AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Doctor Cleary, you’re needed on the first floor. Urgently.”
“I have to go, guys.” She’s already walking, almost jogging. Her sneakers squeak on the linoleum, and her stethoscope bounces on her chest as she moves. “It was nice seeing you, Arch. We should catch up sometime soon. Double date.”
“Yeah.” I wave her off, effectively giving her permission to turn on her feet and sprint to wherever she has to go. Then I look to Fletch and draw a breath large enough to fill my lungs and expand my chest. “Shit. Are we looking for one killer, or a dozen of them?”
“Only one killed Corrigan,” he counters easily. “Maybe two, since one had to hold the cooler. The rest were accessories after the fact. Gale?”
“Yeah.” I move toward the operating rooms. “Let’s go find him and see if he gets defensive the way Minka and Nicki did.”
“And since we’re pretty confident neither Delicious nor Cleary killed a man this week, I guess we can’t count on Gale’s defensiveness to be an indicator of guilt.”
“Awesome.” I drop my hands in my pockets and scan the signage on each door as we pass. “So far, we haven’t got shit. But we’ve got a couple of doctors pissed at us and inclined to refuse treatment if we’re ever hurt in the future.”
With nothing more to say, Fletch only chuckles. “Yay for us.”
MINKA
“This is Doctor Minka Mayet, lead medical examiner for the body found inside her home on this day, March fifteenth, two thousand and twenty-two. Victim is identified as Chelsea Bailee. Seven years old.”
I wear gloves on my hands, and booties covering my shoes, because the scene is… not pleasant.
I stand over the child and swallow down the rage that bubbles in my blood. “Blonde and blue,” I speak for the record. “Approximately four feet, three or four inches. Fifty to fifty-five pounds.” I lean closer and study the bruises circling her delicate wrists. “Please zoom in on this, Doctor Emeri.”
“Yeah.” Aubree keeps a tight hold on her temper and snaps a dozen more photographs.
“Possible distal fracture, left side,” I mutter. “We’ll take x-rays to confirm when we have her in-house. Additional bruising on her ribs. Chest. Lower abdomen.”
“Jesus,” Aubree whimpers. “Jesus, Minka.”
“Pull it in,” I growl in response. Looking to my colleague, I study her with eyes hardened out of necessity. If I let myself feel, we all lose. “Professionalism. Composure. Work the case, Doctor Emeri. Victim’s thighs are bruised, and her ankle, dislocated. Right side.”
“Right side,” she grits out, panning her camera downward. “Got it.”
Over our shoulders, a detective out of Midtown peers closer, imposing on our scene. “Can you tell us anything, Doctors?”
“He restrained her. Injuries to her wrists and ankles confirm she fought back.” Bile rises in my throat when I think of what she went through. Of the torture she experienced before the mercy of death. “She tried to escape.”
“What was she restrained with?” Like Fletch and Archer, Detective Franklin vibrates with a desperate need for any morsel of information he can take to the streets to hunt down this killer. “Rope? Tape? Plastic?”
“Hands on her wrists,” I answer. “Potentially zipties on her ankles; ligature marks indicate something narrow and hard. We’ll check that when we take her back to the lab, too.”
“We’ll probably be able to narrow down exactly what the killer used,” Aubree fills in. “And if it’s a ziptie, we’ll get you size, length, and brand before the day’s out.”
“We’ll get approximate hand size too,” I add. “Male or female. Soft skin or calloused. Doctor Emeri?” I nod toward the little girl’s fingernails. “There appears to be a sticky residue of some sort. Bag her hands, we’ll take samples to see what we find.”
“Got it.” Setting down her camera, Aubree goes back to our bag and takes out her supplies. “Approximate time of death?”
I glance across and watch as she fusses with her things. Shaking hands. Shuddering breath. Then I look back to Chelsea and know that Aubree focuses on each step of her task purely so she doesn’t have to think about the fact our work is a little girl, dehumanized by a monster.
“She’s been dead for approximately twelve hours,” I answer. For her. For the cops. For the record. I peer over my shoulder and meet the detective’s eyes. “I’m curious where her parents were all night, since it’s clear Chelsea was unsupervised for the last twelve.”
“Mom was working,” Franklin responds immediately. “Single mother, works three jobs. She called this in when she got home and discovered her daughter’s body.”
“Does she typically leave her kid home alone all damn night?” I growl.
Emotions war inside my heart to be set free. To hurt those who failed this sweet girl, and avenge a life taken too soon. Too cruelly. But I swallow the fire and fist my hands instead. I rein in my rage and bite down the vicious words I’d like to spew all over the cop and his silent partner.
I can’t chastise Aubree for feeling, only to turn around and lose my shit while standing over Chelsea’s broken body.
