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)
“No Dr. Watts today?”
He chuckles. “Dr. Watts is on medical leave. Josephine has decided to make rounds today for some unknown reason.”
“I missed you,” I say.
He makes a gruff grunting sound as do several other ME’s. “You’re supposed to be home healing. My guess is you’re not supposed to be driving yet.”
“I didn’t. I took a cab.”
“You took a cab here because you missed me?” he asked, using pruning shears to clip the decedent’s ribs before lifting the breastplate to expose the pleural cavities and pericardium.
“Green fluid. Probably pneumonia,” I say.
He shoots me a look.
I grin behind my mask.
When he returns his attention to the pericardial sac, carefully opening it with his scalpel, I get to my real reason for my visit. “Have you heard of Winston Jeffries?”
“Do I look that old?”
“So yes. You’ve heard of him.”
He chuckles. “He was a bit before my time, but yes, I’ve heard of him. He preyed on little girls with long hair, abducted them, shaved off their hair, and hung the locks from churchyard trees.”
One of the students observing him gasps.
“Do you know of any copycats since him?”
“No. But I haven’t watched the news in a day or two. Should I be preparing for hairless girls to flood my schedule tomorrow?”
“I hope not. Just … curious.”
“You paid for a cab because of a sudden curiosity about a man who was executed over a century ago. Exactly what pain meds did they give you?”
“I can’t find anything that says for sure if the bodies were ever found. I don’t think they were. Everything I’ve read says they weren’t.”
“Have you tried Wordle? I hear it’s all the rage. Really, Josephine, what are you up to?”
I need to tell someone. And I think I could tell Dr. Cornwell if he weren’t surrounded by students, and if there weren’t two other bodies being autopsied by my colleagues who would jump at the chance to accuse me of losing my fucking mind.
“Wordle, huh?” I ask.
“Or Netflix. I’d go for a rom-com. A chick flick. No medical shows. No horror movies.”
I nod. “Got it. Well, thanks for your help.” I head toward the door.
“Did I help?”
“No. Not really.”
While I exit the building, my phone rings. It’s Colten.
“Hi,” I answer.
“Hey. I was in the neighborhood, and I decided to check in on you, but you’re not here.”
“See? That’s why you’re such a brilliant detective.” I put him on speaker to order a ride.
“Where are you?”
“I brought some cookies to work.” It’s not a lie. I did intend on bringing cookies, but I forgot to grab them from the freezer last night to thaw out.
“And how did you get to work?”
I roll my eyes. “I take back my comment. You’re not a very good detective. It’s called a cab, Detective Mosley. Uber and Lyft were solid options too. And before you try to scold me for leaving the house, it’s been four weeks, and I’m feeling better.”
My wound is feeling better. Beyond that, I’m either sleep deprived if I skip my meds or walking around in a fog that makes it impossible to focus if I do take them to sleep.
“You didn’t sleep well again last night. You should be napping.”
I didn’t sleep well because I had another dream. More girls with shaved heads. More bodies buried in a cemetery just above bodies that were buried earlier in the day.
“You are more than welcome to start sleeping at your own place so my restlessness doesn’t rouse you from your beauty sleep.”
“What place? I sold my house when we decided to move in together.”
I smirk as the car pulls up to the curb. “Nice try.”
“You’d miss me if I weren’t there.”
“I wouldn’t.”
I would. I’d miss him terribly because I’ve grown accustomed to the sound of him coming home (home …) and collapsing on the sofa before resting his head on my lap while releasing a long day’s sigh, like being with me is his first real breath of the day.
“I love you too,” Colten says.
I grin and shake my head. “Gotta go. See ya later.” I end the call and give the driver my next stop. Dr. Terrance Byrd.
Terrance went to medical school with me, and we saw each other about six months ago at the courthouse. He’s a psychiatrist.
“Can I help you?” his receptionist asks when I close the office door behind me.
“I’m here to see Dr. Byrd. I don’t have an appointment, but I was hoping he could squeeze me in for a few minutes between appointments. I’m Dr. Watts from the medical examiner’s office.” That has nothing to do with my visit, but I know it’s her job to screen all visitors who are not on his schedule for the day.
“He’ll be occupied for another forty-five minutes with his current appointment. I can take your number and have him call you if you don’t want to wait.”