Chapter 4 Tom
Tom
The following morning, I went through the motions of getting ready for work. Through it all, the notes continued to be a nagging presence at the back of my mind.
My first case of the day was a fifty-nine-year-old man who had collapsed on his morning commute.
During the autopsy, I found that a massive myocardial infarction had torn a nickel-sized hole in his heart, flooding the pericardium and right pleural space with a liter and a half of blood.
I dictated my findings as the body lay splayed open on the table, organs glistening wetly under the harsh lights.
There was no big mystery to be found here.
When it came to natural causes, cardiac rupture was as clear-cut as they came.
It wasn’t long until I was suturing the Y-incision closed, the thread gliding easily through the skin.
I grabbed the final tag, scribbled my initials beside the case number, and looped it through the toe.
After washing my hands, I reached for the clipboard to finish the report.
Just as my pen lifted from the final signature, knuckles rapped against the door.
“Hey, Tom.” Naomi poked her head inside the room. “Just got a call from Homicide. Patrol’s secured the scene, but Detective Sawyer wants you to take a look before we move the body.”
I set the pen down, rubbing at my temples. So much for an easy day…
“Alright,” I said, reaching for my coat. “Let’s go.”
The smell of disinfectant followed us into the hallway as Naomi radioed dispatch to let them know we were en route.
The traffic was relentless, a sluggish current of vehicles creeping through the streets like molasses.
I’d never really grown accustomed to city life.
Peace didn’t exist here. Everything was loud, fast, and chaotic—not to mention the lack of privacy.
After a while, however, the dense crush of buildings slowly started to give way to something more open. Concrete softened into tree-lined roads, traffic lights grew fewer, and sidewalks stretched wider. Something about this route began to feel… familiar.
The sensation started small. A prickle of unease just beneath my skin.
But then—
Recognition struck.
The identical mailboxes lined up in a row, each one evenly spaced. The neatly trimmed hedges and the white picket fences.
I’d been here before.
The house stood as picture-perfect as ever, blending in seamlessly with the rest of the suburban street.
In the front yard, water threaded down the fountain in delicate streams, the angel statue caught in a moment of eternal prayer.
A stone pathway curved toward the porch, where a single rocking chair sat motionless by the door.
Just another quiet home in a neighborhood where nothing bad ever happened.
The police cars and yellow tape surrounding it shattered the illusion.
It was his house.
Alfred Thorne’s.
Naomi, none the wiser to the sudden knot forming inside my chest, unbuckled her seatbelt and stepped out of the van. I followed after her with quick steps, not knowing what I might find.
I’d never been called to one of my own crime scenes before. Alfred Thorne was supposed to be one of the easy ones—elderly, diabetic, the ideal candidate for an insulin mishap. But something must have obviously given it away, or else we wouldn’t be here right now.
My mind raced backward through the previous night, retracing every step. There should have been no signs of struggle or forced entry. Some other inconsistency, then? What could I have possibly missed?
The questions looped uselessly in my head, but they all slipped away the moment we crossed the threshold. Before I’d even breathed in fully, I felt it at the back of my throat—metallic and stale.
That wasn’t right.
There shouldn’t be any blood.
Yellow evidence markers dotted the floor, forming a trail toward the living room, where a strip of barrier tape sagged across the doorway. Naomi moved aside, and my view cleared.
From a distance, Alfred Thorne appeared almost peaceful, as if he was simply sleeping—if one were to overlook the ashen pallor that had crept over his skin. But then, my gaze drifted lower.
A dark patch was staining the front of his cream-colored slacks, damning enough in its placement to shift the entire tone of the scene.
I stopped just short of the tape. “Is his…?” I let the rest of the question trail off.
“Sure looks like it.”
Detective Sawyer appeared beside me, silent as ever. Her sharp eyes caught the hairline fracture in my composure before I could repair it. She smirked. “Every guy here’s wearing the same expression you’ve got going on right now.”
True as that may be, I highly doubted it was for the same reason.
“It… certainly is something.” I scratched the back of my neck, letting a hint of sheepishness bleed into my voice. On the outside, I kept calm. Inside, I was anything but.
