The deceased’s face had taken on the classic grimace associated with contractions as the protein, ATP, drained from his muscles’ cells. Rigor had set in.
“Can I have my recorder?”
Bruce handed over her voice recorder, and she settled it around her neck.
“Temps last night were in the low fifties,” he said.
“Fahrenheit?” He’d have to convert that.
“Sorry. Ten Celsius.”
“Check the math on the liver temps, please.”
With a push of a button, she spoke into the recorder using a clear voice. “Body is clearly in the rigid stage of rigor mortis. Facial, upper neck, and shoulder muscles are tense.” She lifted an arm and checked bicep and wrist flexor movement. Completely fixed. “Lower arms as well.”
Pinching the toes, she moved to push on the ankles which completed her assessment. “Entire body is stiff, which is in line with whole body rigidity occurring eight to twelve hours after death. That with liver temperatures…” She glanced at Bruce.
“If we assume 10 Celsius as an average temperature…” He pulled out a calculator and did the math. “If the liver temp was 19.5 Celsius on scene, then time of death was…” He glanced at the screen.
She completed the calculations in her head. “Time of death is approximately eleven hours from when the team arrived on scene.” The body had dropped another two and a half degrees since then, which meant the man had died around midnight last night.
Bruce nodded, his calculator confirming what she already knew.
“Okay,” she said, more to herself than to Bruce. “Let’s do this.”
She snapped an initial set of pictures, making certain to get quality images of lividity. It was impossible to know what the prosecuting team would find useful in their case. In her line of work, more was always better.
“Interesting tattoos,” Bruce said.
“Yeah, incredible really.”
“They have the same three-dimensional effect as that junkie we looked at. Remember? The one with the rose thorns?” Bruce added.
“Yeah, that must be like a new trend.” She handed the camera to Bruce. “Get a good set of pictures of the tattoo, please.”
In cases of unknown identity, standard procedure required dental molds and X-rays, in addition to finger prints. In recent years, with the prevalence of tattoos invading mainstream society, they had better luck if they used tattoos to identify bodies.
It was still a long, laborious process, but fortunately not one she had to worry about. Bruce would turn over the photographs of the tattoos to the crime scene investigators. They would do the legwork and track down the tattoo parlor that had inked it and hopefully match receipts to discover who John or Jane Doe might be.
Bruce took the camera and clicked away, leaving her a moment to admire the skill of the artist who’d inked the tattoo. Another three-dimensional rendering, this man had a scorpion crawling over his left shoulder. The shadowing made it look as if it were real, rather than inked into the skin. Over the right bicep, a black widow had a foreleg lifted, and silken strands jetted backward, forming a web over the man’s shoulder. It curved around to his scapula. As impressive as that one was, the one that took her breath away was the raw, ragged edges of skin peeling back to reveal a metallic framework inside. It looked so real, she had to touch it to convince herself it was simply a tattoo.
Instead of the ghost inside the machine, this was a depiction of the machine inside the man. It was at once poetic and profound.
There was a gash over the abdomen. A real one. Congealed blood had crusted at the skin edges, and with the contraction of tissues, a creamy, white substance oozed out of the cut. No wonder it had Bruce on edge.
She tented her fingers and forced herself to ignore the obvious. That gash would have her full attention soon enough. For now, she fell back on her highly-structured exam protocols and moved to the head of the bed to begin.
Jane Doe
Sally’s afternoon stretched into the evening with her search for answers as the John Doe on her table raised many questions. Bruce assisted, collecting and labeling samples to be sent to the lab. A little before four PM, Bruce got a call for another body.
He scratched notes on a pad, listening intently, then spun around. “Hey Doc, looks like we’re getting a body found in Diablo."
“Diablo? Since when are we taking bodies from Diablo? That's outside our jurisdiction.”
“The county corner had a family emergency, and they want a quick look at this body."
“Well, it's not like we’re not busy ourselves.” She breathed out a sigh. This day would never end. "But, I guess I can take a look at it."
She stretched, working out the kinks in her back. “What's the story? Murder? Accident? Or what?”
He relayed her question to the person on the other side of the phone. “It's not clear," he said. “They say the body is in an advanced state of decay, but it looks suspicious. The working hypothesis is foul play.” He glanced at the face of the clock hanging on the wall. “What do you want me to do?”
“We’ll take it. Make sure they have the proper papers since this is crossing jurisdictional lines. Put the body on the other table. Start with X-rays, while I finish up here.” She’d do a cursory exam on the new body once he was finished with the X-rays and initial measurements. “Then, put it in the freezer until I can get to it.”
"Okay, you're the boss."
The advanced state of decay could mean many things to different people, depending on their expertise. What it meant for her was more work. She’d have to research weather patterns and know the details of where and how the body had been found. Without that information, she couldn’t begin working a timeline.
In most cases, they were lucky to get the right season. Sometimes, they struggled to hit the right decade. At least, she’d be able to tell if the body was female or male. Dental records might identify who this had been, and hopefully a missing persons’ report had been filed. That would help significantly to fine tune the timeline.
