Behind his left ear, a skin inlay of silver was worked in the form of the Buboe Chaotica.
This?' asked Tutrone, shaving the hair aside with her finger blades to reveal it.
'Old, as before/
I stepped back from the body and thought hard. When I'd killed him, he had been reaching for something on his belt, or so it had seemed to me.
'His effects?'
They were laid out on a metal tray nearby. His laspistol, a compact vox-device, a pearl-inlaid box containing six obscura tubes and an igniter, a credit tile, spare cells for the gun, a plastic key. And the belt; with four buttoned pouches.
I opened them one by one: some local coins; a miniature las-knife; three bars of high-calorie rations; a steel tooth-pick; more obscura, this time in an injector vial; a small data slate.
At the moment of death, which of these things had he been reaching for? The knife? Too slow and small to counter a man who has a naval pistol wedged into your mouth. Then again, he was desperate.
And then again, he hadn't reached for his bolstered lasgun.
The data-slate, perhaps? I picked it up and activated it, but it needed a cipher to gain access. All manner of secrets might be locked inside… but why would a man reach for a data-slate in the face of certain death?
Track marks, along the forearm/ Tutrone stated, continuing her exam.
Hardly surprising, given the narco-ware we'd recovered from him.
'No rings? No bracelets? Earrings? Piercing studs?'
'None/
I pulled a plastic pouch from a dispenser on the surgical cart and put all his effects into it.
"Vou will sign for those, won't you?' Tutrone asked, looking up.
'Of course/
'You hated him, didn't you?' Fischig said suddenly.
'What?'
He leaned back against a plinth, crossing his arms. 'You had him at your mercy, and you knew his head was full of secrets, but you emptied it with your gun. I have no compunction when it comes to killing, but I know when I'm wasting a lead. Was it rage?'
'I'm an inquisitor. I do not get angry/
Then what?'
I had just about enough of his snide tone. 'You don't know how dangerous this man is. I wasn't taking chances/
'He looks safe enough to me/ Fischig smirked, looking down at the body.
'Here's something!' Tutrone called out. We all moved in.
She was working on his left hand, delicately, with her finest gauge scalpels and probes, her augmented fingers darting like a seamstress.
The index finger of the left hand. There's unusual lividity and swelling/ She played a small scanner across it.
'The nail's ceramite. Artificial. An implant/
'What's inside?'