

"TALKING IN BED

Talking in bed ought to be easiest,

Lying together there goes back so far,

An emblem of two people being honest.

Yet more and more time passes silently.

Outside, the wind's incomplete unrest

Builds and disperses clouds about the sky,

And dark towns heap up on the horizon.

None of this cares for us. Nothing shows why

At this unique distance from isolation

It becomes still more difficult to find

Words at once true and kind,

Or not untrue and not unkind."

For a moment that could have lasted an age, Christian Troy had nothing to say. As soon as he came back to himself, he quipped, "Amazing. A modern poet that you can understand without taking a seminar." He hoisted the book. "I'll take it."

Karen nodded. "I call him 'the last poet,' although that really is unfair."

"To whom?"

"Well, Peter Viereck had flashes of real genius. Dana Gioia can move me. And Billy Collins is wonderful, although sometimes I think of him as just an entertainer ..."

He smiled wickedly. "Aren't women who read poetry supposed to love Sylvia Plath?"

"Oh, please. Neurotic, self-dramatizing, selfish, overrated. And that Neanderthal she married wasn't any better. Those two were made for each other – assuming God was punishing them."

THAT was bracing. "So you're not into the Top Forty. Robert Bly?"

"A hack."

"Maya Angelou?"

"Don't make me laugh." She shrugged. "Look, you want to find good poetry? Then always follow what I call the Three Laws of Poetics."

Troy couldn't believe this subject could be such fun. "This I have to hear."

Karen smiled back. "First Law: A poem may not flatter a human being, or through inaction, allow a human being to come to spiritual harm. Second Law: A poem must fulfill needs brought to it by human beings except where such fufillment would conflict with the First Law. Third Law: A poem must protect its own integrity as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law." Now Troy laughed, and Karen beamed with pleasure.

"So that's what you do after hours? Poetry and Eighties music?"

"What do YOU do after hours?"

His gut clenched. Suddenly he realized that he didn't want this woman to know, not now, maybe not ever. "Well... I'm a surgeon, there's not much time after my hours."

She crossed her arms and gave him a look, sharp but without hostility. "So what is a busy surgeon doing hanging out in a bookshop on a Tuesday afternoon?"

"Chatting up a charming young lady between surgical procedures. And while she and I are on the subject of after hours, what would she like to do tonight?"

She smiled, but kept her arms crossed. "I'm sorry, Dr. Troy, but this is just too short a notice for me. Maybe..." Suddenly she brightened. "Tell you what: Tell me where to pick YOU up tomorrow at seven, and you can see what I do after hours."

Now they were getting somewhere. "It's a date. Come to my office; you know where it is."

"Thank you. Make sure to wear sneakers, and something loose and comfortable, in case you want to join in."

That was almost too tantalizing to think about... As he returned to the practice, bearing his purchase through the sun-washed streets, everything seemed to Christian Troy to be promising delicious secrets. It wasn't until he was scrubbing for his next operation that he realized, with a touch of trepidation, that not for a minute had he been in full control of the encounter.

TO BE CONTINUED