Page 26 of One
We take the elevator to the basement and follow the signs to the pathology department. We stop in front of a door marked with the number eight on it. As soon as we enter the morgue, I feel strangely at ease. The temperature in the room is cool. There’s a strong smell of disinfectant mixed with some kind of cleaner in the air. Everything is immaculate and sterilized—the big rectangular metal tables, the round dental-like floor lamp, and the grey square floor tiles.
Nine small metal doors on the right wall are closed, but Michael told me there’s three corpses on thetraysbehind them. He untangles himself from me to put his white lab coat on. And fuck, I never had a doctor kink, but I surely do now. With his blond hair mussed by the morning breeze, flushed cheeks, and clear blue eyes, he’s like a special treat I want to devour.
He hops toward his desk and sits on the black stool near it, turning on the computer and then grabbing the light-yellow file laying there. There’s a green post-it with Michael’s surname stuck on it. He looks grim, whatever is in that file is making him feel uneasy.
“No assistant?” I ask him.
“There’s no need,” he replies without taking his eyes off the file. “This is a hospital morgue. The cause of death is usually obvious, and I don’t need to perform an autopsy on every body that comes through those doors.”
So, he’s not used to having people in hislair. I’m glad he doesn’t look bugged by my wandering, because he needs to get used to it. I’ll be doing more of it, all over his life.
I need my space as well in the FUNS room. But I make an exception for my foster brothers at times. And I will for Michael, if he’d ever like to join me. The thought makes me shiver with pleasure. A small voice in the back of my brain is quite sure he’d at least want to try. That voice is not my conscience, since I don’t have one.
“The body should be in the first chamber on the right.” He points to one of the metal doors on the wall. He starts rolling his chair toward it, but I get there first and pull the handle down. A white bag containing the body lays on the long tray, which I slide all the way out.
Michael hands me a pair of gloves. While I put them on, his hand hangs hesitantly over the bag’s zipper. “Are you sure you want to stay?”
“I have questions,” I simply state, adjusting the latex around my fingers.
“About?” He frowns warily at me.
I stick my hand in the chamber, feeling the coldness quickly engulf my skin.
“What’s the temperature in there?”
He seems positively surprised by my curiosity. He has no idea how similar our jobs are—because for me, ending evil people is a necessary job. One that I enjoy. We both have close experiences with death. I procure it, while he studies it.
“Bodies are kept between thirty-six and thirty-nine degrees.”
“How long can you keep a body… fresh?”
His lips twitch with amusement. “Up to several weeks. But it doesn’t prevent decomposition, only reduces it significantly. It just continues at a slower rate than at room temperature.”
I nod. Maybe Rague should build a couple of chambers in the base. Or a huge freezer. Even though we obviously never keep the bodies—we have a few ways to get rid of them—it could still be useful to scare the shit out of the donors. Waking up in a small, cold, unfamiliar space is frightening, right?
“Would you feel scared if you found yourself locked in one of those chambers?”
He stares at me with wide eyes. “Hell yes!” he vehemently exclaims.
So, I was right. Good. I like to spice things up with the donors and find new ways to satisfy my psychotic mind.
“Claustrophobic?” I ask him.
“No, but I’d pee myself if somebody locked me inside a very constricted, dark space. Wouldn’t you?”
“No pee. But I’d need some background about how I ended up in there to be able to tell you how I’d feel,” I reply truthfully, studying his reaction.
“Very rational.” He nods, looking intently at me.
“Always,” I confess. Since I feel emotions in a different, more subdued way, my rational side is stronger. Especially in stressful situations. But seeing a gun pointed at Michael yesterday almost made me explode with feral rage. Containing it hasn’t been that simple. I’m not really used to sudden strong feelings. I have to find a way to control them, since I have no intention of letting Michael go.
“What’s the hardest task while doing an autopsy?”
He answers after a few seconds of pondering. “With this kind? I guess the most difficult assessment is estimating the time of death.”
“Really?” My curiosity is piqued. When I find a potential donor, I usually ask Rami to gather information. I need to be sure that the person is a real monster who needs to pay for his vile crimes. Because I never hurtdecentpeople—nobody isinnocentin this sinful world, except kids and pets.
So, apart from quick background snooping, my point of view is always from a killer’s angle. I play with the donor—or should I say “punish” them—and then get rid of the body, eliminating the evidence that could incriminate me. Instead, Michael’s job is to find those traces I leave behind to get to me. Seeing things from Michael’s perspective is indeed fascinating. Could also help me with getting more thorough at the destroy-the-evidence part.