Alfred Thorne was meant to slip away quietly in the night, but instead, he’d been turned into a spectacle—someone else’s signature scrawled all over my work. And as for whose signature it could be…
It seemed that I’d underestimated my so-called friend. If this was their idea of a conversation starter, I could only imagine what else might follow.
Detective Sawyer gestured toward the body. “Take a look, then, Doc.”
I had no other choice but to comply. I moved closer, my professional mask sliding into place as I narrowed my focus on the area below Alfred Thorne’s waist. From this angle, I could see that his zipper had been left partially open.
There was a gaping absence where there should have been anatomy. The skin was slightly puckered, shrunken at the edges. Most of the blood had dried already, forming a crusted halo around the mutilation, like an outline drawn in rust.
“Unusual wound presentation. Looks clean, no sign of arterial spray. Likely done post-mortem,” I told her, but I already knew that, of course. “And where is….”
“The gentleman’s Johnson?” Detective Sawyer’s tone remained maddeningly casual. She shrugged. “I have no idea.”
I made a noncommittal sound, adjusting my position to examine the wound from a different angle, careful not to disturb anything that might be catalogued as evidence.
Detective Sawyer stayed back, her expression bordering on boredom, but I knew better.
Behind that look of indifference, she was cataloging every little detail, filing away inconsistencies, building theories the way architects drafted blueprints.
While this wouldn’t be the first time one of my kills ended up on my table, having it officially ruled a homicide was less than ideal. But I wasn’t too worried—at least, not yet. There was nothing that could link me to Alfred Thorne’s murder. I’d made sure of that.
Still… This was close.
Way closer than I’d ever intended to be.
* * *
Stalking, by definition of the word, meant following someone without their knowledge, observing their patterns and habits.
I was well acquainted with the concept. Working as a forensic pathologist had some similarities.
I was taught how to trace a person’s final hours through the cooling of flesh and the settling of blood, rigor mortis traveling through muscle groups in a predictable wave.
The dead were cooperative subjects. They kept their secrets in bone and tissue, waiting patiently for someone skilled enough to read them.
The living were a bit more complicated. They moved unpredictably, changed their routines on a whim, glanced over their shoulders without a reason. They required a subtler touch. The trick was to become part of the background, just one more face among the many.
However, if an ordinary person called for subtlety, Detective Sawyer was a whole different beast.
She’d been camping at a corner table for a few hours now, ordering nothing but coffee, staring down at her laptop with an intensity that had the barista giving her a wide berth.
I continued to linger outside the edges of her awareness, not ready to draw her attention quite yet.
I had never seen her look so… unguarded, before.
Her professional mask had slipped, revealing something softer beneath.
Her expression lost some of its usual severity as the tension eased from her posture, no longer held in that tight, rigid line.
She’d chew on her thumbnail every once in a while, a nervous habit at odds with the woman who usually projected unshakable confidence.
There was something almost fragile about her now—a version that only existed in passing, visible only when she believed herself alone.
It made me want to see more.
Not that it mattered, I swiftly reminded myself, I was here for a reason.
I took one last look at her through the window—head bent, hair falling forward to partially obscure her face, completely absorbed in whatever she was reading—then pushed away from my vantage point and crossed the street.
I let the bell announce my arrival and walked straight to her table with, what I hoped, passed for pleasant surprise.
“Detective Sawyer. Funny running into you here.”
The detective in question glanced up at me, blinking like I was some kind of anomaly—which, to be fair, I probably was.
I gestured toward her empty cup. “Looks like you could use a refill. What are you drinking?”
“Why?” The question was immediate, followed by the slightest narrowing of her eyes.
Nothing was ever simple with her, was it?
Most people would have accepted the offer without making a fuss, along with the small talk that came with it, grateful for the kind gesture. But not Detective Sawyer, of course. That would be too easy.
It took effort not to let my irritation show, to keep my expression open and friendly. “Consider it professional courtesy.” I offered her a small smile. “My treat.”
She hesitated, clearly debating whether to indulge me or send me on my way. Her fingers drummed once against the table before she sighed, as if she were the one doing me the favor.