Chapter 11 Rose
ROSE
With a coffee carrier in one hand and paper bag in the other, I carefully made my way up the sidewalk to a long, unassuming brick building that resembled a library more than a place that housed dozens of dead bodies.
While most bushes were beginning to flower, the ones that lined this building were as dead as doornails.
Steeling myself, I pressed the faded button on the intercom next to the thick metal door.
Nothing.
I pressed the button again, this time following it up with an impatient knock from my elbow. Finally, the door jerked open to a tangle of red curls and a string of curse words.
“Oh. Sorry. Dr. Floris, come on in. Thought you were Tabby-Talks-a-Lot.”
With hair as fiery as her attitude, Jessica Heathrow was the county’s medical examiner—equally known for her sharp instincts during an autopsy and her unmatched ability to out-cuss and out-drink every man in Berry Springs.
Intimidating? Yes. Unworkable? Not at all. We’d figured each other out years ago.
Tabby-Talks-a-Lot was the affectionate nickname for Tabitha Raines, the town’s newest reporter with teased blonde hair, a voice like a foghorn, and—according to gossip—a pair of brass balls to match.
She was relentless when chasing a story and, in Jessica’s words, the equivalent of a raccoon in the trash bin of justice.
There was only room for one alpha female in this building—and Jessica had claimed the title long ago.
We’d become unlikely friends after she rear-ended me on an icy morning months earlier. While we waited for the wreckers, freezing and frustrated, we discovered a mutual respect: a shared obsession with our jobs, and a fascination with the chaos of the human brain.
I raised one of the coffees I’d brought as a peace offering.
Jessica’s eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. She snatched the cup from my hand with a satisfied grunt, revealing a fresh collection of tattoos snaking up her forearm under her lab coat.
“White chocolate mocha, with extra sprinkles,” I said.
She sipped, smiled, then cocked a brow. “Hang on just a minute. Coffee means you stopped by with one, maybe two, questions about something. White chocolate mocha means you need a favor. And sprinkles say you need it ASAP.”
“True. On all counts, but not from you. From Andrew.”
“Ah. Phew.”
Her shoulders relaxed and she took another sip. Being the only coroner in a county with as many meth labs as churches, Jessica was overworked. Not that she would ever admit to it.
“In that case, thanks for the coffee. Come. Andrew’s in the lab. You can leave your purse and bag there.” She led me through the front office, where the lights remained off to deter the prying media. “He’s been here since six, believe it or not.”
“You’re training him well.”
She snorted. “Threatening is probably more accurate.”
I sucked in a breath as Jessica pulled open the lab door.
I’d only been inside a morgue twice before—once for a college anatomy course, and once to identify a client who’d taken their own life, no next of kin. It was a moment I wouldn’t wish on my greatest enemy, and one I wished I’d never have to repeat.
My stomach rolled as the air hit me—formaldehyde, methanol, and decay coiling together into a scent you couldn’t un-smell, no matter how long you held your breath.
The lab looked like any other—rows of cabinets, sinks lining the counters, surgical tools laid out on trays like props in a horror film.
Except this wasn’t a movie set. It was real.
And unlike horror movies, my work taught me long ago that the human brain could imagine far worse than Hollywood ever dared.
In the back, an entire refrigerated wall. One storage block for every body.
The room was dim, lit by two fluorescent bars casting pools of light over a pair of silver tables. Each one held a body. At least the one on Jessica’s table was covered.
For a minute, I thought I might be sick. It was too early for corpses.
Andrew glanced up from his work, blue eyes flashing over the rim of wide-rimmed hipster glasses that had slid to the tip of his nose.
A white surgical mask covered the lower half of his face.
He wore a stained lab coat over a vintage Beatles tee, which I’d bet was paired with jeans and slip-on loafers. No socks.
Fresh out of college, Andrew had landed an internship with Jessica—a crash course in pathology that probably counted as grad school and trauma therapy combined.
Word around town was he was a math genius who spent his nights gaming while drinking imported wine.
After enough awkward run-ins, we’d moved from polite nods to casual small talk. .. to him asking me out.
Despite every reason to say no, I’d accepted. We went for coffee. I talked about work the entire time and left early under the guise of a meeting. When he asked again, I turned him down.
A decision I was currently regretting. Because now, I needed a favor. Not from him, exactly—but from his brother. The head of forensics at the state crime lab.
Andrew set down his scalpel and pushed up his glasses as Jessica and I crossed the room.
“Lost, Doctor?”
Well then. Apparently, Andrew didn’t take rejection gracefully. Fantastic.
