"And unaccounted for," murmured Liadov. "They're not in his mouth, comrade."
He looked up.
"No one? No idea as to who this boy is?"
Everyone stood quietly by, and then Ocelot, grimacing, forced a brief, incisive look at the corpse's face.
"It could be....there's a scientist in one of the East Wing labs that might look like that."
He scowled.
"I can't say for sure. I don't pay them much attention."
Isaev was nodding slowly.
"That, or...there's an apprentice mechanic I've seen on the..."
He trailed off, retraining his features.
"...in the weapons hangar. Major Raikov or Ocelot could assemble all the mechanics for perusal. Or all the scientists...sir."
Liadov raised an eyebrow at being called sir, but let that, and whatever Andrei had almost slipped up on, slide.
Ocelot was smirking.
"Yes, I certainly could. Thank you for this re-iterating of my administrative powers, Lt. Isaev."
Nika laid the boy's head gently back against his chest, as if he were putting him down to sleep.
It was a habit, his handling of recent victims as if they still lived. He'd never been a clinician, so he hadn't had the hours of contact to come to that callousness yet where you necessarily saw dead meat as no more than meat.
Rakitin had, clearly.
Nika could see the deliberate veil that came over his guileless eyes, the detachment that gave him an almost dreamy expression, but not unfocused- no, more like the grinding dreams of a Hannibal at the gates of Carthage, balancing on an unruly elephant.
It may well have been the Lieutenant's only artifice.
"We have a lead on where to seek him," Liadov said quietly. "Is there anything else you're seeing?"
Rakitin's fingers roamed the boy's body lightly, like a lover, expert and precise, and his eyes followed them without passion.
Here, the unassuming pathologist was in his element, and suddenly he was remade into a man of brusque and quiet confidence.
Fascinating, thought Liadov absently, where some of us find our Samsonic prowess.
"...Any yellow roses?"
Nika realized he couldn't examine the scene and keep notes of his own and Polya's findings at the same time.
"I usually have my secretary in the field," he remarked, "but we were traveling light."
He pulled a small metal-encased and hinged notebook out of his pocket. It contained all his field notes from the last twenty or thirty investigations. It was lamentably well-seasoned in bloodshed.
Once a case closed he never turned the pages back.
no subject
He looked up.
"No one? No idea as to who this boy is?"
Everyone stood quietly by, and then Ocelot, grimacing, forced a brief, incisive look at the corpse's face.
"It could be....there's a scientist in one of the East Wing labs that might look like that."
He scowled.
"I can't say for sure. I don't pay them much attention."
Isaev was nodding slowly.
"That, or...there's an apprentice mechanic I've seen on the..."
He trailed off, retraining his features.
"...in the weapons hangar. Major Raikov or Ocelot could assemble all the mechanics for perusal. Or all the scientists...sir."
Liadov raised an eyebrow at being called sir, but let that, and whatever Andrei had almost slipped up on, slide.
Ocelot was smirking.
"Yes, I certainly could. Thank you for this re-iterating of my administrative powers, Lt. Isaev."
Nika laid the boy's head gently back against his chest, as if he were putting him down to sleep.
It was a habit, his handling of recent victims as if they still lived. He'd never been a clinician, so he hadn't had the hours of contact to come to that callousness yet where you necessarily saw dead meat as no more than meat.
Rakitin had, clearly.
Nika could see the deliberate veil that came over his guileless eyes, the detachment that gave him an almost dreamy expression, but not unfocused- no, more like the grinding dreams of a Hannibal at the gates of Carthage, balancing on an unruly elephant.
It may well have been the Lieutenant's only artifice.
"We have a lead on where to seek him," Liadov said quietly. "Is there anything else you're seeing?"
Rakitin's fingers roamed the boy's body lightly, like a lover, expert and precise, and his eyes followed them without passion.
Here, the unassuming pathologist was in his element, and suddenly he was remade into a man of brusque and quiet confidence.
Fascinating, thought Liadov absently, where some of us find our Samsonic prowess.
"...Any yellow roses?"
Nika realized he couldn't examine the scene and keep notes of his own and Polya's findings at the same time.
"I usually have my secretary in the field," he remarked, "but we were traveling light."
He pulled a small metal-encased and hinged notebook out of his pocket. It contained all his field notes from the last twenty or thirty investigations. It was lamentably well-seasoned in bloodshed.
Once a case closed he never turned the pages back.
Now he held it up.
"We need someone to take notes."