Chapter 3 Dominique
Dominique
Why did Detective Kobe Haven have to be so hard to ignore?
Our brief encounter a few weeks ago didn’t leave as much of an impression, but this one had.
Kobe’s unassuming timidity when we interacted was a distraction I didn’t need or want.
How was I supposed to focus with him hovering over my shoulder during an autopsy?
With those honey-brown eyes so fixed on my every move.
Never mind that his disheveled good looks and endearing awkwardness were at odds with his astute ability to break down a crime scene, but his sheer presence agitated my already overturned life in a way I didn’t anticipate.
It took all my fortitude to get out of bed each day and pretend I was a functioning adult, a normal father, and a contributing member of society. The last thing I needed was a flirtatious cop with his eyes set on me.
Before listening to Haven’s perceptive theory, I’d struggled to cast the tousled man into the role of detective at all. The five o’clock shadow. The regulation-opposing shaggy hair that cut the edge of his jaw. How was he a cop? Hell, I had convinced myself that Kobe wasn’t a day over twenty-five.
But no. Not only was he older than I expected but far keener. If I wasn’t careful, Kobe Haven, with his boyish good looks, unfairly cute dimples, and fumbling flirtations, would ruin me.
I redirected my thoughts to Angelique and Cosette as I double-checked my station, waiting for the not-as-young-as-I-thought detective to show up.
I had a job to do, and I would do it. Cosette’s needs took priority, and Kobe would not distract me.
Angelique’s death was still too ripe. Too raw.
It consumed me in the worst way, and I wasn’t ready to close that chapter in my life.
I might never be.
The victim discovered along the river trail lay naked on the stainless steel table, a tray of sterilized surgical instruments within easy reach.
Upon arrival at the forensics laboratory, the body had been taken to a separate room for a complete radiology workup while I’d called one of our apprentice photographers to see if he wanted to clock a few extra hours.
Julius Symon showed up twenty minutes later and got to work.
In the basement lab, I located Akilina Kuznetsov, a soft-spoken technician I’d worked with a handful of times since arriving in Ottawa, who was willing to assist with the procedure despite the late hour. She agreed to meet me in Suite Three.
By the time the X-rays were completed and the body was transferred to the autopsy theater, I’d dressed in a full-sleeve, floor-length surgical gown, cap, shoe covers, a double layer of cut-resistant synthetic gloves, and a face mask.
When Kobe arrived, I would don eye protection and a face shield.
Until then, I sucked the cool, filtered air into my lungs as I told my heart to calm down.
It was a routine procedure. Kobe’s presence would not change that. I would ignore him and do my job. I was in control.
Akilina arrived earlier than I requested and prepared the workstation and recording equipment, so there was no delay.
She was a mousy girl in appearance and mannerisms. Efficient and private.
She didn’t ask a million questions, which I appreciated.
She did her job and left personal conversations for when she was off the clock.
Julius joined us a short time later and took a second set of photographs. Akilina helped me maneuver the body so he could get every angle, anterior and posterior. Once satisfied, he took off, informing me he would email the lot immediately and have hard copies on my desk the following day.
Circling the table, I performed a visual scan of the deceased now that his clothing had been discarded.
Since Kobe’s presence wasn’t necessary for the exterior exam—it wasn’t necessary at all—I began by noting every cut and bruise, every blemish and freckle, speaking aloud for the benefit of the recording.
Akilina manually documented specific details onto the patient’s intake form, her pencil audibly scratching as she worked. The whir of the ventilation system barely dampened the noise. I spent time examining the flower spike, its insertion point, angle, and depth.
Through the heart.
I might have refused to confirm the detective’s hypothesis earlier, but he was right. The trajectory was such that I would be shocked to discover the organ uncompromised.
Akilina charted those details as well.
The flower itself and the note had been bagged and tagged by the CSI team. The rose’s vitality was an issue. Once thawed, it would decompose quickly, and the likelihood of obtaining prints or other evidence from its surface would be slim.
An embedded object, however, could only be removed by me, so I would be responsible for logging it into evidence once we reached that stage. Kobe could take it with him when he left.
At the head of the table, I checked the deceased’s hair and under the eyelids.
I inspected his nostrils, mouth, gums, and teeth, dictating my findings.