Jessica led me to his table, and I forced my eyes to stay fixed on her and not on the gray, waxy body beneath the sheet—already marked with a Y-incision. My stomach clenched.
What a day this was shaping up to be.
“Dr. Floris needs something from you,” Jessica said, casual as ever.
Andrew straightened, his gaze sharpening. Whatever trace of sarcasm had been in his voice was gone.
He was all ears now.
“Mad that I took the last bottle of Bordeaux from Banshee’s Brew?” He asked.
“No, I’m mad that you’re not covering up the body on your table. I only need five minutes.” I raised the coffee I’d brought for him. “And I have something better than Bordeaux.”
“Nothing is better than Bordeaux.”
“True, but this probably pairs better with wielding a knife at seven-thirty in the morning.”
Jessica grinned at my side. “She’s right. No drinking in the lab…. until after noon.” She winked. “I’ll leave you two to it, then.”
Andrew popped off his gloves and took the coffee as Jessica disappeared to her own dead body.
“Butterscotch caramel with whipped cream.”
His brows raised. “You know my drink.” He eyed me over the rim as he sipped, then set the coffee dangerously close to a pair of tweezers with a flap of skin dangling off the end. After pulling on a new pair of gloves, he repositioned his mask, picked up a scalpel and leaned over the body.
Thank God I hadn’t had breakfast.
“You’ll have to talk while I work. Jessica cracks the whip around here.”
“Wouldn’t have to if you’d stay past five o’clock in the evening every now and then,” Jessica hollered from across the room. Selective hearing or eavesdropping, I wasn’t sure which.
His eyes crinkled with a grin beneath the mask, then he repositioned the scalpel and sank the blade back into the body.
My mouth flooded with saliva. Nausea rolled up like a tide.
Exactly the reaction he was aiming for.
This wasn’t just about the date. I had no doubt this little display was part ego, part power play.
He knew I needed something, and he was letting me know he knew.
Cops, detectives, desperate therapists—medical examiners were used to being hounded for favors.
Andrew wasn’t the first intern to realize he held leverage, but he was clearly learning how to use it.
What he didn’t know?
No one worked a system better than I did.
I squared my shoulders.
“Ol’ Crazy Carl here sure liked his Bordeaux. Didn’t know a liver could turn that shade of green.”
“Who?”
“Crazy Carl Higgins.”
I frowned and took a good look at the grey face on the table.
My eyes rounded. “I know him. He was a client. I actually called the cops on the guy a few weeks ago.”
Andrew’s brow cocked. “Yeah? For what?”
“Oh, nothing, it was stupid. I regret it.”
“What’d he do?”
“He’d linger around for hours after our appointments. I’d catch him watching me through the windows.”
“You must have that effect on men.”
I ignored the quip and asked, “How’d he die?”
“To be determined, but…” He nodded to Carl’s legs. “I’m guessing it wasn’t pretty.”
I followed Andrew’s gaze to the flakey, blackened, rotted circles of skin that dotted the man’s legs and arms. My stomach did another nose dive.
“What are those?”
“Burns.”
My mouth dropped. “You mean, someone burned him?”
Andrew nodded and focused back on the man’s gaping chest.
I stared down at the burns on Carl’s arms. “The circles are too big to be cigarette or lighter burns.”
“That’s because they aren’t.”
“What, then? What was he burned with?” I was grotesquely interested all of the sudden.
“I found electrode gel on his skin.”
It took a second, but when it sunk in, I gasped.
“He was electrocuted,” Andrew continued. “Some sick bastard tortured the guy. Think ‘death-row-inmate’ electrocuted.”
A solid minute ticked by as I stood there in disbelief. I looked across the room to Jessica, who was flickering a glance in our direction.
Andrew switched out his scalpel for a pair of tweezers. “Maybe our local chicken snatcher started to get bored.”
“Chicken snatcher?”
He glanced up. “You really don’t watch the news, do you?”
“Not unless I have to.”
“You should. It’s important to know what’s going on in our little town.”
“Like someone stealing chickens?”
“Yes.”
“Live ones?”
“No, cut and trimmed breasts.” He rolled his eyes.
“Yes, live ones. Been going on a month. Hank the Tank even said one of his calves was stolen right off his farm. I can’t believe you don’t know this.
Over a dozen chickens have been found washed up on Otter Lake or at the bottom of Devil’s Cove over the last month. ”
“What does this have to do with Carl?”
He looked up again. “Again, the news—”
“I know, I know. I’ll start watching tonight. Tell me.”