Crime Rave Read Online Free Page B

Look here. My CSI code, my handwriting, matches the bag you got there. I told Pete this wasn’t what it looked like and it really isn’t.”
    Red Feather stares at the Polaroid and the now-forearm bursting out of the crime scene bag. “It’s growing.”
    “Nope. Not possible.” Günn’s stomach lurches.
    Red Feather feels gooseflesh break out over his body. “It’s right here, Günn, just look. No denying it.”
    Günn would be happy to deny it until kingdom come.
    Mazzotti calls another CSI over, gestures to bring their evidence. “Here’s that cyclops girl we found. Look here, when we bagged her she was just a head. Now there’s a neck and half a shoulder.”
    “Give me that!” Günn grabs the bag and studies it. This was strange enough when just a one-eyed girl. But now it’s something else altogether.
    “This isn’t happening. No way.” Günn shakes her head, getting that feeling when you get into a turbo elevator and the ground drops from under you making your ears pop.
    “You’re holding the evidence in your hand.” Red Feather knits his brow at his partner while handing the baggie back to Mazzotti. “Just get everything into bigger bags.” Red Feather pauses to think. “In fact, overcompensate. Use the biggest bags you’ve got.”
    Günn moves to protest. Red Feather shakes his head and turns back to Mazzotti.
    “Those would be body bags, Detective.” Mazzotti wonders what’s up with these two.
    Red Feather considers, fighting the urge to look up to the sky and ask if the course is already set or if this action would seal the fate. “Do it. Re-photograph them. Make sure it’s all documented. I’ll call the captain, see what we do next.”
    Günn puts her incredulity aside for the moment. There will be a scientific explanation. “Let’s just get what we’ve got over to the morgue, okay? If you find more body parts send them later. Maybe the heat is affecting the bags, maybe there’s some kind of post-explosion radiation we haven’t picked up. Whatever the case, I want to get moving on results of the DNA tests. Got it?” Mazzotti nods. Günn continues, “We’re going off-site, to the hospital, to see if the survivors are awake and talking. You call us if you find anything else.”
    Mazzotti nods again. “Listen, I’m really sorry about these bags. I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
    Red Feather and Günn acknowledge the apology with curt nods. Red Feather takes out his phone to call the captain with the newest strangeness to report. They take one more look at the collection of body parts, ash, and rubble, all the CSIs, cops, firemen sifting through the mess.
    “What a cluster,” Günn says, opening and closing her hands to stop the shaking.
    “You OK?” Red Feather notices her left eye twitching.
    “Fine.” She rubs her hand against her eye, hard. Gives him the look that says: Drop it or I’ll drop you . They walk through the devastation to their Crown Vic and hit the road, their siren cutting through the paparazzi yells, and Mazzotti’s frustrated cry as another foot bursts through a baggie.

Detective Synthia Günn
    Y our lineage hails from fourth generation Norwegian immigrants. People of the cold. Save your mother, who craved warm climes and warmer personalities. In the middle of winter, 1969, your mom packed up her summer clothes and just enough coats to get her out of Minnesota and drove to California. Communes were the buzz. She was gonna find one and never come home.
    Find one she did. A haven of free love and no birth control. You’re the oldest of five commune kids. None of you know who your fathers are. “It takes a village to raise a child,” that non-specific African proverb thrown around so often you get hives when you hear it. “You don’t need to know who your father is, Syn, all the men here are your relatives,” says your mother, puffing on a joint and sipping a glass of local merlot.
    But you were fixated. Sixteen years old, with an