Kobe would likely want fingerprints and nail clippings, as was his right as a detective, especially since the man on the table had yet to be identified, but I would wait for his arrival before taking those steps.
Detachment from the task was key, or I would never survive.
I would rather think of the victim as nameless while I perform the routine task I’d been doing for years.
It made everything easier. I didn’t want to know him or think about who he had been in life.
It would compromise my ability to work efficiently, and emotions had no place in an autopsy theater.
As it stood, death had stripped the victim of authority.
If he’d once been the fit and formidable man Kobe suggested, he was no longer.
That had been stolen from him. The waxy pallor and slackness of skin that affected all those who had died also stole their humanity and turned them into inanimate objects.
People might balk at hearing me say something so crass and heartless, but it was true.
Death drained personalities and robbed people of the singular essence that made them who they were in life.
I didn’t use the term soul. As a nonbeliever, a soul was a thing that belonged in fairy tales or fiction. To me, souls didn’t exist.
At ten after five in the evening, the suite door opened a crack, and the man of the hour poked his head in.
With a surgical cap hiding Kobe’s windblown shag of hair and a face mask covering his mouth—a mouth that had turned a shy smile in my direction more than once that afternoon—all I could see were his wide honey-brown eyes, a perfect balance of innocent, uncertain, and shrewd.
It was a wonder I’d thought he was younger than his years.
He seemed to vacillate between a stringent, perceptive cop and a mildly insecure youth. Kobe Haven was an enigma.
“Am I late? May I come in?”
“Please. You’re not late. I’ve been working through the external exam.”
Kobe inched into the room, his yellow paper gown catching on the door. It crinkled as he spun to disengage it. The poorly tied cords at the back dangled over a sculpted rear that I should not have noticed.
I quickly looked away before he could free himself or catch me staring.
“Detective Haven, this is Ms. Kuznetsov. She will be assisting.”
“Hi, Lina.” Kobe offered a shy wave, his eyes smiling. “We’ve met a few times. I’ll be sure to stay out of the way.”
I glanced between the detective and my assistant, catching hints of an acquaintance that was more defined than that of simple colleagues. Color rose in crescents on Akilina’s cheeks as she ducked her head, focusing intently on the clipboard.
Perhaps I’d misread Kobe. If he flirted with everyone, then I wasn’t special. I didn’t stand out. Good. I was unequipped to handle the attention of an infatuated, baby-faced cop.
Even if he was unfairly attractive and utterly oblivious to how endearing his awkwardness could be.
Before beginning the internal exam, Akilina excused herself to collect the X-rays from the lab.
In her absence, the temperature in the room seemed to elevate.
The perpetual chill faded until a sheen of sweat coated the inside of my gloves and dampened my upper lip.
The trapped air behind my mask was suffocating.
The walls grew uncomfortably close, and I was far too aware of the unoccupied space separating Kobe and me.
“You know Ms. Kuznetsov.” I didn’t form it like a question, but it was, nonetheless, and I eyed the young cop to gauge his reaction.
Kobe shrugged. “Yeah, we were in university together. I have a degree in criminology, and some of our classes were the same.”
“Ah.”
Criminology. So Kobe wasn’t a dime-a-dozen cop risen to detective. Interesting.
“We were friends. Hung out a bit.”
“Mm. I see.” I skimmed the form my assistant had been filling out, unwilling to meet Kobe’s gaze.
I didn’t want to know what they’d gotten up to in university.
If he spoke of keg parties and hookups, it would leave a bad taste in my mouth, and for whatever reason, I didn’t want to taint my impression of the man.
“So, um, where’d you transfer from?” Kobe asked when an uncomfortable swell of silence hummed and vibrated between us.
I briefly met his inquisitive gaze but looked away again when I couldn’t hold it, feigning interest in the dead man on my table. “Gatineau.”
A surprised chuckle filled the room. “Really? Gatineau? That’s the other side of the Ottawa River.”
“It is. You’re a geography whiz.”
“I thought you’d come from Toronto or somewhere out west. Freaking Gatineau.” Another laugh.
“Yep. A short jaunt over the bridge. Nothing more.”
“But why? I mean, are you still living in Quebec?”
“No. We relocated.”
“Oh.” Kobe went instantly quiet, his lightheartedness fading.