Minka
MINKA
“ I ’m less angry at Detective Fletcher now that we have a dead cop on our slab.” I slide my protective visor down and reach back to tie the laces on my plastic apron. Soft, instrumental music plays from Aubree’s phone in the corner of the autopsy suite, while Doctor Emeri herself works to remember she’s not playing second fiddle today.
She’s accustomed to assisting me in an autopsy. She’s to photograph. Document. Measure and weigh. While I get to cut and biopsy. I get the less tedious jobs, purely because of my seniority and title.
It’s a perk I enjoy. But one I can easily hand over when I have other things on my to-do list.
“I’ve been so angry at him,” I admit. “Because he hurt the feelings of someone I care about. But instead of talking it through like a mature adult, I kill him with my glares and give him the silent treatment instead.”
“Death usually reminds us of what is important.” She slides a pair of gloves onto her hands, stretching the fingers and snapping the latex into place. Then she adds a second pair, but the latter are made of cotton. The materials stick to one another, tangling and snagging as she slips a finger into each allocated gap. “Sometimes we have to be reminded to love those we have in our lives. Not take their presence for granted. That kinda stuff.”
“You’re lucky, I think.” I don’t press my hand to my stomach, though I want to. Nerves batter inside and attempt to make me sick. “Being in love with a cop, while autopsying a cop, freakin’ sucks.”
“Sure,” she snorts, grabbing another pair of latex gloves and reinforcing her protective layers. “I’m the lucky one in love. What with the fact my heart yearns for a man I’m not sure is wise, nor likely to lead anywhere fruitful.” She finishes her gloves and glances at me over the top of her raised hands. “I’m ready.”
“You have to find the missing slug with your fingers.” I know she knows, but I say the words out loud, if only to settle my nerves. “No tools, no knives, no machinery. The steel casing is likely to be jagged. That poses a danger to you, Doctor Emeri.”
“We’ve pulled Detective Mercer’s medical records. He has no history of blood-borne disease. No HIV, HCV, or HBV. No documented history of syphilis or malaria. Nothing I need to worry about.”
“There’s always something to worry about when we’re mixing body fluids. Go slow. Be careful. And if you think you’ve found it, don’t tear your gloves. If you do?—”
“Retract, sterilize, examine, then re-glove.” She looks down at the body, naked as the day he was born, and tilts her head to study the single-entry wound. “Can you document scars, tattoos, and freckles while I’m working on this? Stay close by, but?—”
“I’ll stay close.” I watch, staring so hard, I’m certain she’ll feel the warmth, as she slowly probes Detective Mercer’s bullet wound. “That’s a mid-range shot, if we’re just eyeballing it.”
“I agree.” Cautiously, she slides her pointer finger into the hole left behind, yet her eyes go to the ceiling. She’s exploring by touch and clearing out all other images from her mind. “Closer, and we’d see the burn. Penetrating wound enters through the intercostal and then trends down.” She nibbles on her lip while she probes the wound. “Fractured ribs.”
“Can you find the slug?”
She nods, long before her brain registers the words. “Yeah. I feel it. Breached the lung. It’s spongy and filled with blood.”
“I’d say we have cause of death.” I make notes on a page fastened to a clipboard. Not only of our newfound C.O.D., but of the small scar on Lucas’ left rib cage. It’s old and healed, but it goes in the report. Then a mole only three inches from the scar. That, too, is written down. “Five-inch achromic nevus situated approximately two inches from his navel.” I make note of the pigment-less birthmark and glance up at movement outside our autopsy suite.
Techs move by our windows all day long. I long ago grew accustomed to a building fitted with glass walls everywhere I turn. But my staff are not the reason I look up now. Rather, cops. A dozen of them loiter near the elevator. Grim faces and fiery eyes. They know we have their brother on our slab, and though I meet the stare of the cop closest to our suite, he only continues to watch.
Study.
Judge, probably.
“We have guests,” I murmur, bringing my eyes down again. Aubree’s back is to the glass, so she doesn’t see what I do. But I describe them, just as she describes the wound that killed a cop. “I count twelve badges out there. Approximately half of them are in uniform. The other half are plain clothed detectives. None are our detectives.”
“You recognize their faces?” She drops her gaze from the ceiling and carefully stretches Lucas’ wound wider. She doesn’t tear the skin, but she needs more room to move. More space to probe. “Anyone we know?”
“None I can pick off the top of my head. Detective Mercer worked out of Midtown, and though we know a couple of those guys, I don’t see them out there now.”
“Are they angry?” She doesn’t turn to look. Which is a herculean effort, as far as I’m concerned. The autopsy tech who wears colors like rainbows are becoming extinct, and gossips more than she breathes, is never one to hold back. To glance over her shoulder and take a peek would be easy. But she’s working, and beneath all the silliness and spontaneity, is a doctor who busted her ass in medical school to graduate early and walk out with a shiny degree that boasted honors. She acts flighty and crazy, but I’ll be damned if it’s not just a cover. A front, so she has an outlet to balance the death we work with daily. “Are we walking into drama when we leave this room?”
“Yep.” I lower my focus and go back to documenting Mercer’s physical attributes. We don’t get to move on with our autopsy until we pull the slug. “They’re all pretty serious out there. Unfriendly eyes. Broad shoulders.”
“Their colleague was shot.” She folds herself closer to Mercer’s chest so the visor of her mask almost touches the detective’s skin. “I imagine Archer would look kinda mean if Fletch was on this table, too.”
“Don’t put that juju into the air.” If I believed in superstition, I might consider tossing salt over my shoulder to save my friends from bad luck. “I’d feel pretty awful if Fletch got hurt after the way I’ve treated him this month.”
“A reminder to be kind, no matter how petty we’re feeling. I’m pulling the slug out now.” She scrunches her face with concentration, while at the same time, immeasurable caution. Because if she grabs the bullet too tight, she might tear her gloves. And if she tears her gloves, we’re going home and sitting in time out until labs can be run. “It’s a slippery sucker.”
“No one is timing you, Doctor Emeri. Take it slow and get it done.”
I glance up when a new shadow falls across the glass and Fifi pushes the door open.
Though she stays on her side of the threshold.
“Autopsy suites are protected areas, Ms. Lewis. You need to gown up and grab a mask if you wanna come in here.”
“Not coming in. Mayor Lawrence is on the phone. He’d like to speak with you.”
Mayor Lawrence is a royal pain in my ass . “I already spoke to him today. Tell him I’m in autopsy right now, but I’ll email him?—”
“He understands you’re in autopsy right now. He still insists on speaking with you.”
“For,” fucks , “sake,” I grumble. Though I consider my ability to censor myself superhuman. Setting the clipboard on the stainless-steel counter lining the wall, I turn back and meet Fifi’s wary gaze. “Doesn’t he care that I’m trying to work?”
“I’m certain he does. Still, he ins?—”
“Insists on speaking to me.” I stalk toward my phone and pick it up to discover missed calls from the man we speak of. “I get it. Tell him to call my cell. I’m not leaving this suite while Doctor Emeri is conducting this autopsy.”
Unimpressed, but the ultimate professional, she dips her chin and backs away from the door. Then she strides to the nearest desk, picks up the phone, and relays my instructions to a mayor not accustomed to being told what to do.
I wait them out, watching the slim, five-foot-six could’ve-been-a-model instruct the mayor to change his plans; then I look down at my phone and growl when it vibrates with a new call. Swiping to accept it, I bring the device to my ear and bite out an impatient, “We had a deal, Justin. You call less. Email more. I would reply when I get the chance.”
He scoffs, soft and humored. Though damn, the sound weaves its way into my heart until I realize he’s kind of tricked me into liking him. “Consider these extenuating circumstances, Chief. You have Lucas Mercer in your building?”
