“The fish themselves might have contributed to his death,” the coroner replied.

  “Well, that seems likely, as the victim obviously has been impaled with numerous goldfish. At the very minimum, it appears he choked on a few. Call somebody who knows about fish and find out if the fish are venomous or poisonous. Both may apply.” I bit my lip so I wouldn’t laugh at the reality of the fish possibly being both venomous and poisonous. “From your initial look at the body, does it appear as though the fish bit him?”

  “Considering we had to remove several fish from his genitalia to move the body without damaging the corpse further, yes.”

  Oh. Oh my. My eyes widened. “I see. In this case, I’m grateful I haven’t seen.”

  “There are pictures,” Dr. Harrins promised.

  Wonderful. Not only would I have to get a close-up look at the corpse with a bunch of poor fish still sticking out of him, I would have to look upon the body in its original state, with even more fish. “I’m assuming I’m going to get a complete look at our victim, including toxins?”

  “The first thing we did was grab a blood sample and send it off to the lab for the initial toxicity report,” Dr. Harrins promised. “Then we removed some of the fish making it difficult for us to handle the body.”

  “Such as the ones attached to his genitalia?” I asked.

  “There were two sturgeon. They were attached to his nipples. The sturgeon survived their experience and are currently being held for questioning. They’re definitely endangered, but we got them in the appropriate water in time. The aquarium helped with that.”

  No matter what, I couldn’t afford to laugh at the thought of fish titty tassels on the victim. I had no idea how I would question a pair of traumatized fish, but I would cross that bridge when I got to it. In the meantime, I would concentrate on maintaining my professionalism. I cleared my throat, circled the body, and questioned everything about my life. Would staying at my old precinct have spared me from beholding the horrors of death by goldfish? Well, fish, as it hadn’t just been goldfish responsible for the man’s death.

  I would wonder about that for a long time. I drew in several deep and calming breaths before I asked, “Where was our victim found?”

  “Fortunately for the sturgeon in question, in a bathtub, which was filled with river water.”

  That explained a few things. “But why didn’t the fish let him go? Or swim away?”

  “Magic. They were, well, stuck. It took a practitioner trick to remove them, and they were the only fish survivors of the incident. They did not contribute to his death, as the species in question is neither venomous nor poisonous.” Dr. Harrins winced and pointed at the victim’s mouth. “We’re still trying to figure out how to unravel the magic holding those fish in place. After we remove the magic holding them in place, we’ll be able to surgically remove the remaining deceased aquatics.”

  Poor fish. “Okay. Contact the CDC regarding the fish removal, tell them the case involves at least two fish of an endangered species, and encourage them to offer help getting that magic off the body so we can get an autopsy report.” According to Samuel’s commentary, we already had an identification of the corpse and access to his financials, which would simplify matters for me. “I’ll leave you gentleman to your job, as us hovering isn’t going to help you with the extraction of evidence.”

  Dr. Harrins cracked, bowed his head, and snorted a laugh. “You said that with a straight face, McMarin.”

  “I work with Chief Bailey Quinn, Harrins. If you want to crack my professionalism, you’re going to have to work harder at it than that.” At least once a week, the cindercorn went out of her way trying to get me to break and dissolve into helpless laughter, but thus far, I had contained my mirth until back in the safety of my office.

  One day, she would break me, but I intended to hold out for as long as possible.

  The sturgeon titty tassels might be the event to break me, but I would do my best to restrain myself until in the questionable privacy of my office.

  “Right. You’re her rider. I keep forgetting that—and I keep forgetting to give you the condolence card I picked up a few weeks back. I saw it, and it was perfect.”

  I allowed myself a smile at the thought of the coroner getting me a card. “I appreciate the thought. I’ve been dodging the CDC testing they want me to do, but I’ve been told it’s coming, like it or not. A card is appreciated at this stage.”

  “I bet it is. I’ll call the CDC and play the endangered species card, and I’ll give you a ring as soon as I have any concrete evidence for you. I wish I could give you a solid cause of death right now, but I honestly don’t know if he was dead before the fish became involved. I won’t be able to find out until we are able to remove them.”

  I wished him and his team the best of luck. “Anything else I should know before I head back to my office?”

  “Wear gloves when you go through his possessions.”

  “I always wear gloves. I don’t want my fingerprints on the evidence.”

  “Double them up, or you will regret everything.”

  As the Chief Quinns preferred the evidence remaining pristine, always under lock and key, and consistently under video surveillance, the precinct’s detectives shared a floor with the evidence vault. To access the evidence, I needed to punch in a code at the vault’s entry, which would identify the location of the evidence I wished to handle. At the same time, I received a room announcement, a reminder of basic protocols for evidence handling, and a stern order to wear gloves. Depending on the evidence I was handling and if it was deemed potentially dangerous, it would instruct me on other safety gear as needed.

  According to the evidence log, the goldfish victim was named Mr. Thomas Hardy, he had been thirty-seven at the time of death, and worked as an upper manager at an advertising firm. The three pages of known associates, potential suspects the initial responding officers had tossed together, and a flag warning me the gentleman had a history of playing women warned me I had one hell of a case on my hands.