All in all, when it came to dead bodies, she’d much rather deal with the freshly dead, like the man on her table, than a mummified body in the advanced stages of decay.
Before long, five p.m. rolled around. A courier arrived to take the creamy white substance and other samples from John Doe to the forensics lab. She reviewed the X-ray series on Jane Doe and verified the measurements Bruce had done.
The pelvic bones revealed the body was female.
The crew, who had brought the body in, failed to bring the initial on-scene report. That only made her job more difficult. At least they’d brought the chain of custody logs.
Bruce finished the required documentation, logging in pertinent information and making sure procedure was followed with the cross-jurisdiction issues. When he was done, he stepped beside her, gazing at the desiccated body.
“What do you think happened?”
She cocked her head. “Not sure. There’s a depressed skull fracture, but no way to tell if it had happened before, or after, death. I need that scene report.”
The body had lost the pungent reek of fresh decomposition, but a potent musty odor still penetrated her mask, irritating her sensitive nasal passages. She scrunched her nose.
“I called again,” he said. “The investigators are still combing the site.”
“Did they say anything?” Unusual for them to send a body without at least a little preliminary information. She turned the head, looking at the base of the skull. Weathered by the environment, the skin cracked and flaked like thin parchment. It had lost the suppleness of leather, leading her to believe the body had sat for months, perhaps even longer, in the dry environment of Mt. Diablo.
“This fracture is significant enough to have caused death, but if she fell, there’s no way of knowing if it happened before, or on impact after the fall.”
Bruce shifted foot-to-foot, his gaze flicking to the clock. It was half past five. “Do you mind if I
punch out? The courier has the samples from John Doe, and I’m done logging in Jane here.”
She was dying to find out what the technicians at the crime lab discovered about that creamy substance in the wound, but would have to wait until morning. Part of her wanted to stay and look over the man’s body again, but it was getting late.
While she’d originally planned to stay late and work through the evening, Derek’s list of research sites and assignments interfered with her focus. Rather than risk making a mistake due to distraction, she called it quits for the night as well. Covering the man with a cloth, she put his body back into the freezer. Then did the same with Jane Doe. Before she could leave, she had to finish her reports.
Documenting her findings on the man brought up many questions. The substance from the wound wasn’t semen. The tacky cream looked similar, but under UV light it glowed green instead of the classic bright violet of ejaculate. Not an unusual color to fluoresce under UV, green was still an odd result. Dentin from un-whitened teeth and the keratin of nails all returned a greenish glow under the illumination of the Woods lamp. Saliva, urine, and in particular, semen, shifted toward blues and violets, with semen being the brightest of all bodily fluids.
When Bruce had mentioned the creamy substance over the phone, she’d envisioned some freakish sex crime. Instead, they were left with something much more bizarre.
Her attention pulled to the clock rounding on six. Conditioned over the previous weeks, she couldn’t help but anticipate Derek’s call, but six PM came and went without a call, leaving her alone to contemplate her assignment.
In the locker room, she tugged off her scrubs and washed her hands several times to rid them of the noxious rubber smell. When she dressed, she marveled again at the clothing Derek had provided her after their evening on his yacht.
White linen pants and a soft bluish-gray tank top screamed designer elegance. Her little black dress, and accompanying heels, remained on Derek’s yacht. But that’s not what spoke to her. It was the attention to her needs which pulled oddly at her heart.
With a sigh, she grabbed her purse and headed outside. Not once did she doubt her car wouldn’t be waiting in the small parking lot. Dan said Derek would make sure it was delivered, and she believed it would be. It had been too long since she’d had anyone take care of her, and she was secretly enjoying the pampering. It felt good not to have to make every little decision.
The driver’s side door was unlocked, and her key-fob rested in the cup-holder, giving her pause. Anyone could have stolen her car. She pursed her lips, concerned, until she spied a dark town car pulling away.
Was Derek in there, watching? Making sure she made it safely outside? Or had he delegated that task to his driver, Dan? She would never know, and it felt wrong to ask. Instead, she gave silent thanks to Derek’s concern over her safety and headed home.
After a quick shower, she changed into yoga pants and a loose-fitting long-sleeved tee. Curling up on the couch, she pulled up Derek’s assignment.
He listed several sites and had instructions attached to each one. Two blogs came as no surprise. The first, titled Journey of the Submissive, sent an odd thrill shooting through her system. That electrical pulse landed in her heart, settled in, and began a persistent throb. Was she going to do this?
Maybe.
This world Derek opened remained foreign, if not unknown. During their hour-long talks, his rich voice had soothed away the rough edges of her day and filled some of the aching loneliness of her life. Despite not having the chance to speak with him, his presence remained, guiding her along with this exploration.
Second on the list, Dominant Desires. Now that one had her pulling deep breaths and placing the phone on the couch, screen face down. That warm snuggly feeling of the Journey of the Submissive disappeared between one breath and the next with a glance of that webpage. The sudden acceleration of her heart left her gasping at the array of crops, canes, floggers, and straps.
