3. Lucas
3
LUCAS
MEDICAL EXAMINER’S PRIVATE NOTES
Dr. L. Gautier
RE: Recent “Natural” Deaths
Subject H.B. displays fascinating cellular degradation patterns similar to previous cases. Local plant-based toxin, expertly modified. Chimera’s work becoming more elegant.
Note to self: Begin documenting psychological effects of prolonged exposure to brilliant darkness. Finding myself increasingly drawn to chaos. Most fascinating.
The fluorescent lights flicker and hum at 60 Hz—I measured it precisely during one of my more manic episodes last week. Had the most fascinating theory about how the frequency might affect cellular degradation patterns. The results were... inconclusive. Though the burn mark on my left palm provided some delightfully unexpected data points.
“Home sweet laboratory,” I sing-song to myself, spinning in my chair as I survey my private sanctuary. The official morgue is two floors up, all sterile protocol and boring bureaucracy. But down here, in my personal playground?
Chaos and brilliance dance together like lovers.
My wall of evidence about my Chimera—my research board as I professionally label it for the occasional nosy colleague—has grown exponentially since our encounter in the alley. Photos, toxicology reports, molecular diagrams, all connected by red string and the occasional coffee-stained sticky note. At the center, a chemical composition I’ve been obsessing over for weeks: the molecular structure of her favorite poison.
Beautiful. Elegant. Lethal.
Just like her.
I giggle, the sound echoing off sterile walls. “What delicious mysteries have you brought me tonight, my lovelies?” My fingers dance across various vials, each containing failed attempts to recreate her work. Number seven gave me heart palpitations for three days. Number thirteen... well, let’s just say I now know exactly how long it takes for partial paralysis to wear off.
Worth it. All of it worth it for the science. For the art. For her.
My personal laptop chirps—not the official one, oh no, this one’s for my more... experimental research. Anonymous data about recent deaths, each one a unique masterpiece. My hands tremble with excitement as I pull up the files.
“Oh, you clever, clever girl,” I breathe, eyes darting across chemical signatures and tissue analyses. “Using native Louisiana flora but adding something... something...” I pause, squinting at the screen. “Something deliciously wrong.”
The centrifuge whirs to life, its steady rhythm matching my racing pulse. I pluck my latest attempt at recreating her formula from the rack—attempt number twenty-two, now with 30% less chance of accidental death! The deep crimson liquid catches the light, and for a moment, I swear I see constellations swirling in its depths.
Or perhaps that’s just the sleep deprivation. I check my watch—have I been here thirty-six hours or forty-eight? Time becomes so beautifully fluid when you’re dancing on the edge of scientific breakthrough and potential psychosis.
“Dance for me, little molecules,” I croon, watching the deep crimson liquid catch the light. “Show me what secrets you’re hiding about my magnificent monster.”
My phone’s buzz interrupts my chemical courtship. Ethan’s name flashes on the screen—ah yes, the mundane world intrudes. Such terrible timing. I’m rather certain I was on the verge of either a breakthrough or a seizure.
With attempt twenty-two, it’s really a delightful coin toss.
“Blake!” I answer with manic cheer. “Burning the midnight oil again? Or should I say, burning the midnight corpses?” I pause, checking my watch. “Though technically it’s 3 AM, so I suppose it’s more of a pre-dawn decomposition?—”
“Lucas.” Ethan’s voice cuts through my rambling, tense and unamused. Poor man never appreciates my mortuary humor. “I need your eyes on something. The Celeste case—I think we’ve been looking at it all wrong.”
“Oh?” I perk up, spinning in my chair fast enough to make the room tilt pleasantly. Or perhaps that’s the lingering effects of attempt twenty.
Note to self: investigate possible vestibular system impacts. “Do tell, my dear detective. What fascinating horrors have you uncovered?”
“The victims are connected, Lucas,” Ethan’s voice has that intense edge I’ve come to recognize. The one that means he’s been surviving on coffee and obsession for days. “Not just the method of death, but their histories. All of them had ties to?—”
“Old money families,” I finish, eyes fixed on my microscope. “Yes, yes, quite fascinating really. Though perhaps not as fascinating as what this blood sample is doing. The cellular degradation pattern is...” I trail off, watching in delight as the cells fragment in a hauntingly familiar dance. “Oh, you beautiful disaster.”
“Lucas? What are you seeing?”
“Hmm? Oh, just science doing something particularly poetic. Do go on about your murder victims. Though technically, I suppose they’re our murder victims now. Sharing is caring in the pursuit of truth and justice and all that.”
Ethan sighs, but I detect a hint of fondness in it. We’ve developed an odd friendship over late-night calls and shared mysteries. “The latest victim, James Montgomery?—”
“Ah yes, my Tuesday afternoon appointment! Delightful specimen, if a bit dead. The tissue samples were particularly chatty.”
“Chatty?” There’s that mix of exasperation and curiosity I so enjoy provoking.
“Indeed! They told quite the story. You see, the toxin used was trying very hard to mimic a particular signature. My Chim— I mean, a signature I’ve seen before. But whoever did it clearly doesn’t understand the basic principles of molecular polarity. Amateur hour, really. Like watching someone try to forge a Van Gogh with crayons.”
“Lucas.” Ethan’s voice sharpens. “What aren’t you telling me?”
I spin in my chair, watching the ceiling tiles blur pleasantly. “My dear friend, I tell you everything! Just... perhaps not in the order or manner you’d prefer. For instance, did you know that Mr. Montgomery’s liver showed traces of a very rare alkaloid? One that, theoretically, could only be derived from a specific combination of plants found in the bayou?”