  Oof.

  The last thing I needed was a murder case including a page and a half of jilted women with motive.

  To complicate my day, the evidence machine warned me to wear a mask and scrubs to go with my gloves.

  The scrubs worried me. Unlike in hospitals, our version of scrubs came courtesy of the CDC and used practitioner magic to make sure we didn’t come into contact with potentially dangerous evidence. Once I made certain the system understood there were two unfortunate bastards stuck on the job, I began running Alec through the safety regulations.

  “Why would his possessions be contaminated?” Alec asked, observing as I dug out all the required safety gear so we wouldn’t have the wrath of our bosses raining down on our heads the instant they found out about a single cut corner. “He was killed with goldfish. And sturgeon.”

  “I don’t know, but we are about to find out. The scrubs suck. They emit magic in pulses, and for most people, those pulses tend to tingle or itch. In my case, it tickles, and I hate them more than anything else I’ve encountered at this job yet. If someone had warned me about the tickling scrubs, I would have refused the promotion and dealt with my former jackass boss. Without fail, every two weeks, I have a date with these damned things. The life of a detective is not full of prestige. It is full of tickling misery.”

  “I will hope for a tingle,” Alec stated, and he went to work ditching his personal items from his pocket and putting them in the holding bin, which would be held in the vault until we finished with the evidence. Considering that we needed the scrubs, I was grateful my phone would be safe until I finished going through the items that couldn’t leave the vault and its hive of sterile offices.

  Unfortunately for us, the system notified me there were six boxes already checked out and likely waiting in my office, and we had four more to pick up when we finished going over the evidence.

  As expected, every thirty seconds, the scrubs pulsed, and the pulse translated to a nefarious tickle destined to put me in a crabby mood for the rest of the day. Retrieving one of the carts, I headed for the section of the vault holding the registered evidence.

  Instead of being on one of the countless racks with a tag, ours was in a CDC safe, one of twenty we had, meant to hold dangerous evidence or something we needed to keep particularly secure.

  “Fuck,” I announced, eyeballing the safe. Every safe had a pair of phones next to it. One allowed for calls out. One contacted the CDC for help if we needed it opening the damned thing.

  I had been registered for each of the sets, which meant I could place my hand on the panel while staring into a retina reader. The panel would jab for a blood sample, chew through my DNA, and then confirm a match with my magical signature and my retina scan. So far, nobody had been able to crack the safe without having the living body of a person registered in the system.

  Somehow, the device could detect the difference between live bodies and corpses.

  I picked up the phone for the internal system and stabbed the extension for Mr. Chief Samuel Quinn.

  “What’s the problem, McMarin?”

  “I would like to take the rest of the day off to recover from this terrible idea of joke, sir,” I complained. “Why is the death by goldfish case locked in the secure safe? Your answer is going to determine how much effort I put into trying to go home. I have incubi on speed dial. I could get one of them to come in and help me out.”

  Alec snickered.

  Damn. I hadn’t realized the accountant-turned-cadet possessed a sense of humor capable of withstanding me at my worst—and the safe plus death by goldfish would put me at my worst within an hour, guaranteed.

  “Ah, the glorious sound of my detective finally locating the end of her rope. What got to you?”

  “It tickles,” I groused.

  “Ah, the scrubs. Sorry. I forgot you had that reaction. I will see if the CDC can adjust the magic on it while still being safe. I shouldn’t have forgotten that. I’ll tell Bailey to make you coffee as soon as you’re done, and I’ll have her up your grade of pixie dust before sending you home for the day. I’ll get your cadet to take you to your place. He lives next door.”

  Wait. I’d gotten a place in one of the complexes landlords worked with the city on to provide affordable housing for cops. I’d expected a tiny studio with the bare necessities and had gotten a four bedroom suite I could afford on my budget. While I hadn’t gotten any pets yet, I’d joined the queue to get a working dog to help with investigations and protection.

  The last I’d checked, I was scheduled for evaluations within the next month to see if I could be trained to handle one of the police pups.

  Unfortunately, as I worked with Bailey often, I needed a special pup, one who could deal with the cindercorn at her worst.

  I frowned, wondering what my chief was up to. “What sort of next door are we talking about?”

  “Your building, but on a different floor. He has a studio, as he’s ranked as a cadet, so a lot of his stuff is in storage, but he’s in the queue for a good apartment if he shakes out. We’ll see in a few months. And don’t feel sorry about the studio; it’s the equivalent of a two-bedroom in floor space, it just doesn’t have enclosed rooms except for the bathroom, which is a good one.”

  “Do you know how much these apartments cost if we were to rent them normally?” I complained.

  “Yes, I do. I also know why cops are getting them at the rate they do,” he replied with a chuckle.

  Hm. As he’d cultivated me to push my luck, I asked, “Why do we get them at the rate we do?”

