"Dr. Nozoki succumbed to anaphylactic shock," he was saying.
"I concur," said his visitor. He was long of body, with the pinched, inquisitive face of a locust. His features twitched. Dr. Krombold thought Helwig X. Wurmlinger was twitchy because he was used to dissecting insects, not humans. But as his dark eyes lifted from a cursory examination of Dr. Nozoki's undraped body, his face continued to twitch. The man clearly suffered from a nervous tick.
"The cyanosis, facial mottling, constricted windpipe and other symptoms all point to toxic systemic shock induced by hypersensitivity to a bee's sting. In other words, death by anaphylaxis."
"Did you discover the ovipositor?"
"No. There is a puncture wound. But no stinger."
"Show me," said Helwig X. Wurmlinger, his left eye twitching to the right. His mouth twitched in the opposite direction. He wore glasses whose lenses were as thick as ice pried off a midwinter sidewalk.
They distorted his tea-colored eyes into the swimmy orbs of a frog.
Dr. Krombold lifted a dead gray arm and turned it so the elbow was visible beneath the overhead fluorescents.
"Here."
Wurmlinger took off his glasses, and his eyes jumped back to normal size with a speed that was unnerving.
He used one lens like a magnifying glass to inspect the dead man's elbow.
"I see a puncture wound consistent with a bee's sting, but there is no barb."
"Maybe he scraped it out," Dr. Krombold suggested.
"It is possible. That is the recommended procedure. But typically, those who are allergic to the toxins of Apis fall into respiratory distress very quickly. He would have to have had great presence of mind to have removed the stinger before collapsing." Wurmlinger replaced his glasses and regarded Dr. Krombold with his froggy orbs. "Was there any evidence of a tool in his hand when he was found?"
"No."
"Any sign of disarray?"
"No. In fact, he was found seated in his chair."
"Wearing long or short sleeves?"
"Long."
"Odd. A lone bee rarely stings though clothing."
"But one could, am I not correct?"
"It is possible. The bee in question might have entered via a sleeve by accident and, becoming trapped, grew enraged. Was a bee found?"
"No."
"Peculiar. No sting and no dead bee. Bees die after they sting, for the barbs prevent the stinger from being withdrawn from human flesh. The effort required for the bee to disassociate itself from its victim literally disembowels it. There should be a dead bee. It is inescapable."
"I had Dr. Nozoki's office vacuumed. No dead bee was found."
Dr. Wurmlinger's face twitched in every direction conceivable. "Peculiar. Most peculiar," he murmured.
"Maybe it flew away and died under something," Krombold offered.
Wurmlinger shook his head firmly. "Upon losing its sting, the bee suffers immediate distress. It cannot fly and can barely crawl. This is much the same as losing a leg. It could not have gotten far."
"Well," Krombold said helplessly, "there was no bee."
"There was no bee found," Wurmlinger corrected.
"True." Dr. Krombold cleared his throat. He was becoming uncomfortable with this pedantic entomologist. "Would you like to see the other victims?"
"No. I would prefer to see the contents of their thoraxes."
"You mean stomachs."
"Yes, yes. Of course."
"This way, Dr. Wurmlinger."
In a laboratory, Dr. Krombold sorted through several blackish green piles of organic matter-the partially-digested stomach contents of Perry Noto, his wife, Heather, and their chef, Remy.
Wurmlinger was as methodically creepy as a night crawler, Krombold thought after watching him pick through the stomach contents and take tiny bits of insect matter to a waiting microscope for study.
Krombold had to leave in the middle of it, but Wurmlinger seemed as happy as a dung beetle in shit.
"I'll wait for you in my office," the deputy coroner said, closing the door after himself.
Wurmlinger nodded absently.
Dr. Krombold wasn't in his office very long when a blond woman with the energy of a hyperactive Ritalin candidate stormed in.
"Are you the coroner who died?"
"Obviously not. That was Dr. Nozoki. I'm Dr. Krombold. Gideon Krombold. Who are you?"
"Tamara Terrill, Fox News." She called over her shoulder. "Joe, get in here!"
"The name's Fred," said a man with a minicam for a face-or so it seemed to Krombold on first impression.
"Has Dr. Wurmlinger got here yet?" Tammy Terrill demanded.
"Yes. But he's busy."
Tammy showed him her portable mike. "I'll talk to you first. Tell me everything."
"You have to be more specific than that."