James’s Note: In this episode, we have Daniel playing a little CSI. Come to think of it, I would totally watch an urban fantasy CSI spin off. Some one should get on that.
And so it was that I came to find myself, around midnight, standing in a penthouse suite whose sheer opulence might make a miser burst into flames. Looking at the furniture made me want to chant “rich Corinthian leather” like a mantra, and the vaulted ceiling housed a chandelier that would have been at home in Phantom of the Opera. Tapestries that no doubt belonged in museums helped to conceal state-of-the-art security blinds that automatically covered the windows. Blinds like those are a must-have for the rich vampire who likes a view, but remembers that he is flammable.
While I would have loved to stand around admiring decor that beggered my net worth, my attention was drawn inexorably to the crime scene I was here to investigate. It was pretty hard to ignore, since the walls were covered in so much blood it looked like an abstract painting done by a meth head with an air cannon. Also, there was a dead vampire crucified to the wall and that’s just not something you see everyday.
I grabbed my messenger bag, ruffled around in it for the gear I would need, and began my investigation. I started off with the mundane stuff, taking pictures with my phone, checking to make sure contamination had been kept to a minimum, and making notes on all the physical details of the scene.
The victim was the very, very late Conchobhar Moragain. He was so old that when his name was given to him, I bet it didn’t even sound like it should belong to a comic book villain. Given the fact that at the time comic books wouldn’t even be invented for a couple thousand years, I’d almost guarantee it.
Currently, he was crucified to the sheetrock of his luxurious living room, pinned in place by three short pieces of rebar. I noted that he was pierced through his wrists and ankles, rather than his hands and feet. You see the hand and foot depiction of crucifixion in paintings often, but it’s not terribly realistic. The weight of a body is too much to be supported by something driven through a hand, and the nail or what have you will rip right through. Don’t ask me how I know.
The unfortunate Mr. Moragain had also been decapitated. His head was sitting about a foot above his neck, pinned in place by a fourth piece of rebar driven through the eye socket. I mentally considered making some kind of joke about getting ahead, but decided that I’m better than that. Not a lot better mind you, but definitely better than that.
Written on the wall to his right in what I can only assume was his blood, although I’d have to verify that later, were the words, “No More Kings”.
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Wasn’t Dresden Files kind of an urban famtasy CSI? Or you mean with the supernatural equivalent of dusting for prints, and calling for “rotate, enhance, zoom in, enhance”? OOOOH! And the laser sticks they poke into bullet holes to find the source of the shot! I bet there’s some good hoodoo for that.
Now I’m imagining a warlock on the stand in full billowing robes, with a big frown and gnarly eyebrows saying “Yes, your honor, that’s correct. This stuffed unicorn embodies the spirit of all horsekind on all of this mortal plane, and it confirms to me that the defendant WAS the person who strangled that prostitute in the Jenkin’s back pasture on the evening of April 12th.”
“Well, that’s good enough for me. Your witness.”
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