skin the color of spoiled milk, was completely hairless, except for the obvious and out-of-place toupee in the middle of his scalp; I fought down the urge to stare at it. He was working with flasks of chemicals, hunched over bubbling test tubes. He gave me a quick nod of greeting. “My name is Victor.”
“Of course it is.” Weren’t all mad scientists named Victor?
“Dr. Archibald Victor,” he added.
McGoo leaned close to me. “Emphasis on the bald.”
The coroner went back to mixing his concoction, poured a blue liquid into a flask, whereupon it foamed and turned red; he added another chemical, which made greenish brown smoke erupt. After the roiling bubbles subsided, Dr. Victor poured the mixture into a coffee mug and took a long gulp, letting out a sigh of satisfaction. Remembering his manners, the coroner turned to us. “Would either of you like an energy drink?”
“Not me, thanks,” I said.
McGoo lifted his cinnamon latte. “I’m fine—let’s just get on with it.”
Dr. Victor rattled a metal tray close to the gremlin’s cadaver on the slab. With building anticipation, he gloated over his selection of scalpels, bone saws, icepick-like temperature probes, spreaders, and silver pans; he showed so much enthusiasm for the shiny objects that I was sure Snazz would have approved. The coroner also had a pad of paper that looked like a game score sheet. He hummed as he got to work, pulling out empty bottles, test tubes, and jars.
“Specimens, specimens, specimens,” he said as he trimmed some of the gremlin’s fur and put it into a plastic bag. He ran a metal implement around Snazz’s rubbery gray lips, inspecting the teeth. He poked a cotton swab into the gremlin’s ear. He counted fingers and toes, wrote down the numbers. With obvious glee, he picked up a scalpel and a bone saw to expose the skull. “And now for the cranium and the brain.”
I looked at McGoo. “Do you think his brain had anything to do with it?”
“Not at all.”
We had spoken in hushed whispers, but now I raised my voice. “Excuse me, Dr. Victor, but my best guess is that the victim was strangled.”
The coroner was startled by the interruption. “And have you spent any time with the body?”
“Yes, I have.”
Dr. Victor took up his magnifying glass again and bent over the crushed fur and disjointed larynx at the gremlin’s throat. “Why yes, yes, it appears so—definitely, I would say. The victim was definitely strangled to death. Definitely.” He sniffed. “And now for the cranium and the brain.” With deft movements, he sliced the skin in a neat circle all around the top of the gremlin’s head, peeled off the scalp, then set to work on the skull.
McGoo sipped his latte again. “There’s no rushing these things.”
By the end of the autopsy, I had learned more—much more—about gremlin anatomy and internal organs than I’d ever wanted to know. Heart, lungs, kidneys, spleen, stomach contents—Snazz’s last meal had been corn flakes—bladder and its urine for additional testing, toenails snipped off and placed in separate vials. I knew there was a black market in unnatural bodily organs that certain sorcerers used when casting obscure spells. Any number of mad scientists—or just unorthodox collectors—had standing orders for particular body parts, especially brains, though I wasn’t convinced that gremlin brains were in particularly high demand.
Most importantly, the coroner thrust the long, sharp temperature probe into the center of Snazz’s liver, took readings of the body core, made his calculations. “There we have it. Time of death between seven ten and seven fifteen last night.”
“Sounds awfully accurate,” McGoo said.
“Yes, yes. Gremlin livers are like stopwatches. Very easy.”
I looked at McGoo. “I was with you in the Goblin Tavern last night. We didn’t leave until nine.”
“Looks like you’ve got an alibi, Shamble.” McGoo sounded as relieved as I felt.
“That’s proof that I didn’t kill the gremlin.”
Dr. Victor blinked up at me; his eyes were extremely large, as if frozen in a permanent look of startlement. “Of course you didn’t kill the gremlin. You’re a zombie. He was strangled. Therefore, you would have left flakes of dead skin all over his throat. No sign of that.”
“You could have told us that from the outset,” I said.
The coroner sounded indignant. “I didn’t know it was a question.” He turned back to poking and prodding around the numerous organ specimens he had just collected. The perspiration on his scalp had caused his toupee to slither halfway down his forehead.