I narrow my eyes in an instant, furrowing my brows so I feel the wrinkles digging into my skin. “I’m not able to discuss an active homicide investigation, Mayor. You’ve called the wrong person. ”
“I’ve called exactly who I intended to call. Archer got the case?”
“No comment.” I hug the phone between my shoulder and ear, so I can get to work peeling the gloves off my hands. Already, they sweat in the unforgiving rubber. “And I repeat: You’ve called the wrong person.”
“Lucas Mercer was an off-duty detective from the narcotics division over at Midtown when he was gunned down on my streets today, Chief. I assure you, whoever I call is intentional, and when I ask a question, I expect to receive an answer. Where are Detectives Fletcher and Malone on this case so far?”
The dude just won’t quit! He knows Archer keeps me in his pocket. So if the mayor wants information on an open case, he hardly needs to call the investigators directly.
I sigh.
“Detectives Malone and Fletcher are taking statements from those who live and work near the crime scene. Word I’ve caught so far says no one heard anything. No one saw anything. I’m not a Copeland native, and I rarely explore, so I don’t know all of its neighborhoods yet, but I’m hearing, and observed that Marigold and Ninth are not particularly friendly streets. Most businesses were boarded up, and those that weren’t didn’t seem inclined to help. Female seamstress called 9-1-1. I believe the detectives were due to speak to her soon.”
“And your autopsy?”
You’re a pain in my ass! “Doctor Emeri is our lead medical examiner on this case. I’m acting only as the assistant and documenting, since the latter half of my week will be spent out of state. Doctor Emeri is currently excising the slug that penetrated our decedent’s body. Her initial findings indicate intercostal penetration. The bullet appears to have lodged in the vic’s right lung. This led to a collapsed organ, and in the end, I suspect we’ll find he died from a massive pulmonary hemorrhage.”
Lawrence sits silent for a beat as I toss my gloves and reach up for my phone once more.
“So, in non-doctor-speak?”
“Shot in the chest. Passed through the muscle, broke a rib or two on the way, then landed in the lung, which subsequently filled with blood. Human needs lung to be filled with air to sustain life, not liquid. That’s how he died.”
“Only one bullet wound?”
“Confirmed. And no exit wound, obviously. Doctor Emeri is extracting the bullet.” I glance across at the sound of metal on metal when she drops the slug in a little steel tray. “As we speak.”
“Detectives Malone and Fletcher have any clue of who shot one of our decorated policemen, Chief?”
“I literally have no idea.” I turn at the counter, resting my elbows on top, and stare out at the city. It’s a far sight better than the view I get when I look through the other window. “You might get more informative answers if you contact the detectives directly.”
“I’d rather ask you. Have you made any arrangements for New York yet?”
I roll my eyes, blissfully able to since I’m not talking to the man’s face. “No. My summons arrived while I was on Mercer’s crime scene. I told Archer what was happening, so he’s volunteered to make the arrangements. That’s as far as I’ve gotten on the matter.”
“Will he travel with you?”
“Allegedly. Is that everything, Mayor?”
I know he’s humored by me. I don’t see his face, but I swear, his lips curl into a grin. “Just about. How goes your search for a new Seraphina Lewis?”
“Sucky and exhausting. She found me some chick I don’t even know, who is too shy to speak above a whisper. I need someone who’s able to step in front of a camera, Mayor. Someone able to draft a statement and humble a reporter when their britches get a little out of control. I’m not sure a young, sweet, whisperer is the right fit for us.”
“Or perhaps the whisperer whispers because you’ve been especially unfriendly since she arrived. I’m not sure if you realize, Chief, but you come across as somewhat intimidating.”
“It’s not intimidating to expect people to speak and work! I don’t walk around with a baseball bat and a promise to bash their brains in. I simply ask them to do their jobs and report back whatever needs reporting.”
