"Technically? A cascade of synaptic failures. Every neuron in his brain fired simultaneously, then stopped. It's like someone flipped a switch labeled 'off.'" Thorne stood up, his knees popping in sympathy with Lena's. "Time of death, approximately 03:17. No ID, no prints on file. But here's the real oddity." He pointed a gloved finger at the man's temple. "Look closer."
Thorne raised an eyebrow. "And if they insist?" doa 061
Thorne tilted his head, a gesture of professional equivocation. "Define 'weapon.' There's no blunt-force trauma, no penetrating injury. No ligature marks, no petechial hemorrhaging. Toxicology is preliminary, but his blood looks like a supercomputer's coolant—high levels of a synthetic neural peptide I've never seen outside a military medical journal. His pupils are fixed at exactly 2.4 millimeters. Not constricted. Not dilated. Exactly 2.4. That's not physiology, Detective. That's calibration." "Technically