Part Three
Jan. 15th, 2012 12:09 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
intheheartTitle: Part Three
Rating: PG.
Summary: Summer misses quite a few things and the plot arrives with a vengeance.
Date: December 29th, 2028.
Notes: I finally know what's going on in the thriller, so now you can have plot.
Something was very wrong here.
Summer frowned at the draft of her report. Her neat bullet points did not add up. They should have added up. There was no reason for them not to add up. But nevertheless, they did not.
She tapped her pencil's eraser gently against the counter while she thought, one tap for each point.
1) There was very little blood at the scene. Certainly not enough for a slit throat and several stab wounds.
2) She had assumed it was because the body (Eric Kurtz, Caucasian, forty-six, 5'11" and 195 pounds) was killed elsewhere and then dumped.
3) But no, the autopsy showed it was because most of the blood was still inside the body.
4) Ergo, Kurtz was not killed by stabbing.
In fact, judging by how the blood congealed and pooled, she assumed that the body was lying in one place for a long time before being cut and stabbed and dumped. Perhaps six hours. Someone didn't think about how bodies work.
Just the same as that body Felipe and Officer Ryan had found last fall.
Connection? she wrote at last, and made a note to look up the name of the victim in the fall. A question mark, because she might just be linking them because Felipe and Officer Ryan had brought this one in too. Felipe said Officer Ryan was really angry about that too; something about being crimes against property but catching all the homicides. Not that she understood why he was upset. Didn't all the uniforms want to work homicide? Blood and guts and glory. Boys.
Still, two men, months apart, with similar uncertain CODs and similar clumsy attempts at coverups...
Summer returned to her notes and added, Not organized crime, because the city's gangsters had more pride than that. She thought about that for a moment, then added, Unless they're new, because she supposed even hit men had a learning curve.
Someone knocked on her doorframe just then, and she glanced up, irritated, but a little anticipatory at the same time. She half-expected it to be Officer Ryan, and was prepared to respond in kind, however he treated her. After Christmas... maybe...
But it wasn't Officer Ryan; it was someone tall and dark and interrupting.
"What?" she snapped, and didn't bother to get up. "I'm busy."
"Dr. Kendall, I presume?" the man asked, sounding far too pleasant for someone who'd just been snapped at. "I'm Jason Dacre. May I speak with you a moment?"
Summer thawed a bit, intrigued because he'd used 'may' correctly. "As long as it's fast," she said, and flipped her notes to the blank side. She still took notes on paper when doing an autopsy, because she thought better when writing things down; her colleagues thought it strange, but they already thought her strange. One more odd habit would hardly hurt her reputation any more.
"It should take hardly any time at all," he said, reassuringly. "I only want to talk about Eric Kurtz."
She blinked, and glanced at the gurney that she'd take back to the freezer when she was finished. She'd left Kurtz's face uncovered, as she usually did. It seemed more homey to her, almost like he was keeping her company while she wrote up her report. "What about him?"
Dacre glanced at the body, and made an expression that she only barely caught, it went by so fast. She had no chance of identifying it at that speed, so made a note that it been there. "May we speak elsewhere, Dr. Kendall? Somewhere more comfortable?"
Any interest Summer had in him evaporated, and she straightened in her seat. "This is a professional conversation," she replied, frostily. "It deserves a professional setting."
And she liked the morgue. It was quiet, warm in winter and cool in summer, a place where she felt comfortable. The dead hardly bothered her; they were past all pain, poor things, and could do nothing to harm her anymore. She was safe with them-- the dead didn't judge, after all-- and she tried to make them safe, too, protected and cared for as she had been. She kept them company here, helped to give them ease and rest, helped to find their families and their murderers if they had any of either.
Other people were usually vaguely freaked out by that. Summer had learned, through long practice, not to care. This was a good place for her, a comfortable place.
Besides, rather more practically, she didn't know Jason Dacre from Adam and he hadn't shown any ID (to her, anyway; he must have to get into the morgue). Her brothers and sisters, blood-related and not, had taught her well enough that you didn't go wandering off with strangers. Being alone with him was pushing it, but there were police in and out of the morgue all day (and night, too, which it was). She was hardly in any danger.
"A professional setting," Jason Dacre repeated, and sighed. "Very well, I suppose this is as professional as it gets."
Summer saw no reason to respond to that and pointedly picked up her notes again. "Mr. Dacre, I have work to do. If you have a purpose, please state it."
A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Direct. I like that. Very well." He wandered over to the gurney and stood over Kurtz, hands behind his back, frowning thoughtfully down at the body. "I suppose you've learned a bit about this man by now? He was a drug dealer, did you know that?"
