Triskele

"Are you thinking what I am?" Nigel asked with a slight grin, looking at the scratch marks down his back.
"That he went out really happy?" she said, nodding with a judicious look that in context was comical, "It was beginning to cross my mind. Someone had very large hands for a lady."

"What makes you say that?" Winslow said, coming over and looking himself.

Bevan spread out the fingers of one hand and laid them over the scratch marks, "No matter how good it was, a woman's hands just aren't this big and don't stretch that much."

"But you have small hands," Nigel said, unsuccesfully trying to hide his amusement, "Try flexing them."

"You don't scratch with your hands like that," she said, not paying attention to him, "They stay mostly flat when you scratch up or down. When you flex them like this you're trying to get a better hold, and you get a thumb line. And when you're scratching up and down, your fingers stay closer together."

"Speaking from experience?" Winslow asked with a smirk.

"My sister has the sex drive of a rabbit on X," she said, frowning as she glanced up at him, "I see plenty of her boyfriends as they sneak out in their underwear at three a.m. And unless the woman who made these has hands the size of Michael Jordan's, I'd say we're dealing with something more exotic."

"So you're still a virgin then?" Winslow asked.

Nigel and Bevan both looked up at him, then Nigel looked at her, biting hos lip before he looked away.

"It would be very sad if I was, wouldn't it?" she asked rhetorically, an acid edge to her voice. She cleared her throat and continued in a professional manner, "Detective, we aren't examining my sexual history here. Though I will say that I'm not as prolific as some people are at the moment."

"Ooh," he grinned, "So it's been awhile then."

"Is this where you offer to honor me with a night of hot, wild passion?" she asked, making Nigel grin.

This was getting good.

"If that's what you want," he said with a cocky smile.

"What I want is for you to shut your offensive trap until I finish the autopsy," she said, her eyes glittering coldly as she spoke in short, matter-of-fact tones, "And furthermore, I'd rather coat myself in honey and lie on an anthill."

"The honey I can do," Winslow said.

"I bet," she sighed, turning back to the body, "Nigel what does this look like to you?"

He looked at her for a minute, "You called me Nigel again."

"That is your name," she said, truly annoyed, "Does this look like a bite mark to you?"

She pointed to a circular bite mark on the buttocks, and he leaned down until their heads were right next to each other.

"I believe so," he smiled, "he was having a really good time."

"And judging by the high ligature, I'm going to guess autoerotic asphyxiation," she said, "How about you?"

"I'd say you're right," he said.

"Auto what?" Winslow asked.

"Autoerotic asphyxiation," Bevan said, "hanging yourself to enhance your sexual pleasure. But they used a rope that was a wee bit too small, and he hung himself. Let's get photos and we'll get to autopsy. I'm meeting my sister at seven."

She began marking on the diagram again, "Detective, who called to report him and how was he found?"

"The landlord," he said, "And he was just laying on the bed on his back. No rope, nothing. Landlord said he was going with the bug guy to spray the apartment."

"Well he doesn't look like he's been dead long," she said, "I suggest you see if the exterminator was supposed to come that day, or if it was a spur of the moment call in."

"On what grounds?"

"To create an alibi," she said, "Maybe he's the boyfriend, things got out of hand, he gets scared, cut's down Big John here, took the rope and anything else, and calls the exterminator to have an alibi. Just a theory to get you started."

"How do you come up with these scenarios?" Nigel asked, grinning.

"Have I been absolutely wrong yet?" she asked, signing the diagram, "Besides, my gay friends tell me all about their exploits. Not that all homosexuals are into this, just that straight sex can get boring."

She looked up at them, "Not one word out of either of you."

"Wasn't going to say anything," Nigel smirked, "You bad girl, you."

"I thought you were gay?" Winslow said to Nigel.

"Why would you think that?" Nigel asked, smiling slightly.

"Just how you act," he said.

"He's just British," Bevan said, and she and Nigel smiled, getting the body printed and ready for autopsy.