Chapter 17 MINKA #2
My phone chirps in my coat pocket, an obnoxious ringtone that typically sets my temper on edge and my tolerance to below zero. But Simon and Garfunkel’s Feeling Groovy weaves in the air and brings a smile to my face… and a scowl to the faces of my guards.
“Work, Chief Mayet. Not social discussions.”
I peel one glove off and snatch the device. “Lucky for us both, I can multitask. Now shush.” I swipe the screen and place our call on speaker. “Hi, Aubree. How’s your honeymoon week going?”
“You sound…” Suspicious already—dammit—Aubree hums in the back of her throat. “Oddly happy. What happened?”
“Nothing.” I toss my phone onto the counter by the window, and, grabbing a fresh glove, I turn back to my task. “I’m elbows deep in a chest cavity, which always cheers me up. Haven’t heard a single peep from you and Timmy since you escaped your own reception on Saturday night. Busy?”
“I know you’re being inappropriate right now,” she drawls. “But since you asked: yep. I’ve been incredibly busy in all the best ways. Sex is fun. Sex is exhilarating. Sex is the best kind of exercise I’ve ever known.”
Grunting, Number-Two goes back to staring at the floor.
“You still have your stitches in, right?”
I take a step away from the table and look down at my pants-covered legs. “How did you move from sex to stitches? That doesn’t even make sense.”
“I’m asking because I wouldn’t put it past you to have removed them on your own, and I’m not there to stop you from doing dumb shit.”
“I think you forgot you’re talking to your chief, Doctor Emeri. Wish to rephrase your accusation?”
“I stand by what I said. Are they still in?”
I inch forward again and draw Agosti’s intestines out of his body. “Yes. Archer’s been riding me about them, too. He said I have to keep them in.”
“At least one of you has common sense.”
“Did you call only to badger me, Doctor Emeri? Because I’m down an autopsy tech this week, and my workload is kinda heavy.”
“That’s why I called, actually.”
I scoop Agosti’s large intestines up and place the sausage-like length in a clean steel bowl. “How so?”
“I saw the mass accident on the freeway.”
“You saw it? As in, you were there?”
“No, I saw it on the news. Traffic isn’t flowing yet, but I caught our van on scene and knew you’d get a bunch of fresh meat today. I can come in if you w—”
“No, thank you.” I set the bowl with the first and drag my gloves away, all so I can pick up the camera and snap, snap, snap some images.
“You may not be in Jamaica, Doctor Emeri, but you’re still on your honeymoon.
If you come to work, Tim will pout, and if he pouts, he might not let me have custody of my coffee machine. ”
“Your coffee machine?”
“Yeah, the one at the bar. I want to move it into my new bedroom, since it has a little kitchenette space and, oh my gosh, how amazing would it be to consume my first coffee of the day before I even have to leave my bedroom? No Cato. Not even clothes, if I don’t want to.
That’s our space now, mine and Archer’s, and having a coffee machine in there would make everything a million times better. ”
“Sounds like you’ve adapted to your new lifestyle inside a mansion. Didn’t take you long.”
“Hush. You’re the one who lives in a mansion. I’m just staying at someone else’s unusually large house until Steve feels better. Then everything goes back the way it was.”
“You think so?” She laughs. “You moving back to the apartment in a few months, Chief? Even after you’ve become accustomed to coffee-machine-in-your-bedroom, and ensuite-bathroom life?”
“A few months?” I scoff. “No. A few weeks. This isn’t a forever thing.”
“Mmhm. If you say so. What are you working on right now?”
I lower the camera and shoot a look across to Numbers One and Two. “DB. Mid-fifties. Unattended death. Apparent suicide.”
“Apparent?”
“Slit his wrists. But you know how it goes: we have to run the case from start to finish and rule out foul play. Vic appears to have lived a sedentary lifestyle. Cardio health is down. Lungs were compromised. Fatty tissue surrounds every organ. White-collar kind of guy. Married.”
“Who found him?”
“The wife, I believe.”
“Archer and Fletch are primaries?”
“Er… nope. I’m not sure what they’re working on today.
” I set the camera down and pull on a fresh pair of gloves.
And seeing as how this is not a real case, and there will be no court appearance for me to testify at, I reach in with a scalpel and slice the pulmonary artery clean in half.
“He was damn near clogged, Aubs. Pulmonary plaque buildup was at…” I flip my shield down and lean closer, thrilled at the opportunity to work with less scientific care.
Instead, I grab the edges of Agosti’s artery kind of how I would the opening of a standard party balloon if I wanted to look inside. “He was at about twenty percent.”
“Impact?”
“No, functionality. It’s too bad,” I grumble to myself. Even without the slit wrists, he would’ve died soon, anyway. “I swear, he might’ve eaten a block of butter for breakfast six days a week.”
“You mention suicide, but you also note bad lungs and a busted heart. Perhaps he knew he was sick and went out on his own terms.”
“Hm. Maybe.” I use the tip of my scalpel to widen the incision and squeeze Agosti’s artery. It’s almost like popping a pimple, satisfying in a horrifyingly gross way. “What are you up to today?”
“Besides coming to the office?”
I snort. “You’re not coming in. If the sex was even half as good as you claim it is, you’d happily stay with T3 and let him have his way.”
“Calling him T3 is crass, even for you. And he’s been having his way. A lot. I have beard rash on my thighs, and I’m severely dehydrated.” And to prove her point, she noisily chugs what I assume is water. “I’m tired. I’m sore.”
“You’re young and limber,” I snicker. “You’ll be fine.”
“His stamina is surprising, considering how little exercise he manages outside the bedroom.”
“Must be good genes.” My cheeks burn bright red as our conversation takes a turn I wasn’t entirely planning on.
Peeking up from my work, I get caught in Number-One’s hard stare, and Number-Two’s complete and total inability to meet my eyes at all.
He’s squeamish. And shy. “You didn’t answer my question, Doctor Emeri. What are your plans for today?”
“Dunno.” She sets her water glass down with a noisy clatter. “Suppose I could wander over to your place while you’re not home and take a dip in the pool.”
And run into Felix, Micah, and Cato? No thanks.
“Mia accidentally pooped in the pool yesterday.”
“What?”
“Right! So gross. She didn’t mean to, but when a girl’s gotta go, ya know?
Fletch scooped the turd out, and Archer called someone to take care of the chemicals or whatever.
But they can’t come until later today, which means our pool is currently closed.
You have that massive tub in your bathroom. Fill it up and take a swim.”
“In my bathtub?”
“It’s huge, Aubree. You’re not showing adequate appreciation for the amenities in your mansion.”
“Large house.”
“Castle. Have you made a decision on the baby stuff yet?”
Number-Two clears his throat softly, tapping his watch. Hurry up, wench! Get back to work.
“About being a surrogate for Eli and Curtis? Not yet. It’s a pretty big deal, and Tim hasn’t wrapped his mind around it yet.”
“Has he said something to indicate he wouldn’t approve?”
“No. But I know his feelings. I’ll know when he’s ready to move forward… or not. I won’t rush him into it.”
“How do you feel about it? Do you want to carry your brother’s baby?”
In my peripherals, Number-One’s eyes narrow.
“I think…” She inhales deeply—no shitty-lungs rattle for her. “I think I would love to give them this gift. It’s entirely within my power to make his and Curtis’ dreams come true.”
“So you’re in? In theory.”
“No. Not yet. Because, although I can, and I kinda want to, growing a child inside my body is no small thing. I’ll bond with this baby. Maybe I’ll mourn it when we’re done.”
“It’s not like they’re moving to Aruba the second this is done. That baby will live and grow up fifteen minutes from your front door.”
“I know. But there’s still a lot to consider. Mentally. Emotionally. Physically. Nine months of carrying a human inside me will put a strain on my body. It may put a strain on my marriage. It’s entirely possible Tim might feel weird about being intimate while I have that baby inside me.”
I push up straight and turn toward my phone, my brows punching tight. “Has he said he’d feel weird about it?”
“No. But I—”
“Know his feelings.” Of course. I forgot. “So you’re out?”
“I’m neither in nor out! I’m in the information collection phase.
