The miniature green lips on the twenty-dollar bill twitched.
It sounded like dry onion skin scraping across a chalkboard. Under the purple beam of Julian’s 365nm UV pen, the tiny engraved face of Vance Sterling inside the oval frame twisted violently, squinting in agony against the glare.
“Speak into the microphone, Vance,” Dr. Corvo said, his velvet baritone smooth as oil. The coroner held the twelve-inch insulated forceps perfectly level in front of Julian’s chest, his gloved fingers steady.
“And do enunciate clearly. Intaglio ink has a distressing tendency to slur sibilants when the cotton weave begins to dry.”
Dr. Corvo adjusted his silver-rimmed monocle, peering closely at the miniature portrait. “Fascinating pathology, Mr. Vance.”
“The carminic ink in his bloodstream has completely bonded with the federal green toner. Under forensic standards, his vocal cords are now purely acoustic vibrations generated by the thermal resistance of the paper fibers.”
“If you ask a compound question, the paper will tear itself to pieces before he finishes the predicate.”
Inside Julian’s apron pocket, Arthur Pendelton’s Casio register clicked twice, spitting a short advisory slip:
