Page 10 of Sinful Seduction
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. “DidPatten 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. Thatisgood 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 thewhat-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 thewhat-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.
Five is when the radio host’s shift ends. She says her goodbyes and welcomes in the next voices, a male-female duet who have their faces on billboards and pearly white Colgate smiles that guarantee they spend a small fortune and significant time in a dentist’s chair.
Or they never,everconsume coffee.
But considering their workday begins at five in the damn morning, I can only assume it’s the former.
Already, warmth pelts against the glass walls of the George Stanley, and as the city wakes and power consumption grows, the lights above my cold steel table dim and flicker.
I walk the last of my samples to the back wall and place them with everything I’ve already collected, including a single fragmented bullet casing that’ll be picked up by the detectives at some point and tendered as evidence in a homicide case, then glancing to what’s left of a kid, just a boy a few short years ago, I stretch my arms backwards and extend my chest forward, trying to relieve the compression of my poor posture. I crack bones and groan in the base of my throat, and studying my patient, I cross to him and fix his sheet, covering his youthful face and the pimples he still sports.
The razor burn on his chin. The healing scar below his bottom lip of what may have resulted from a physical fight once upon a time.
These are the things we’ll never know, because he’s no longer here to answer us.