The heat of Derek’s breath raced along her neck. The deep timbre of his voice whispered in her ear. His broad, powerful hands, ever so gently, pulled her panties over her hips. And his tongue! The sweep of his tongue drove her to dizzying heights.
This was real. Holy hell, was she really contemplating any of this?
For him? Yes, most definitely.
Tapping a finger against her chin, she squirmed in her seat. Clenching her thighs together, she was desperate to soothe the needful ache between her legs.
This man wanted her without apology. He desired her with a depth of expression she’d never experienced. The indomitable force of his will drew her, and bound her to him in ways she didn’t yet understand.
Dominant Desires.
If the name of a simple website could bring back memories with such power, she would leave that site for last. She gripped her phone and took another glance at the screen.
Next on the list: a social website for the kink community. His only instruction was to log on and register.
Two more assignments remained on the list: a Pinterest board and a Tumbler account. Neither were places she’d ever visited. Again, his instructions were simple: like any photographs she found interesting.
She uncurled from the couch and headed to the kitchen where she opened a bottle of wine. Tonight would be an adventure.
Returning to the couch, she settled back in. Not certain exactly what to expect from the Journey of the Submissive, she read the latest blog post. The woman had broken a rule and worried about the punishment she would receive once her master came home.
Biting her lower lip, Sally jumped to the about section and read the woman’s bio. She had been involved in the kink community for over a decade and was celebrating the fifth anniversary of her collaring ceremony in a few weeks.
There were too many terms in the simple blog post and the about section which remained foreign. It would be nice to have Derek around to ask, but she had the distinct impression he wanted her to explore this world on her own.
She read the next blog post, and the next, spiraling deeper and deeper into this woman’s life. Finally, she sat back and stared at the ceiling, taking a moment’s pause. She needed a beginner’s manual.
A list of blogs lined the right sidebar. She scanned quickly and opened up tabs for those which looked interesting. Six hours later, well past midnight, she had ten pages of notes and a mind swimming with the intricacies of a culture she barely grasped.
And she’d only visited the first website on Derek’s list. His instructions had been to complete the list, and they were set to have a conversation about it tomorrow after work.
Skipping Dominant Desires, she logged onto the social website and created an account. An overwhelming array of boards and chat topics had her backpedaling out of that website.
The next two assignments were more palatable and intensely arousing. The first had picture after picture of couples entwined in intimate acts. Some were normal. What she now realized were what the kink community called vanilla. Others were intensely erotic, expressive of the talent of the photographer as well as the passion of the couples. And then there were the others.
She scrolled past several before remembering her instructions. Derek had requested one thing. Returning near the top of the page, she spent more time with the images, liking those which spoke to her the most. Any image with a man and woman consumed by their passion received an automatic like.
She liked quite a few of them.
And then there were the other ones. A man gripped a woman’s hands and held them over her head. She arched back, exposing her vulnerable neck, which he nipped at. That one got a like. As did the one where the man caged a woman against the wall with his body, crowding her with his overwhelming size. His fingers gripped her throat. The show of power and force should have frightened her, but she found it oddly arousing at the same time. She liked that one, too.
Shifting again on the couch, she continued with her task. Every picture deserved a like. The ero
tic poses stirred images of things she wanted to do with Derek, or have him do to her, but he asked her to like the ones which spoke to her heart. After the past hours of reading submissive blogs, she had a greater understanding of what that might be.
Pose after pose, images of erotic couples scrolled past her screen. When the image showed a woman on her knees, it got a like. A man in a suit with an arm wrapped possessively around a naked woman? Automatic like. They didn’t even need to be kissing.
A man with his hand under a woman’s chin, tilting her head back to look at him. That one stirred an immediate response. How many times had Derek done that to her? And why had she liked it so much? Like.
Initially, she wasn’t aware of the organization of the pictures, but the further down the page she scrolled the darker they became. Women with collars. Women tied in intricate ropes. Dark scenes of men standing over bound women. Cuffs. Chains. Women kneeling before men. All of those received a like.
And then she got to a woman draped over a man’s knees. Here, her finger hovered with uncertainty while the breath in her chest fluttered and her blood pulsed with an excited thrum.
Like.
A man seated in a chair with a flogger draped over his knee.
Like.
A woman bound to a cross with a man in a suit holding another of those black floggers.
Like.
A woman on a bench, her ass glowing red.
Like.
Her breaths accelerated as the subject matter of the images turned darker, more erotic, sensually descriptive and so very hot.
Wax dripping over a woman’s belly. Like. Splattered over her breasts. Like. Blindfolds. Like. Restraints. Like.
She slammed the screen of the laptop shut and paced the length of the living room. Two a.m. and her mind was spinning while her body pulsed with arousal. And all she could wonder was how much of that did Derek want to do with her?
Would she let him?
Was any of this real?
She ran her fingers though her hair. It was beyond late, and she had a long day ahead at the office. As interesting as the man who’d had his gut sliced open had been, there were still other, more routine cases, demanding her attention.
Becoming His, Learning to Breathe: Part Two - The Collective - Season 1, Episode 8 Page 2