Page 27 of One
“It’s a false notion, mostly encouraged by TV series, that forensic science can accurately determine the time of death. It’s heavily dependent on a myriad of variables. The best a coroner can do is to make an educated guess.”
“Variables… like ambient temperature?” I think back to a year ago, when Uri and I left a body for the animals to feed on in the broadleaf forest my family owns west of Chicago. Donors can turn very feisty when acknowledging their impending death; we wasted too much time and were in a hurry. There aren’t even bones left anymore, last we checked, but the hot temperature at the time must have had a big impact on the remains.
“Sure. Factors that can lead to gross error also include body temperature, body size—thin, obese, muscular, frail—clothes the victim was wearing, like a blanket or nothing at all. Also, subtleties such as the microclimate.” I can see how passionate Michael is about all this. So why is he a hospital forensic pathologist and not a police medical examiner?
“What do you mean with microclimate?”
“For example: a transient sunbeam enters the room and lingers on the body for two or more hours, but it’s gone when the body is discovered. That would speed up the decomposition four stages.”
“Four? I thought there were three.”
He counts them on his fingers. “Pallor mortis, where the skin pales due to blood pooling. Then agor…”
“…mortis from the Latin, ‘cold death.’ The body doesn’t produce heat and so the decedent temperature slowly approaches ambient temperature.” My explanation earns Michael’s warm smile.
“Third stage, rigor mortis. The muscles stiffen and contract. And lastly, livor mortis, the gravitational settling of blood, which is no longer being pumped through the body after death, causing a bluish-purple discoloration on the skin. The file said this body—” he points to the white bag on the table “—was moved after death, and we have proof of that because his left side has a bruise-like discoloration.”
“The blood pooled down, pushed by gravity during liver mortis. But how do you know the body was moved from that?”
“Because the victim was found on his back. Not on his side. Which means he was kept on his side for a while before being shifted into a supine position. It's the first time that’s happened with the Rope Killer. He never moves the bodies.”
“Rope Killer?” That’s a terrible name.
“That’s what the police medical examiners call him.”
“And…?” My next question dies when I catch sight of Michael’s sweet smile aimed at me. “What?”
“You really are interested in all this.” He sounds astonished.
“I said I was.” I’d never lie to him.
“Yes. You did.” He studies me for a few seconds, and, more than ever, I’d like to know what he’s seeing in me. Can he perceive the darkness?
“Are you thinking about a change of carrier?” His kicked up eyebrow and the slight smirk on his lips tells me he’s teasing me.
I purse my lips, feigning pondering. “You do have a way with words. Would you teach me while wearing this white coat and maybe add a pair of sexy glasses?” I whisper suggestively, leaning down toward him.
He hums so damn sexily. “Wait till you see the horrible scrubs, brown hair cap, and plastic mask.” He bites his lower lip, trying to stifle a smile, but failing grandly when bubbling laughter escapes his mouth.
His light blue eyes are wide and his whole face glows with mirth. He’s mesmerizing. If I wasn’t obsessed with him already, this would be the starting point. And fuck, I like the light, silly air surrounding us. I cup his cheek possessively, tilting his head up with my gloved thumb pressed underneath his chin to lay a fast kiss on his still-smiling lips. I want to drink that smile and save it inside of me.
He suddenly gasps. “I can’t believe I’m kissing you in the proximity of a dead body.” His hands run through his hair, messing it up even more.
“Stranger things had and still can happen, babe.” And I hope they will. With him.
“Really? Stranger than this?" Incredulity laces his voice. “Like what?”
I smirk. “I’ll show you as soon as you’re done, piglet.”
He huffs, his breath sweet on my lips. I want them stretched around my cock, attempting to suck it deeper and deeper, working it inside his throat. My patience is running thin, while my cock is getting thick inside my jeans. I’m not used to waiting. When there’s something I want, I take it.
He turns the stool toward the body and pulls down the zipper, pushing the bag on both sides of the corpse.
A blondish guy lays a few inches from me. Not my first corpse, and sure as fuck not my last. But usually, the donor’s bodies are still warm and pink when we get rid of them. This one looks rigid, his skin greyish—apart from the bruise around his neck and running down his side. There’s a lot of caked blood around his nose.
Michael’s expression while looking at the man is sad. He’s probably feeling… sympathetic? Compassionate? While all I sense staring at the corpse is a fat slice of nothing. I mean, I want to find the killer and gut him, but not because I’m driven by a sense of justice.
“Are you okay?” Michael suddenly asks me.
