He pointed to a yellowed carafe in a machine that looked like it had been chugging out coffee since the Eisenhower administration. “Tastes like shit, but it’s strong. You’re gonna need it for what I have to show you.” He jerked a thumb toward the exam room behind him.
I grabbed a two paper cups from the counter and filled them with coffee that was roughly the color and consistency of hot tar. I held one up and looked over my shoulder at Morales. He nodded and came forward to take it.
I took an experimental sip of mine and winced. “What’d you brew it with—jet fuel?”
Franklin snorted. “That’s right.”
“All right, Franky,” I said. “What you got for us?”
“Deceased’s name was Sergei Kostorov.”
Morales shrugged. “Doesn’t ring a bell. What coven’s he in?”
Franklin smiled. “Ain’t in no coven, Special Agent.”
“Then why are we here?”
Franklin shot him a withering look. “He isn’t in a coven, but I’d bet good money he’s visited one recently.” He waved a hand. “Follow me, kids, but don’t touch anything.”
Morales and I shared look before following the M.E. into the exam room.
Inside, there were four tables spread out at even intervals. Two of the tables were empty. The last table on the left held a closed body bag. The table just to the right of the door held the other body, which was covered with a white sheet. About halfway down the length of the table, something tented the cloth. I prayed it was an instrument Franklin had left impaled in the body, but I had a bad feeling that was one prayer that would never be answered.
“Mr. Kostorov was brought in this afternoon after I got your boy back from the lab explosion,” Franklin began. “Aged seventy-two, married. No history of pre-existing disease, non-smoker. He died at Babylon General. Heart attack.”
“Okay,” I said slowly, “what does this have to do with the Valentine case?”
“Who told you it did?” he said.
“Gardner,” I said.
He shrugged. “I might have given her that impression, but we’ll get to that in a second. But first, check this out.”
He ripped the cloth off the body. Just as I feared, the protrusion had not been an instrument, but an erect penis.
It was as hard as Babe Ruth’s bat.
“Holy shit,” Morales said.
“Gives new meaning to stiff, right?” Franklin joked.
I couldn’t stop staring at it. “How is it still…” I held my index finger straight up.
“That, my friends, is why you’re here. After he died, the attending physician called for an autopsy.”
“Why?” Morales said. “Heart attack isn’t exactly surprising for a guy that age.”
“Right, except that the widow Kostorov admitted that night before last was their anniversary. Seems the mister decided to surprise her with a little party favor to celebrate.”
I dragged my gaze from the dead man’s penis. “Huh?”
“He bought a virility potion.”
“Let me guess—his old ticker couldn’t handle all the excitement,” I said.
“Wrong,” Franklin said. “His ticker couldn’t handle the eighteen-hour erection.”
Morales’s mouth fell open. “You’re shitting me.”
“According to the intake nurse, Mrs. Kostorov didn’t bring him in until twelve hours in. Said she tried everything she could think of to get it to go down.”
A hysterical giggle gathered in the base of my throat. “That’s terrible,” I choked out.
“Once they got him checked into the hospital, the doc tried everything to undo the potion’s effect. Apparently, this sort of thing is more common than you think with virility potions.” He turned to Morales. “Remember that, Slick.”
Morales flipped him the bird. I covered my smirk with a cough.
“Anyway, the issue didn’t resolve using the normal anti-magic interventions. After a few hours at the hospital, Kostorov’s heart just gave out. Attending sent him to me to find out what was in that potion.”
“What did your exam reveal?”
“Now, this is where things get interesting.” Franklin pulled out his clipboard and flipped through a couple of pages. “Like I said, there weren’t any traces of pre-existing issues. I tested the blood here for some of the common ingredients in virility potions—dragon’s blood or vervain. Neither were present.”
“Translation?” Morales asked.
“First, the two main ingredients in the majority of virility potions used in Babylon weren’t there. Second, for me to find out which chemicals were in the potion, I need to send it to the regional lab.”
“And?” Morales said.
“And,” I answered for Franklin as realization dawned, “it’ll be weeks if not months to see results.”
Franklin winked at me. “Always knew you were smart, Detective.”
“So you asked us here because you want to use MEA resources to test the blood.” Morales sounded incredulous. “Mr. Kostorov ain’t got nothing on your balls, Franklin.”
“Shit,” he said, dragging the word out to contain five syllables, “what you take me for? You really think I’d bring you out here just for my own selfish purposes?”
Morales raised his hands. “We’re waiting.”
Franklin waggled his fingers in invitation for us to follow him to the other occupied table. “This one came in two hours ago. Darrell Hill, aged twenty-seven.”
Franklin unzipped the bulky body bag. When he reached the waist, an erection sprang out of the bag. “I had the doctor test the blood before he came down. No dragon’s blood or vervain.”
“So what?” Morales said. “You think there’s a serial killer out there who lures men in to take virility potions that makes their hearts quit?”
I shot Morales a warning look.
“No, hotshot,” Franklin snapped, “I think there’s a sex magic practitioner that’s selling an extremely dangerous virility potion. Before you got here, I called around to a couple other hospitals. Memorial had a case four nights ago with same cause of death, except it was a sixteen-year-old.”
“Jesus,” I whispered.
“No shit.” Franklin used a gloved hand to tuck Mr. Hill’s dick back into the bag.
Morales had paled when Franklin revealed that there was a third death. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell. “Mez, it’s Morales. I need you down at the morgue. Dr. Franklin’s going to give you some blood samples—”
Franklin interrupted. “Semen, too.”
Morales shot him a long-suffering look. “And some semen. We need you to do a test to find out what alchemical components were used in a potion taken by three different men.” He pulled the phone from his ear, and the tinny sound of Mez’s shouts filled the room. “Trust me, I am well aware what time it is.” He clicked off. “He’ll be by within the hour for the samples.”
“I’ll have it all ready to go by then,” Franklin said. “Thanks for this.”
I blew out a breath. “Any new findings on Valentine’s body?”
He moved over to a desk and pulled out a file. “Didn’t find any fragments of a bullet in the head, and there’s an exit wound.” He pulled out an image of Basil’s charred head and pointed to a spot that was supposed to be the exit wound. I couldn’t see much besides a mess, so I took his word for it. “Last I heard, CSI wizes hadn’t found the casing or any fragments on site, either.”
“Which means someone wasn’t looking hard enough,” I said.
“Or whoever shot Basil did a cleanup before they torched the lab,” Franklin offered.
“So, no tracing a gun,” Morales concluded.
“Of course not,” I said. “That’d be too easy.” To Franklin, I said, “Go ahead and give your report to Mez when he comes. Looks like we’re officially taking the case from the BPD.”
Morales added, “And let us know if you turn up any other DOAs that match the Kostorov potion.”
“I know you’re taking the Valentine case, but should I loop Duffy in on this virility potion thing?” Franklin asked.
“At best, we’d be able to pin manslaughter on the wizard, but you know how hard it is to get that shit to stick,” I said. “Besides, you heard Duffy at the scene yesterday. He’s not real eager to pick up new cases at the moment.”
“Understood,” Franklin said. “You got any ideas of where to start tracking down the source of this shit?”
“We’ll have to do some digging,” Morales said. “You got the widow’s information?”