by Sarah Blair
Sidney rubbed her hands over her face, trying to clear the cobwebs out of her memories. “Afterward, I couldn’t even go near their door without feeling completely petrified. I always felt like that monster was in there, waiting to jump out and eat me.
“I tried to talk about it for awhile, but the therapists and doctors my grandfather sent me to all said it was just my mind trying to fill in the blanks. They called it a coping mechanism.” Sidney shrugged. “Logically, that’s what makes the most sense. I don’t have any memory before or after that moment. I don’t know how I got from my room to theirs. My grandfather said I was asleep the whole night. But it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like it really happened. After awhile, I didn’t see the point in trying to make anyone believe me anymore.”
Williams was quiet for a few moments before he spoke gently, “I’m sorry that happened to you. Your parents, nobody listening, all of it. No kid deserves any of that.”
Sidney wiped an errant tear from her cheek, annoyed she was crying again. “Thanks. Whatever killed my parents is still out there. Which is exactly why I need to help Hutch. He can’t go to prison while this monster that killed Peyton roams free. Who knows who might be next?”
“Okay.” Williams gave her a firm nod.
“Okay?” Sidney raised her eyebrows.
“I’m in. What do you want to tackle first?”
Sidney sat up a little. “Um. I’m not actually an investigating agent. You are.”
“Ha, nope. This is your case.” Williams’ phone buzzed and he checked it. “Damn, I forgot I told Megan I’d start picking up Rachel from pre-school. With the new kid coming, everything’s jacked up.”
“How’s she feeling?”
“Like a beached whale. Her words, not mine. She’s technically got two weeks left, but the imminent arrival could imminently arrive any day at this point.” Williams got up and slipped on his navy blazer with brown corduroy elbow patches. It completely clashed with the neon shapes on his tie. He paused and motioned to the stack of paperwork on the desk. “You got this, right Chief?”
Sidney flipped him off.
“Excellent. Call me if you need to brainstorm.” He gave her a quick salute. “Later.”
If nothing else was going right, at least Williams had her back. Sidney jotted a few more notes down before she chose a place to start with Hutch’s case. If she was going to tackle this, she’d need more details about the current investigation and it’s not like she could waltz down to the NYPD and ask to see the file.
But, there was another very important file that she might get to take a peek at, and all it would cost her was the price of an extra large mocha latte with a caramel swirl.
Five
Mitch met Tom at the rear entrance to the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner. Usually, when he paid visits to the M.E.’s office, the doctor was brimming with excitement over some new discovery. This time his manner was more subdued, but still brisk and professional.
“Hi, come on back,” Tom said. He kept a gentle hand on Mitch’s shoulder, moving him quickly through the autopsy suite.
Mitch caught a glimpse of platinum blonde hair dangling off a stainless steel table. His step faltered and he tried to see more of what was under the sheet, but Tom kept him moving straight through. The M.E. was well-practiced, careful to keep himself between Mitch and the table, directing his attention forward to the next door with a smooth gesture.
“We’ll have a chat in my office first,” Tom said.
Distraction.
Let the family member settle in a bit before revealing their loved one’s corpse on a slab of cold, impersonal steel. Tom was good at it.
Mitch was, too. He’d done it countless times himself. It was a well-rehearsed dance. He might not be able to control the person’s reaction, but he could control the circumstances surrounding it.
“You don’t have to handle me, Tom,” Mitch told him. “I just want to know what happened.”
“Right.” Tom’s head bobbed. Eyes swam with concern. He grabbed the file off the top of a pile on his desk and flipped through it. “My report will show cause of death as a fracture between the C4 and C5 vertebrae, just like I suspected.”
Broken neck.
“It was fast?” Mitch asked.
“The cervical cord was torn.” Tom glanced up at him. “She didn’t suffer.”
Mitch nodded. “What about the BAC?”
“Initial tests are always a little higher. You know that from your experience. Even putting a rush on it, the full tox-screen is going to take a few weeks at best. It’ll present the clearest picture,” Tom reminded him.
“But was she drinking?” Mitch fumbled in his pockets for a roll of antacids as his stomach churned again, but they were in the car.
“There was alcohol present in her system. A cell phone was found near the—” he caught himself. “Nearby. The screen opened on an unfinished message, and the neighbor across the hall confirmed they’d been messaging last night. Texting and stairs don’t mix even in the best of circumstances.”
“So, that’s it then,” Mitch said, more to himself than to his friend. An entire life, gone in an instant because of one stupid mistake.
“It’s a terrible tragedy, but these sorts of accidents aren’t exactly uncommon.” Tom folded his hands on the desk. “I’m really sorry, Mitch.”
“Can I take a minute with her?” Mitch massaged the tension out of his jaw.
Tom paused. “You’re sure you want to remember her this way?”
His chest constricted. “You know what they’ll do to her at the Mortuary. Paint her and decorate her like some kind of mannequin.”
“Okay.” The doctor stood and waved for him to follow. “You’ll want to keep in mind, she came to rest face down. Discoloration is due to lividity, not necessarily injury. Rigor is also still active.”
Mitch squeezed his hands into fists, as they entered the autopsy suite. Tom waited by the body.
