Minka
There are benefits to working in the middle of the night. Fewer people to talk to, for one. The phones almost never ring, and when they do, I’m not obligated to answer them. There’s no line for the coffee machine, ever. And no mayor knocking on my office door, demanding my attention.
The George Stanley media-relations-front-facing-receptionist-for-all-things doesn’t clock in till nine, which means I don’t have to discuss schedules or argue about press conferences.
I don’t have to acknowledge the whispers about Diane Philips’ case, and I don’t have to negotiate which music I listen to while cutting.
The middle of the night is for the love of science.
It’s where a woman who went into the medical field to study death, but took a detour by becoming chief—which means office politics, never-ending admin, making nice with the leaders of the city, and dealing with whiny employees—gets to study death in its purest form.
Geez. It’s almost enough to tempt me to toss Doctor Patten down to the dayshift so I can take her place during the twilight hours.
A radio host with a sultry voice chatters into the night.
She could be thirty, or she could be seventy.
I have no clue. She could be a smoker, or maybe she came across her sexy, raspy sound honestly.
But either way, she discusses drive-by shootings and things that go bump in the night.
And every now and then, she plays a song that always, somehow, turns out to be the exact song I’m in the mood to hear in each given moment.
Lani—that’s her name—has a gift, and she’s my companion for three blissful hours, while techs work outside my autopsy suite, and bodies are rolled in and out of the elevator by my office.
“You were pretty healthy, huh?” I slice into the kid’s heart, shaving a section off for labs and placing it into a sample tube, then I take the rest and cut right through for dissection.
I divide the organ straight down the middle, and with gloved hands, I push each half apart to reveal what was, before tonight, a perfectly functioning heart.
“Could’ve been a donor if the circumstances were different.
Your lungs are decent, despite your filthy habit, and your kidneys look brand-new. ”
I don’t often talk to myself on the job…
I used to. And because the thought occurs to me, I bring my gaze up and stare through the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city I chose over New York.
On the East Coast, I narrated almost every autopsy I ever conducted.
Here, I stopped. And I suppose it’s probably because now, I have Aubree, and she talks enough for both of us.
“Interesting,” I mumble, smiling behind my plastic shield and shaking my head.
I bring my eyes back down and pick up just one half of my John Doe’s heart.
“Bullet nicked you. Another inch to the left and you might’ve lived.
” I set the half-organ down and peel my gloves off, all so I can grab my pen and take notes for the detectives.
For the court. For the autopsy report and, soon, the death certificate.
“What’s your family like? Do you come from one of those nuclear kinds, with a mom and a dad and a sibling or two?
” Setting my pen down, I slide fresh gloves on and scoop the heart halves into a bowl for further examination.
Later. Maybe. If his next of kin wants me to.
“Or were you lonely, and that’s why you were out at midnight with a girl?
” And then the next thought hits me. “Did you try to save her? Did you step in front of her?”
A gentle tap on the glass wall separating me and the rest of the world shatters my isolation. The sound brings my head up and my eyes around, and though I’m tempted to snap at my intruder, I recognize Doctor Chase’s hesitant expression.
His mild fear.
So, I lift my chin and invite him in.
“Do you need something, Doctor Chase?” Dragging a stool across to my steel table, I perch on the edge and trade my scalpel for a pen.
Laceration to the superior vena cava, caused by a gunshot wound.
Three millimeter slit, which led to the patient bleeding out on the ground.
Even if he’d been shot inside the hospital waiting room, I doubt he would’ve made it.
“Did Patten send you in, because she figured I’d Hulk Smash whoever interrupted me, or… ?”
He digs his hands into the pockets of his stark white coat, leaning back in my peripherals and hovering by the door. But I see his soft smile. His gentle amusement. “Doctor Patten has just left to collect a DB in town. Radio chatter indicates DV that turned explosive.”
“Mmm…” Two hundred and fifty cc clotted hemopericardium.
Glancing up at my jars already lining the back wall, I confirm the volume for my report, then I bring my eyes down again.
Two hundred and fifty cc hemoperitoneum.