  “Lucifer’s daughter and her husband own the building, and the rent rates pissed her off. When she made the acquisition, she had an anxiety attack because apparently she can’t handle making too much money. She ended up asking Bailey for help. Bailey’s form of help involved the suggestion she renovate the entire building to be spacious apartments and rent them out to the police. We also house some folks in witness protection there until we can get them moved to somewhere safer.”

  Well, that explained a few things. While I hadn’t met Lucifer’s daughter yet, I heard about her exploits often.

  She meant to change the world for the better, and at the rate she was going, she would take over the world before reforming the damned thing. “Ah, okay. That makes sense. Please thank her for me.”

  “I’ll do that. Is there an actual problem beyond the itching?”

  “Yeah. Were you aware our victim had goldfish attached to his genitalia and there were a pair of still-living, endangered sturgeon attached to his nipples?”

  My chief made a sound suspiciously like a giggle. “I had not heard about his genitalia, but I was aware of the sturgeon. They went to hell for some tender loving care from Lucifer’s wife, who has become an undisputed master of caring for fish. They were in rough shape. They’ll be fine, although there is currently a dispute over who will get the fish and what their fate will be. One is male, the other is female. I expect they will be bred, and the babies will be released into the wild once they’re old enough to have a decent chance of survival.”

  Well, at least someone would get a happy ending from my hell day. “I would appreciate some warning about why we’re in scrubs, Samuel.”

  My chief sighed. “Items in his bathroom, which were registered as evidence, were covered in some form of caustic slime. The gloves you checked out are impervious to it, and the scrubs will make sure it is neutralized if it gets on you. It self-replicates, and we haven’t identified what is causing the replication. Your room on the floor is already treated in preparation for the crap, and there are special boots inside for when you open those containers. It will get on the floor, and the practitioner magic we have going in that room only cleanses it every minute.”

  “You mean it’s like hagfish slime?” I asked. Only a few weeks ago, someone had decided it had been a good idea to transport a bucket of hagfish in his car, resulting in a slimy mess and the shutdown of an entire street. “I don’t think we have had sufficient time to recover from the hagfish incident, sir.”

  “There will never be sufficient time to recover from the hagfish incident, McMarin. Bailey cried for a week because she couldn’t get it all out of her coat even with the help of fire. She only stopped crying when I informed her I would have to sacrifice myself and brush it out of her fur.”

  The pregnant cindercorn kept the precinct topped up on amusing incidents, which helped me deal with the insanity my life had become. “We’ll be careful, sir. Thank you for the warning regarding the replicating caustic slime.”

  “You’re welcome. If you need help, give me a call. Do not ask for Bailey. Her solution to all problems today involves fire. The commissioner isn’t letting her up the budget for public relations and working with shelters. She wants more budget.”

  When didn’t she want more budget? “Good luck with that, sir.”

  “Thanks. I’ll need it. I’ll give her credit, though. She goosed the commissioner out of a budget upgrade for cases involving kids, so she might even let this go for a change.”

  Nothing riled up the precinct more than the cops wanting to help needy kids and not having the budget to work with. “How did she pull that miracle off?”

  “Don’t ask. It involves statistics you won’t appreciate.”

  I read behind the lines: she’d done research into domestic violence issues and in-need families. “The budget is for making sure kids get into the foster system and are properly monitored?”

  “Bingo. We’ll have more resources to be able to make sure we can work with the social workers—and we are going to be able to better evaluate if children actually should be removed from a household. We’re getting an on-call angel for these cases for minimum wage, around the clock. Our angel is also going to be staging interviews with all parents who have lost their children into the system. If it is determined there was not just cause, they will be reunited.”

  Damn. “Think the angel would be willing to answer questions outside of the custody cases?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. The angels are being paid to be available around the clock, and you know how they hate being paid for work they’re not actually doing.”

  I snickered. “Congratulate Bailey for her masterful acquisition of an angel.”

  “I’ll do that. Be careful with that evidence. I’ve already sent one person to the hospital today for acid burns, and I’d rather not have to send someone else. We hadn’t realized it replicates, and we hadn’t upgraded the danger rating yet.”

  “Nobody really expects self-replicating acid,” I replied.

  “Precisely. So, if you can figure out what’s going on with that slime and why they’re trying to erase evidence, let me know.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The next time someone warned me an acid self-replicated, I would be more prepared for the reality of the situation. Within five minutes, the light coating on the non-organic materials the caustic fluid hadn’t eaten through yet had tripled in volume and spread out over the steel table. Given time, I expected the fluid would eat through the table. The victim’s credit cards already showed signs of deteriorating, although I hadn’t realized some caustic fluids existed capable of breaking down even plastic.

  “Remind me to do research into caustic fluids, Alec.” I held up a deteriorating credit card, which was intact sufficiently to pull off the important details, including the card number, expiration date, and security code. While I handled the evidence, he took photos of everything. “It’s even eating through the plastic of these credit cards. Maybe we have to use glass to store it? Nobody warned me becoming a detective involved a solid knowledge of chemistry.”

  “Is this practical chemistry?” Alec asked with a frown. “I took more math than science in school, and I can’t remember if chemistry was the acid test section of my education. It went by in a blur, honestly.”