“Go ahead,” Mitch told him.
Tom folded back the sheet, and tucked it carefully around her shoulders, revealing only her head and neck. All the anticipation flooded away.
She appeared the same as any other corpse. He’d seen plenty before. In a lot worse shape. This was familiar. This, he could deal with.
“I’m okay.” Mitch told Tom. And he was.
“Take whatever time you need.” Tom gave him a pat on the shoulder and went back to his office.
Mitch stepped over to the table. His mind automatically separated this non-living corpse from the warm, vivacious woman he’d fought with and made love to, and tried so hard to love.
There were a legion of things he’d imagined saying in this moment. He’d played this same scenario over and over in his mind, trying to figure out how it might go. Now it was no longer a daydream or a nightmare, but solid reality.
This was happening.
He’d already said goodbye in so many different ways, now that the time had come, there was nothing left to speak out loud. And even if he did say anything, what did it matter? She wasn’t here anymore to hear it.
Mitch touched the edge of her hair. It was as soft as it had always been before she stiffened and styled it with so many chemicals. Always concerned with appearances. All those trips to the plastic surgeon, and what had it gotten her? A face blotchy and purple where the blood had pooled inside her body while she lay alone on the cold marble floor.
“So. This is it, then.” He repeated the words quietly.
An overwhelming sense of relief lightened him so much that he had to check to see if he was levitating. He didn’t have to imagine this scenario anymore. He didn’t have to wonder when the call would come, or who would make it. He didn’t have to worry if it was going to be the bed or the bathtub. Pills or vodka or both?
He didn’t have to imagine being the one to find her anymore.
The answers were in front of him. This was it. It was done. Mitch rested his head back on his shoulders, shutting his
eyes against the bright lamp overhead.
“It’s over,” he murmured.
He opened his eyes and leaned over his wife’s body. Whatever had happened between them, whatever wrong they had done to each other, there had been moments of happiness, too. He pressed his gratitude into a kiss on her forehead.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be what you needed,” he told her.
Mitch pulled the edge of the sheet back over her face and called for Tom.
Six
Heat from two coffee cups warmed Sidney’s hands as the crisp autumn breeze gusted up from the East River. She considered going around to the front entrance of the OCME building on 1st Avenue, but it was a long way and she wanted to get out of the chilly air.
Using her elbow, she punched the button to open the automatic doors at the loading dock and went down the hall to the autopsy suites. Cracked blinds overlooking the lab revealed a familiar figure.
She stopped. Her breath caught when Mitch leaned over a cadaver on the table. Platinum blonde hair pooled on the stainless steel surface. He ran his fingers over the waves with such tenderness, a tight knot formed in Sidney’s throat. She stepped in close to the wall, peeking through the blinds, just out of his line of sight. Not that she needed to hide. His attention remained focused entirely on the body in front of him.
A sheet covered everything except the cadaver’s feet and head. Mitch lifted his gaze to the bright lamp over the table, and his chest rose and fell with a heavy sigh. Sidney turned away not wanting to intrude on his private moment.
Her mind raced through the possibilities of who this person could be. He’d never once mentioned anyone at home. Sidney glanced back.
After another glimpse at the body, he leaned over and pressed a tender kiss to her forehead. Tom reappeared and they shook hands. Sidney darted down the adjacent hall then spun around to pretend like she’d just stepped off the elevator. Mitch left, chin tucked, lost deep in his own thoughts, heading straight through the loading dock. He didn’t even notice her, and charged out so fast she didn’t have a chance to call out to him.
She waited through a count of ten before she plastered a friendly smile on her face, and went into the autopsy suite.
“Hey, Tom,” she said.
“Good morning.” He glanced up from the file in his hand, eyes wide with surprise. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Sorry, I should have messaged first.” She offered him one of the cups. “Thought you could use a little revitalization. If you’re busy, I can go.”
“Too busy for hot coffee? Never.” Tom placed the pen down and took the cup. He removed the lid, inhaled the sweet scent, and sipped. His smile was as warm as the coffee in her own hand.
“You even remembered the caramel.” He leaned back against the edge of the counter. “Ah, much appreciated.”
“Not a problem.” Sidney toasted him and they both drank. She gave a clueless tilt of her head. “So what have you got going on today? Anything interesting?”
“Hmm.” Tom scrunched his nose. “No mermaids today, sorry.”
“If you ever get a mermaid in here, you better not hold out on me.”
“I wouldn’t dare.” His brown eyes sparkled. “Have you got anything interesting going on?”
Sidney winked and leaned in. “I thought you’d never ask.”
“Okay, I’ll bite.” He grinned.
“Well, technically, I think you’re the one who has something.”
“Do I?” His glance went straight to the body on the table.
“Peyton Remington.”
He paused with the cup halfway to his mouth. “What about Peyton Remington?”
“Did anything out of the ordinary show up in the post-mortem?” She beamed at him hopefully.
“Oh, brother. I’ve had reporters hounding me non-stop about that case. Everybody wants a scoop.” Tom gave her a long suffering glance, but she didn’t get the impression any ire was directed towards her.