The emotion-processing phase. Eli isn’t rushing me, and I won’t rush Tim.
I got married—for the second time—approximately forty-eight hours ago, so for today, and probably for this week, I intend to focus on that.
When I have the capacity to do so, I’ll revisit the surrogacy stuff. ”
“Which brings us full circle.” I snag a fresh bowl and spin back to Agosti, then I bring my scalpel up again and slice the man’s heart free. “You’re not coming to work this week, and you’re not focusing on the Eli thing. By your own words, you’re focusing on Tim. So… giant bathtub adventures?”
She grunts. “Maybe. My hands are itchy.”
“Uh…” I scoop Agosti’s organ clear of his chest. “Are you bragging about your financial status again?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“According to superstition, itchy palms are thought to indicate a financial windfall.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
I snort. “And if not that, then itchy palms could be a sign of liver disease. Are you drinking water, Doctor Emeri, or vodka? Can you tell the difference?”
Number-Two quits rubbing his palms together and shoves his hands behind his back.
“I meant I was itching to come back to work, doofus!” Aubree bounds up from wherever she’s sitting—a kitchen stool, I think—and stalks across tile flooring, before the sound of ice cubes clattering into a glass gives her away.
“Being off work is sending me insane. I caught the MV pile-up on the news and—karma forgive me—the idea I could get in on that excited me a little.”
“You’re sick.” I place Agosti’s heart with the rest of what I’ve taken, then I move to the long counter and select a syringe from the drawer beneath. “I’ve already received most of the bodies coming in from that accident, Doctor Emeri, and I’ve delegated them appropriately.”
“Yeah, but I—”
“You’re not needed.” I tear the plastic packaging off the syringe and toss it into a separate bowl, then I stop beside my phone and smile. For who? Who knows. “I’m busy, Aubree, and you have a bathtub to fill.”
“But—”
“No buts. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Minka!”
“Byeeeee.” I end our call, then I wander toward Agosti’s top end, knowing I should have done this step first, and shrugging anyway. Not like Beavis and Butthead know any different. “I’m going to draw what is called vitreous humor from our John Doe’s eye.”
“You’ll—”
“The juicy, gel-type stuff that makes up about eighty percent of the fluid in our eyes. It’s a clear, thick liquid mostly made of water, hyaluronic acid, and collagen proteins.”
“His eyeball?” Number-Two’s voice trembles. “You’re going to—”
I slide the needle straight into Agosti’s eye and pull the plunger.
Number-Two swallows, exhaling a heavy, shaky breath. “I-is that necessary?”
“It’s crucial, actually. We can’t take these fluids from a live patient—obviously, unless we want to blind them—but when a patient is deceased, it’s fair game.
Better yet, it exists within its own insulated sack, which means it’s protected from the effects of decomposition.
While the rest of the body starts to break down the moment our hearts stop beating, the vitreous humor provides insight and maintains integrity significantly longer than its counterparts.
By collecting this fluid, we can ascertain things like glucose levels, urea nitrogen, ketones, creatinine, electrolytes, and more.
” Finished, I slowly withdraw the needle.
“Not only that, but testing vitreous humor means we can establish certain potential, but non-obvious conditions like diabetic ketoacidosis and hyponatremia.”
Cruelly taunting, I point the needle straight up and press the plunger, squirting a tiny amount of fluid into the air, before it falls back onto my gloved hand. “It’s a treasure trove of information.”
Gagging, Number-Two spins on his heels and almost tears the door clear off its hinges on his way to freedom.
“Guess he has a weak stomach, huh? What would Estefan think of that?”
“You’re trouble, Chief Mayet.” Number-One remains exactly where he is, his eyes aimed directly over top of my head and his jaw locked tight. “You think you can annoy us out of here?”
“No. But it’s a bit like sex, don’t you think?”
Curiosity gets the better of him, his gaze flickering to mine.
“Sex is, in the most technical sense, meant to be in the pursuit of making a child. I don’t want children, but I like having sex. Similarly, I don’t necessarily feel like I need to annoy you and your colleagues away.” I flash a teasing grin. “But it sure is fun trying.”