CHAPTER 10
D ragging the scalpel down from the acromian, to the center of the chest, and then toward the abdomen, I made a Y-incision on the decedent’s body.
I’d already performed an external exam and confirmed that she was, in fact, Andrea Kepling, sent from Calypso County Medical Examiner’s office for confirmation on the cause of death.
The faded black map of veins, or vonyxsis, I’d noted on external examination served as the first clue. However, a few different parasitic toxins were known to cause the discoloration, so it didn’t necessarily confirm a case.
The second clue was the putrid, dark colored fluids seeping from the incision. With how long she’d been stored, I’d have expected some fluid ejection, but not the profuse liquids that dripped into the catch basin under the examination table.
And, fuck, that stench . Not even retained shit in the bowels smelled as horrible.
A tickle at my ankle drew my attention to the floor, where a black ball of fur circled my legs like he had any right to be there.
A Bombay cat I’d inherited after he’d somehow gotten into my lab, and I couldn’t, for the life of me, get rid of the damned thing.
He kept the mice and rats away, though, so I’d decided to let the nosy little bastard stick around.
“I see you decided to show up,” I said behind the mask and shield covering my face.
“Almost started without you.” The cat, whom I’d named Bane, sauntered his way across the room and settled in the corner opposite me, where he licked his paws.
Forceps in hand, I carefully peeled back the decedent’s skin like a butterfly, exposing her ribcage beneath.
Nothing exceptionally notable about the skin or the bones still covered in remnants of flesh.
Aside from the darkened veins, the state of her body at that point seemed rather unremarkable for one supposedly having been ravaged by disease.
It was what I’d hoped to find within that would tell a sinister and grim story for how she might’ve died.
Next, I grabbed the rib shears and snapped each of the connecting bones.
With a postmortem knife, I sliced away the muscles holding it in place, and lifted away the rib shield, exposing the organs beneath.
Using the broad end of the knife, I shaved a small bit of the muscle from the bone, noting another defining characteristic of the parasite–bone striations.
If I were to remove all of the muscle and flesh, her skeleton would undoubtedly be covered in faint black lines, like tiny fissures in the bones.
Why, or how, the parasite managed such a thing remained a mystery.
I collected a small sliver of the flesh onto an awaiting agar plate for later examination and set it aside, then made a quick dictation on visual exam of the heart, lungs, and fluids collected in the spaces.
Not water, though. Aside from excessive inflammation, I didn’t find evidence of aspiration into the lungs.
Only the thicker, serum-like fluid, which I believed had seeped from the GI tract during patient transportation.
I ladled about a liter of the moldered fluid from her abdomen and chest cavity into a sterile jar.
As I held it up to the light, I couldn’t help but wonder how many eggs it might’ve contained.
Tying a string to the bowel, I cut the fat away from her body, and once free, I dumped the entrails into the awaiting bucket beneath the table.
As I meticulously removed each of the organs and weighed them, I finally reached the one I’d been interested in from the beginning–the liver.
In her case, it was about a quarter of the size it should’ve been, black, nubbly, and oozing the fluids I’d collected earlier.
In the absence of the parasite itself, it confirmed Noctisoma .
I’d never seen another parasite ravage the liver quite the same.
Enzymes released by the worm liquified the organ for faster consumption and made for one hell of a slimy mess.
Movement caught my eye.
I peered through the irritating face shield barrier that reflected the light to find something wriggling in a pool of liquid in the interstitium. With the forceps, I poked around and lifted out a long, black, skinny worm, about a foot long.
“Fucking hell,” I muttered. The head of the worm latched onto my glove, and though I felt nothing, the sight of it chomping onto my finger startled me, and I dropped it back into the decedent’s abdominal cavity. “Damn it!”
The worm slid over the flap of skin, and down the edge of the examination table.
I lurched for the floor drain just a few feet away, but before I could cover it with my shoe, the parasite slipped through the drain holes, and just like that, it was gone.