"No," Summer said. "I fail to see how it is relevant to my report, either. If it contributed to his death the detective will figure it out." She pointed the eraser of her pencil at Dacre. "If you'd like to speak with her, I can arrange that."
He looked, for some reason, amused at the thought. "No, thank you. I'm sure she'll find it out on her own."
"She will," Summer said. "She's very good. Please make your point."
His smile disappeared. "I am, Dr. Kendall. Most of us are not as direct as you are."
"Most people," she said tartly, "don't have a backlog of bodies from a three-day vacation." She was still angry about that. Only three days with her family, and she came back to find the morgue almost full. There were other MEs, why weren't they doing their jobs? "I shoudn't even be here right now."
"Yes," Dacre said. "You're working overtime, aren't you? Things get lost when people do too much too fast. It would be a shame if Mr. Kurtz's autopsy results were to disappear."
She scowled at him, insulted. "I never lose autospy results," she informed him.
His eyebrows went up. "Really? I had been under the impression you were still in your clinical fellowship year. Beginners make mistakes. I'm sure your superiors won't mind."
Won't mind? That was a strange phrasing. She'd have to ask someone about it later. "They might not," she said. "I would. I do my job right, thank you."
Dacre caught her gaze and held it, until she was just uncomfortable enough to look away. When she looked back, he was right next to her, staring down at her with a thunderous look hovering behind his eyes. "Dr. Kendall, you are not a rich woman, are you?"
She blinked at him, blindsided. What did that have to do with anything? "Not particularly," she said. "Why?"
"It may be relevant." The thunderous look was replaced by a sudden melting, pleading expression. "Please, Summer-- may I call you Summer?"
"No," she snapped.
He smiled, the way that her odious ex-uncle smiled at her when he thought she was being a child, and said, "Summer, you really must understand. This man was a drug dealer who sold to children. No one will notice or care that he's gone. I'm surprised the police are investigating, frankly."
"The police," Summer said, icily, "are investigating because it is their job to investigate, and because they care about what happens to everyone. Not just the people you think are worthy." She slapped her notes and her report down on the counter. "Now get out of my lab. I have work to do." She turned her back on him.
He sighed, heavily, so close that his breath ruffled her hair. "I don't think I can do that, Summer," he said.
Summer huffed out an indignant breath and turned on him. "Excuse me, who do y--" She stopped mid-syllable, frozen in sudden fear.
He was holding a gun, and he was pointing it at her.
"Come on now, Summer," he said, tone almost gentle. "We're going to take a little walk."
Rating: PG.
Summary: Summer misses quite a few things and the plot arrives with a vengeance.
Date: December 29th, 2028.
Notes: I finally know what's going on in the thriller, so now you can have plot.
Something was very wrong here.
Summer frowned at the draft of her report. Her neat bullet points did not add up. They should have added up. There was no reason for them not to add up. But nevertheless, they did not.
She tapped her pencil's eraser gently against the counter while she thought, one tap for each point.
1) There was very little blood at the scene. Certainly not enough for a slit throat and several stab wounds.
2) She had assumed it was because the body (Eric Kurtz, Caucasian, forty-six, 5'11" and 195 pounds) was killed elsewhere and then dumped.
3) But no, the autopsy showed it was because most of the blood was still inside the body.
4) Ergo, Kurtz was not killed by stabbing.
In fact, judging by how the blood congealed and pooled, she assumed that the body was lying in one place for a long time before being cut and stabbed and dumped. Perhaps six hours. Someone didn't think about how bodies work.
Just the same as that body Felipe and Officer Ryan had found last fall.
Connection? she wrote at last, and made a note to look up the name of the victim in the fall. A question mark, because she might just be linking them because Felipe and Officer Ryan had brought this one in too. Felipe said Officer Ryan was really angry about that too; something about being crimes against property but catching all the homicides. Not that she understood why he was upset. Didn't all the uniforms want to work homicide? Blood and guts and glory. Boys.
Still, two men, months apart, with similar uncertain CODs and similar clumsy attempts at coverups...
Summer returned to her notes and added, Not organized crime, because the city's gangsters had more pride than that. She thought about that for a moment, then added, Unless they're new, because she supposed even hit men had a learning curve.
Someone knocked on her doorframe just then, and she glanced up, irritated, but a little anticipatory at the same time. She half-expected it to be Officer Ryan, and was prepared to respond in kind, however he treated her. After Christmas... maybe...
But it wasn't Officer Ryan; it was someone tall and dark and interrupting.
"What?" she snapped, and didn't bother to get up. "I'm busy."
"Dr. Kendall, I presume?" the man asked, sounding far too pleasant for someone who'd just been snapped at. "I'm Jason Dacre. May I speak with you a moment?"
