Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
“What’s that, Watts?”
“Spooky. The first time you watched me perform my first solo autopsy, you said it was almost spooky.”
He grunts. “It was. I think I also asked you if you’d lived on a farm and slaughtered animals. Nothing about the process seemed to phase you one bit. I’m not sure I’ve met anyone in this profession who hasn’t taken a moment’s pause when working with a dead body for the first time to let subtle realities sink in such as how cold the bodies are. You know it in your head, but it doesn’t register until you actually feel it. Not with you. I didn’t see you take a millisecond pause or so much as exhibit the tiniest of flinches. In fact, you whistled the whole time. You still do.”
“Only when I’m alone.” I follow the next bullet track.
“Not true. You were doing it just before I asked you if you believed in God.”
“No. I wasn’t.”
“Can I get a witness testimony?” Dr. Cornwell asks the interns.
A few brave souls nod their heads and mumble, “You were.”
“‘Pumped Up Kicks,’” one of the interns adds. “Yesterday,” he continues, “you were whistling ‘If I Die Young’ during your first autopsy of a young woman who died of a suspected drug overdose, and you whistled ‘Pumped up Kicks’ during your second autopsy—a gunshot victim as well. I assume you have certain songs for different causes of death.”
I do?
How have I not realized this?
“Funny.” I retrieve the bullet. “I never realized I did that.”
“A song for different causes of death,” Dr. Cornwell says. “I like that. What do you whistle for heart attacks?”
I chuckle. “I don’t know.”
“Duh.” The same observant intern pipes up again. “Demi Lovato’s ‘Heart Attack.’”
His fellow interns laugh, and I smile behind my mask. It’s interesting how much we learn about ourselves from the observations of people around us. This shouldn’t surprise me. I often learn more about the deceased from talking with their family than I do from performing an autopsy. There’s so much in life that’s not black and white—so many things that require explanation before one can make accurate inferences. What if we learned to reserve judgment until we knew the whole story? I think I’d like that world.
Two hours later, I take my lunch outside, in need of some fresh air.
“Watts,” Detective Mosley says my name and grins as I strut past him in the lobby. “Just the person I’m looking for.”
“I’m on a lunch break.”
He pivots and follows me outside. “Does your profession get a lunch break? I know mine does not. Is it hard to eat after seeing the things you see daily? I bet you’re a vegetarian.”
“I bet I’m not.” I cross the gated entrance to find a spot on the grass behind the building’s sign.
“Do you still hunt?”
“No.” I take a seat and dig my sandwich out of my thermal lunch bag.
Colten slips his hands into the pockets of his suit. I never imagined him in a job that required a suit. I can see him in a uniform, but not an actual suit. It’s weird. I don’t let on that I’m the least bit interested in what he’s wearing or anything else about him.
“Did you put ‘field dressing a deer’ on your resumé?”
“Did you put asshole on yours?”
“Ouch. That’s harsh. You’re not still holding a grudge, are you?”
Leave it to him to make my feelings seem ridiculous.
“What do you want, Detective Mosley?”
“What were your findings with Jacob Marsh?”
“Who’s Jacob Marsh?” I know who he’s referencing, but I’m not his personal medical examiner. Jacob Marsh was brought in this morning. I haven’t autopsied him yet. And I wouldn’t be surprised if Dr. Cornwell jumped in and stole him from me.
“Missing legs. Most likely a chainsaw. Seeing any connection? That’s two in the past month.”
“Good to know. I’ll have to get back to you after I conduct the autopsy.”
“Why didn’t you do it this morning?”
I chew the bite of my sandwich and stare up at him, squinting against the sun. “Because I was busy,” I mumble with my mouth full.
“Don’t you prioritize?”
“That’s what your boss said when he wanted the results of this morning’s gunshot victim. Now, he has to sit on his thumbs and wait for ballistics. I suggest you go see if your thumbs will fit up your ass too because I’ll get to it when I get to it.”
“Did you speak to my boss like you’re speaking to me?”
Just his presence has stolen my appetite. I shove the other half of my sandwich in my bag. He’s relentless. Always has been. I know he won’t stop nipping at my ankles anytime soon.
“You can finish your lunch first. I’m not a monster.”
“You are.” I march back to the building.
He grabs my arm like he did before I fell down the stairs.
I yank it out of his grip as I turn back toward him.