Not even Bane, my cat, could get to it fast enough, as he sat pawing at the drain, clearly depressed for the missed opportunity.
He somehow had the intuition not to eat the worms, thankfully. At most, he’d have only slowed it down.
“Fuck. Fuck!” I peeled off the glove to find a tiny bubble of blood beading at the surface of my skin.
Since when had they grown fucking teeth?
As I stared down at the carved decedent, my thoughts rewound to the quick briefing Lippincott had given me before I’d agreed to perform the autopsy.
“She’s a special case.”
What made her special?
After washing the wound with soap, I covered it with a Band-aid, before donning a new pair of gloves, and set back to seeing if her body would tell me.
By the time I reached her brain, I already had the scenario of her death clear in my head.
Having witnessed the progression a few times, I knew what the worms inside of her had ultimately wanted–escape.
I sawed the last bit of her skull and, with a skull key, pried off the top crown of bone to expose her brain beneath.
Black lines proved the presence of the toxin in high concentration, and the presence of blood lent some insight into how she’d died, confirmed by the attached radiological reports stating she’d suffered a stroke.
After cutting away all the nerve connections, I removed the gelatinous organ and set it aside.
In cutting away slices, I found what I was looking for in the prefrontal cortex–a pocket contained within a clear membranous sac wherein the purest toxin, aside from what could’ve been harvested from the liver about a week prior, remained perfectly encased.
With a needle tip, I pipetted the fluid from inside and deposited it into a prepared test tube.
I held up the bright purple fluid with its black marbled threads to the light.
Might’ve been entirely too late to utilize anything, as she’d been dead for quite some time.
Although I’d have gotten the best results within minutes of death, it was still worth hanging onto the sample.
Perhaps whatever hell the woman had suffered in life, with her illness, might one day offer a sliver of promise in her death.
* * *
B ack at my office in the administrative corridor, I stared at my bandaged finger, my head trying to wrap itself around what I’d seen during the autopsy.
Clearly, the worm had evolved and I suspected it might’ve been due to repeated inoculation in humans—a hearty human liver certainly could’ve been reason enough to grow teeth.
A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts.
I cleared my throat. “Come in.”
The door creaked open to Dr. Lippincott, Provost of Dracadia, a longtime friend of my father’s.
Hands tucked into his pockets, he strode across the room, the sight of him souring my already cantankerous mood.
“I don’t suppose you have any liquor hiding in here somewhere?
” he asked, brows winged up with a sickening hope.
Of course I did. After all, one didn’t take a job working for high class assholes without something to numb the misery of it all. I reached down into the bottom drawer of my desk and grabbed a bottle of bourbon, along with two glasses.
“Brace yourself, Devryck.” Lippincott was the only one who didn’t bother to address me by doctor, or professor. I hadn’t decided whether it was a friendly gesture or meant to be condescending.
After pouring him a glass, I passed the liquor to him, watching as he polished it in one gulp then signaled me to pour another.
“I just met with Langmore for an hour. Apparently, he received a call from Albert Wilkins. Do you remember Albert, at all?”
“Yes. Dracadia’s finest alcoholic,” I answered, watching Lippincott toss back another shot.
“Well, he’s done his time, gotten sober, and seems to be working for some community college in Massachusetts. Anyway, Langmore claims he called to tell him of a student of his who was tasked with writing some mind-blowing case study involving a parasite.”
“Adorable.” I kicked my feet up onto my desk, not-so-patiently waiting for the point of his story. “So, what about that, exactly, warranted an hour-long meeting?”
“Langmore requested funds to cover her first semester entirely. I understand she happens to be quite brilliant. Unanimously approved by the admissions committee.” He flicked his fingers, seeking more liquor.
“And?” I poured another round into his glass.
“He placed her in your Neuroparasitology rotation.”
“That better have been one fuck of a research paper she wrote.”