Dead Rising by Debra Dunbar Page A

they’d maybe angered someone involved in organized crime. A few connected the case to Shay’s disappearance, conjecturing that she’d become involved with a gang member who was upset with the parents’ attempts of find her. Ultimately the case went cold with lack of leads and evidence.
    Not much more than the paper had reported, except the microfiche had scanned copies of crime scene photos and the coroner’s report. I wrote frantically, my hand cramping as I tried to get it down as fast as possible. The pictures I snapped with my cell phone were less than ideal, but they’d have to do until I could see the originals. I hastily boxed everything back up, and went out to thank Rob.
    All the murdered Robertsons had died the same way. Their throats had been cut from side to side, in a slash so deep it nearly decapitated the younger ones. They’d died from blood loss, and there had been quite a mess of red on the carpet. But I didn’t need to be a CSI junkie to know something was wrong with that crime scene—very, very wrong.
    It was the blood. The coroner’s report said the family had bled out—completely bled out. But their room hadn’t shown anywhere near the amount of blood it should have. Lincoln would have had about 8 pints of blood, the rest of his family a bit less. All totaled, there should have been approximately twenty-two liters of blood on that living room floor. The place should have been saturated, painted in blood. The carpet would have been soaked. From what I could see, over half the blood was missing.
    And there were no signs of struggle, no evidence of drugs or other wounds that would have rendered the family unconscious. Just a whole lot of throat cutting. I wasn’t an expert on gangs, but far as I knew they didn’t waltz into your house and convince you to politely stand still while they slit your throats and carted away half your blood.
    I was an expert on plenty of creatures that did do so. I wasn’t ruling out humans, either. There were plenty of texts in the Temple documenting death magic rituals where a spell held the victim in a state of compliance and blood was collected in a bowl.
    “Thanks, Rob.” I gave the man a slip of paper with my phone number on it and grimaced at his excitement. “Can you give me a call once the files come in? I’m particularly interested in the crime scene photos. The microfiche ones weren’t the greatest resolution.”
    His face fell. “Sure. I also looked through the log, and last year a reporter with the Sun had requested the same file. Evidently she was doing an article on crime in the area back then versus now. She might still have her copies.”
    Whoa, that would be a huge stroke of luck. Rob handed me a sticky note with the reporter’s name and phone number, and with his own name and phone number written below. “Just in case you need me to help you with anything else,” he added sheepishly.
    I really needed to watch that smile. I was breaking hearts all over the place. “Thanks. I work at Holy Grounds on Pratt. Stop by some time and I’ll comp you a chai latte.”
    His face brightened. “Will do.”
    I pocketed my notes and the reporter’s information, and ran to my car. The rest of my research was going to have to wait until later, because I was about to be late to work.

Chapter 6
     
    I WAS LATE, but managed to sneak through the back and clock in without anyone noticing. Sean and Petie were working this afternoon, and I slid right in beside them, calling orders and frothing milk as needed. By five, things had tapered off, the work crowd heading to happy hour to start their weekend. By seven, we were the only ones in the shop and I was helping Petie stock shelves in the back while Sean twiddled his thumbs up front, just in case someone stumbled through our door.
    I loved working when it was busy. There was no room for anything in my head besides coffee orders and the customers lined up in front of me. I could let my mind wander, imagining