Summer thawed a bit, intrigued because he'd used 'may' correctly. "As long as it's fast," she said, and flipped her notes to the blank side. She still took notes on paper when doing an autopsy, because she thought better when writing things down; her colleagues thought it strange, but they already thought her strange. One more odd habit would hardly hurt her reputation any more.
"It should take hardly any time at all," he said, reassuringly. "I only want to talk about Eric Kurtz."
She blinked, and glanced at the gurney that she'd take back to the freezer when she was finished. She'd left Kurtz's face uncovered, as she usually did. It seemed more homey to her, almost like he was keeping her company while she wrote up her report. "What about him?"
Dacre glanced at the body, and made an expression that she only barely caught, it went by so fast. She had no chance of identifying it at that speed, so made a note that it been there. "May we speak elsewhere, Dr. Kendall? Somewhere more comfortable?"
Any interest Summer had in him evaporated, and she straightened in her seat. "This is a professional conversation," she replied, frostily. "It deserves a professional setting."
And she liked the morgue. It was quiet, warm in winter and cool in summer, a place where she felt comfortable. The dead hardly bothered her; they were past all pain, poor things, and could do nothing to harm her anymore. She was safe with them-- the dead didn't judge, after all-- and she tried to make them safe, too, protected and cared for as she had been. She kept them company here, helped to give them ease and rest, helped to find their families and their murderers if they had any of either.
Other people were usually vaguely freaked out by that. Summer had learned, through long practice, not to care. This was a good place for her, a comfortable place.
Besides, rather more practically, she didn't know Jason Dacre from Adam and he hadn't shown any ID (to her, anyway; he must have to get into the morgue). Her brothers and sisters, blood-related and not, had taught her well enough that you didn't go wandering off with strangers. Being alone with him was pushing it, but there were police in and out of the morgue all day (and night, too, which it was). She was hardly in any danger.
"A professional setting," Jason Dacre repeated, and sighed. "Very well, I suppose this is as professional as it gets."
Summer saw no reason to respond to that and pointedly picked up her notes again. "Mr. Dacre, I have work to do. If you have a purpose, please state it."
A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Direct. I like that. Very well." He wandered over to the gurney and stood over Kurtz, hands behind his back, frowning thoughtfully down at the body. "I suppose you've learned a bit about this man by now? He was a drug dealer, did you know that?"
"No," Summer said. "I fail to see how it is relevant to my report, either. If it contributed to his death the detective will figure it out." She pointed the eraser of her pencil at Dacre. "If you'd like to speak with her, I can arrange that."
He looked, for some reason, amused at the thought. "No, thank you. I'm sure she'll find it out on her own."
"She will," Summer said. "She's very good. Please make your point."
His smile disappeared. "I am, Dr. Kendall. Most of us are not as direct as you are."
"Most people," she said tartly, "don't have a backlog of bodies from a three-day vacation." She was still angry about that. Only three days with her family, and she came back to find the morgue almost full. There were other MEs, why weren't they doing their jobs? "I shoudn't even be here right now."
"Yes," Dacre said. "You're working overtime, aren't you? Things get lost when people do too much too fast. It would be a shame if Mr. Kurtz's autopsy results were to disappear."
She scowled at him, insulted. "I never lose autospy results," she informed him.
His eyebrows went up. "Really? I had been under the impression you were still in your clinical fellowship year. Beginners make mistakes. I'm sure your superiors won't mind."
Won't mind? That was a strange phrasing. She'd have to ask someone about it later. "They might not," she said. "I would. I do my job right, thank you."
Dacre caught her gaze and held it, until she was just uncomfortable enough to look away. When she looked back, he was right next to her, staring down at her with a thunderous look hovering behind his eyes. "Dr. Kendall, you are not a rich woman, are you?"
She blinked at him, blindsided. What did that have to do with anything? "Not particularly," she said. "Why?"
"It may be relevant." The thunderous look was replaced by a sudden melting, pleading expression. "Please, Summer-- may I call you Summer?"
"No," she snapped.
He smiled, the way that her odious ex-uncle smiled at her when he thought she was being a child, and said, "Summer, you really must understand. This man was a drug dealer who sold to children. No one will notice or care that he's gone. I'm surprised the police are investigating, frankly."
"The police," Summer said, icily, "are investigating because it is their job to investigate, and because they care about what happens to everyone. Not just the people you think are worthy." She slapped her notes and her report down on the counter. "Now get out of my lab. I have work to do." She turned her back on him.
He sighed, heavily, so close that his breath ruffled her hair. "I don't think I can do that, Summer," he said.
Summer huffed out an indignant breath and turned on him. "Excuse me, who do y--" She stopped mid-syllable, frozen in sudden fear.
He was holding a gun, and he was pointing it at her.
"Come on now, Summer," he said, tone almost gentle. "We're going to take a little walk."