“And?”
“And our previous victims had similar compounds in their systems. But here’s where it gets interesting—the concentrations are all wrong. The execution is... messy. Like someone’s working from an incomplete formula.” I pause, grinning at my private joke. “One might say they’re killing people with photocopies of a masterpiece.”
“You sound almost offended.”
“Professionally? Absolutely! Bad science is an affront to nature itself. These deaths lack... elegance. Precision. They’re crude attempts at something far more sophisticated.”
The silence on the other end of the line tells me Ethan’s piecing something together. Finally, he asks, “How do you know what they’re trying to copy?”
Ah, there’s the detective’s instinct. I laugh, perhaps a touch manically. “My dear Blake, a scientist never reveals his sources. But I’ll run every test I can think of on our latest guest. Maybe even invent some new ones! For science, of course.”
“Of course,” Ethan replies dryly. “Just... be careful, Lucas. These deaths... there’s something bigger going on. Something dangerous.”
“Danger is just opportunity in a sexier outfit,” I quip, but my eyes drift to my wall of evidence, to the beautiful complexity of my Chimera’s work. “Don’t worry about me, friend. I’m exactly where I need to be.”
We say our goodbyes, and I turn back to my microscope, mind racing with possibilities. Someone is trying to recreate my Chimera’s perfect formulas, and doing a brutally inelegant job of it. The question is: are they failing because they lack her brilliance, or because they lack her grandmother’s secret gardens?
“The game grows more interesting by the hour,” I murmur to my latest experiment. “Though I do wish they’d stop cluttering up my morgue with their subpar attempts at homicide. It’s rather like watching a child with a chemistry set trying to recreate molecular gastronomy.”
I turn back to my specimens with renewed vigor, mind crackling with theories and possibilities. “Right then, my lovely test subjects, let’s see what other secrets you’re hiding.”
My private lab notebook—volume six since meeting my Chimera—lies open on the bench, its margins filled with sketches of molecular structures and the occasional love letter to particularly elegant chemical bonds. I really must remember to burn these before anyone with actual professional ethics gets their hands on them.
“Subject Montgomery exhibits similar degradation patterns to subjects Thompson and LeRoux,” I dictate to my voice recorder, carefully placing another sample on a slide. “Though the execution is, quite frankly, insulting to the art of homicide. Like watching someone perform surgery with a plastic spork.”
I pause the recording, remembering the way my Chimera’s original work had practically sung under the microscope. Pure poetry in protein chains.
These new deaths? More like a tone-deaf cover band.
“Amateur hour in the bayou,” I giggle, the sound perhaps a touch more unhinged than usual. Probably should have eaten something in the last... when did I last eat? Tuesday? Is it still Tuesday?
My wall of evidence catches my eye—specifically the photo I’d managed to snap of her working in Madame Laveau’s shop. She’d nearly caught me that day. The memory sends a delicious shiver down my spine. The way she’d moved, all lethal grace and barely contained danger...
“Focus, Lucas!” I scold myself, slapping my cheeks lightly. “Science now, inappropriate attraction to possibly homicidal botanical enthusiasts later.”
I pull up the chemical analysis of Montgomery’s tissue samples on one screen, comparing them to my notes on my Chimera’s work. “Now what are you trying to tell me, you beautiful disaster?”
The patterns start emerging—like a symphony coming into focus. Whoever’s behind these deaths is working from an incomplete formula. They have the basic components but not...
“The catalyst!” I cry out, jumping up so quickly my chair spins across the room and crashes into something expensive-sounding. “Oh, you clever, clever girl!”
I race to my private storage unit—the one not listed in any official records, thank you very much—and pull out a small vial of amber liquid. A sample she’d given me weeks ago, claiming it was “just something to analyze.”
A gift is a gift is a gift.
“The missing piece,” I breathe, holding it up to the light. “They have her shopping list but not her secret ingredient.”
My hands shake with excitement as I prepare the comparison test. If I’m right... if this is what I think it is...
“Only one way to find out,” I announce to my empty lab. Before I can think better of it, I place a single drop of the amber liquid on my tongue.
The effect is immediate and fascinating. My pupils dilate—I check in a convenient reflective surface—my heart rate increases—I really should hook myself up to the EKG next time—and the world takes on a slightly kaleidoscopic quality.
“Fascinating!” I scramble for my recorder, nearly knocking over a rack of test tubes in my haste. “Subject experiencing mild hallucinogenic effects, possible parasympathetic nervous system involvement. Taste profile includes notes of... is that nightshade? No, something more exotic. Local vegetation with possible mutations due to unique soil composition...”
I grab my coat, almost forgetting to remove my latex gloves in my excitement. The sun is rising—when did that happen?—but I have to find her. Have to warn her. Have to tell her how brilliant she is for using the bayou’s own unique ecosystem as her personal pharmacy.
“The game is evolving, my beautiful Chimera,” I say to her photo on my wall. “And I, for one, can’t wait to see what chaos you bring next.”
As I stumble slightly—note to self: reduce sample size in future self-experimentation—I catch a glimpse of myself in the window. Wild hair, maniacal grin, probably shouldn’t be operating heavy machinery.
Perfect. Just another Tuesday. Or is it Wednesday?
Either way, time to find my dangerous muse and share my discoveries.
After all, what’s a little self-poisoning between friends?