“As the youngest chief medical examiner in the history of this city, perched in your ivory tower, no-nonsense and to-the-point language, and a marriage to an equally formidable homicide detective, you can hardly blame the girl for being a little skittish.”
“Well, I do! I blame her. She needs to harden the hell up and do the job, or step aside and let a robot do it. Robots don’t have feelings. They don’t even need bathroom breaks.”
“And you wonder why people are afraid to speak to you,” he taunts. “Let the girl learn, Mayet. If you have nothing encouraging to say, say nothing at all. You’ve become accustomed to the directness Ms. Lewis possesses. But not everyone is built the same.”
“She won’t even tell me where she’s working next,” I growl. “This new boss must be a brainless whack job, considering no one called me to discuss her ethics or ability. I don’t even know if she’s staying in the friggin’ city. She’s being an asshole, and friends don’t do that to each other.”
“Vulnerability,” he tut-tuts. “For a minute there, I wondered if you, yourself, were a robot. Things are tense inside your building right now, Chief, but as a father to two girls who gave everyone hell during some particularly emotional years, I assure you, things will eventually calm down. Friendships will endure, and at the end of a long week, everything will be okay.”
“Says you. Your assistant is old, married, and not leaving your office until the day she passes of natural causes. Lucky,” I grumble. “I wish Fifi was old and ugly.”
He snickers, shaking his head so his coarse stubble scratches against the phone. “I wish I could convince myself you were joking. You remind me of my daughter. Did I ever tell you that?”
“Jen the biochemist? Or Tabby, who sticks her hand up animal butts daily?”
“And just so we’re clear, Tabitha is a vet. She doesn’t fondle the animals for her own sick satisfaction.”
“Uh-huh. Sure. Did you need anything else, or are we just wasting precious time at this point?”
“I suppose that’ll do for today.” He adjusts in his chair, grunting as he straightens in his seat. “Keep me apprised of the detectives’ investigation. Channel Seventy-Nine is already asking for a statement from my office.”
“Channel Seventy-Nine can kick rocks and choke on them after.”
He snorts, shaking his head. “And people accuse you of being hostile. I have no clue why.”
“It’s not hostility. It’s intolerance. Make your statement, Justin. Saves me from being on the stupid six o’clock news. The less I see myself on the television, the happier I am.”
“And I wish for your happiness,” he teases. “One more workday, and then you’re on a plane anyway.”
“Two workdays. I’ll fly late Wednesday and catch a late night.”
“Three-hour time difference will kick your ass when you’re attempting to wake at a reasonable hour to attend court, and your body clock swears it’s three in the morning.”
“That sounds like a future problem to me. I’m hanging up now, Mayor. I have a job to do.” I yank the phone from my ear, ignoring the smug ‘ mmhmm ’ he rolls along his throat, then kill our call and look up to find Aubree’s bright eyes. “He annoys me so much.”
“Sure sounds like it. I’ve extracted the slug and will have it bagged and tagged for the detectives. They’ll swing it by ballistics, but by my untrained, anti-violence, my-parents-were-hippies eyes, I’m seeing what may be a .45 bullet with a tungsten tip.”
Stunned, my stomach does painful cartwheels as I search her expression. “Come again?”
“It’s a cop killer,” she sighs. “Lucas wasn’t wearing a vest, but even if he was…”
“Jesus.” I cast a look out at the crowd who inch closer, their trained investigative stares burning the side of my face. Their tense stances, and their steely silence. Our only mercy right now is the fact that they can’t hear a word we say. “This is really bad.”
“Really, really,” she concurs in a murmur. “We have someone extremely dangerous roaming our streets, and a vested interest in cops we don’t want to die.”
“Make the Y.” I bring my phone up again and hit dial on the one and only name that lights up my screen every single day. We live together. Work together half the time. We’re joined at the hip almost always, and yet, the phones work too, for those moments we’re apart. “We have to get this autopsy done and our reports written up. The faster the detectives have our information, the faster that asshole can be locked in a cage.”