“He was bleeding around the liver, too. The second slug ricocheted downwards and left a mess.” Frowning, I lower my pen and peek over my shoulder at the doctor who possesses an ability to stand in silence.
Not a gift Aubree has. “DV turned explosive. Female vic?”
He tips his chin, solemn and sad. “Yes, Chief. And the word getting around is that this is a frequent flyer address for the authorities. Not their first issue, but seems it’s her last.”
“Shame.” I bring my focus back around and stare at my report.
“Domestic violence is an epidemic, especially in the summer. Tempers are running hotter than usual, and blood is pumping thinner. The heat can make even the steadiest, calmest person a little shorter than usual. Did you need something, Doctor? Do you not have a metric ton of work piled on your desk? Because I do.” I peek over my shoulder again. “I could re-delegate if you insist.”
He scratches his jaw, snickering behind the movement. “Guess I wanted to give you the good news in person.”
“Good news?”
“Testing came back clear.” He lowers his hand and beams. “After the HIV incident, that is. Everything has come back perfect.”
“Well, hell. That is good news.” I turn on my stool and rest my elbows on the table behind me. “Doctor Patten responded to that incident exactly how she should have. Perhaps her quick thinking and the fast administration of prophylaxis saved your life.”
“Maybe.” He rubs his thumb and finger together in his pocket.
The rhythmic, constant movement is visible even behind the fabric.
“I appreciate your steadfast response to the incident, Chief. It was, uh…” He clears his throat.
“When everything else was kinda scary, and everyone in my life was on the verge of tears and wouldn’t shut up about the what-ifs, your unwavering control of what felt like an uncontrollable situation helped soothe a few of the rough edges.
Even Courtney—” He pauses and blushes. “Doctor Patten, that is. She had her moments.”
Surprised, I raise my eyebrows.
“She was unflappable, Chief. She was amazing. But every now and then, I caught her staring at me a little longer than necessary. I knew she was worried, and I knew she carried guilt for what happened, since I’m on her team and she was—is—responsible for us during our shifts.”
“It’s our job to worry.” I rest my back against the edge of the table, the harsh edge digging into my spine.
Still, legions more comfortable than the ache of knowing one of our staff members had been exposed to a life-threatening disease on the job.
“I’m glad you’ve received clear results, Doctor Chase.
Could you close my door on your way out?
I’m in the middle of a case, and I’m technically not on duty right now.
Now that you’ve come in, others might get the same idea, assuming I’m available for a chat. ”
“Right.” Nervous, he snags the door handle and yanks it open so I feel the waft of fresh air beating across the room. “Sorry for interrupting you, Chief.”
“No problem.” I turn on my stool, my heart thundering in my veins, and stars dancing in the corners of my vision to taunt me.
I draw a heaving breath, filling my lungs and stretching my chest, then I exhale again and rest my elbows on the table in front of me.
“Jesus.” My stomach jumps and swells, aching and swirling.
Because I’m not immune to the what-ifs. I’m not unfeeling or unbothered.
I’m just really friggin’ good at locking that shit down and acting like a robot when the world gets a little too heavy.
The backs of my eyes itch, warming and stinging, and, horrifyingly, my nose tingles, forcing me to sniffle. On the job!
I’m not unaffected. I’m just uncomfortable with emotion.
“Absence of soot, stippling, searing, and muzzle burn on either of the entry wounds.” I sniff again and snatch up my pen.
“Both vary in size, ranging from three inches to four inches in diameter, indicating… what? Various ranges from which they originated?” Damn my nose for itching.
“Both wounds contain abrasion collars. Wounds are numbered arbitrarily for reporting purposes. The allocation of numbers is not an indication of which order the medical examiner believes they were received. Gunshot wound number one entered through the front, approximately four inches below the shoulder, one inch right of midline.”
And so, I continue documenting a young man’s death. The organs shattered from the passing of lead created to kill. The valves that were stripped, if not from the bullet, then by the fragments of scattered breastbone.
The hands on the clock continue to spin, circling the bland white face while, outside, the streets grow a little busier and the horizon glows with the beginnings of a new day. Four o’clock ticks toward five, and five inches toward six.