“Did any of them love you enough bring you a mocha latte with extra whip and a caramel swirl?” Sidney canted her head.
“Am I really that easy?”
Sidney shrugged. “It’s not a bad thing.”
“For you.” He chuckled.
“Okay, so I know you’re not allowed to comment on an ongoing investigation. I just . . . something feels off about the whole thing, don’t you think?”
“Off, how?” Tom gave her his attention.
“Everything was locked. Everyone who had access to the apartment has an alibi,” Sidney said.
“Except the fiancé.”
“Okay, but the fiancé doesn’t have claws.”
Tom flicked his eyes up in surprise. “How’d you know about the wounding pattern?”
A thrill shot through her, but she maintained an even façade. “A tall cup of dark coffee told me this morning.”
“Okay, I can’t say anything. You know this.” Tom held up a palm in surrender. “And I’ve got a lot of paperwork to fill out. So, I’m going to sit right here, and do my job. You know what would really be helpful?”
“What?” Sidney did her best not to show her frustration, she knew this was a tricky position to put him in.
“Go water my plants for me.” He filled up a small watering can and handed it to her. “Don’t forget the one on my desk.”
“Water your plants.” Sidney stared at the watering can. “You know I have a black thumb, right? I kill every plant I go near.”
“They like it when you talk to them, so take all the time you need. I’ll just be right here,” Tom repeated, staring directly at her. “Filling out this paperwork.”
“Right.” Sidney felt a suspicious undercurrent and watched Tom carefully. He shooed her away with his hand, so she took the watering can and went into his office.
Controlled chaos met her headlong. Files and books teetered on every available surface. Framed photos of his family jammed nooks and crannies, and plants filled in the spaces everywhere else. She picked one on the shelf and gave it some water. The one on the desk was a cactus.
Her gaze drifted over to the label on a thick file next to the terra cotta pot.
Remington, Peyton.
“Tom, you sneaky hero.” She sat down and grabbed the file, perusing the photos first.
Hutch wasn’t exaggerating when he said it had been awful. It was a massacre. Blood everywhere. Human or supernatural, there was no doubt that a true monster had committed this crime. Sidney’s theory solidified even further in her mind. Hutch could never have done anything like this.
Sure, Rugby was a rough and sometimes brutal sport, but even on the field, Hutch had been more likely to wind up on the receiving end of a black eye than giving anyone else one.
But, if not him, then who? Or what?
Sidney mulled over the question for a moment, rolling through the list of monsters in her mind. Mothman? Gargoyle? Having no point of entry threw everything off completely. Most mythological creatures weren’t delicate enough to try to open a door nicely when they entered to rip you to pieces.
She sighed, turning back to the autopsy report, doing her best to make sense of Tom’s illegible handwriting.
Seven main wounds, each consisting of an evenly distributed pattern of four puncture marks. Lacerations include varying degrees of penetration and length.
She checked the locations of the wounds on the drawing of the body. Peyton’s neck and chest had been completely shredded.
Sidney read down further to the final conclusion of the report, processing the list of medical terms and interpreting them automatically from the other files she’d deciphered in the past few years of research and reports that she wrote at the agency.
Cause of death, arterial hemorrhage.
Severed carotid artery.
Laceration of sternocleidomastoid.
Pneumothorax.
Sidney shut her eyes and leaned back, needing a moment to process the extensive list of damage done to Peyton’s body. The
photos provided an excellent visual, but reading each wound listed out in Tom’s thorough assessment really drove it home.
Peyton had suffered a gruesome and violent end. It hadn’t been especially quick, either. Relatively speaking, Sidney could only imagine that even thirty-seconds would feel like an eternity when you were drowning in a sea of your own blood.
“You okay?” Tom asked.
Sidney opened her eyes and found him leaning in the doorway with his coffee and an arm full of files. She nodded.
“Yeah. I’m fine. It’s just . . .” She stared back down at the report. “This feels so angry. It’s practically feral. I don’t understand how a human could do this.”
“You’re not wrong.” Tom placed his files on the stack and it wobbled dangerously. Sidney got up and they switched places at the desk. “The pattern suggests claw marks. But the wounds have a clean edge, indicating a sharp blade was used. Basically, it’s what I’d imagine finding in a victim killed by that comic book character. You know, Hugh Jackman with the hand condition.”
Sidney’s dark mood lightened a little at Tom’s lack of pop culture knowledge.
Tom motioned to the body in the photo. “Something interesting I noted were several defensive style wounds on her arms and hands that had a few days of healing on them.”
Sidney scowled. “So her murder wasn’t the first time she’d been attacked?”
“Well,” Tom held up a finger. “I did some testing for DNA on those wounds. They were a different style than the others. Ragged on the edges, consistent with ripping or tearing as opposed to cutting.”
“She was scratched?”
“By a marsupial.” Tom pulled out another report from the back of the file. “With chlamydia.”
“Wait. What?”
“I had to run the labs twice just to be sure it wasn’t a mistake.” Tom nodded. “A few days before Peyton’s murder, she was attacked by a koala.”
“Hutch said they’d just gotten back from Australia. So, maybe—”