“So let me get this straight,” sighed the captain. He pinched the bridge of his nose with thick fingers. The nameplate on his desk read ‘James P. Barker’.

Detective Bell stood imperiously in front of him, arms crossed, eyebrow arched.

I sat in a chair behind the detective holding a cup of sludge the evil front lady from the black lagoon had deceptively (and, no doubt, maliciously) fronted as ‘coffee.'

“Someone stole a dead-not-really-dead body. Which makes it a kidnapping. Which means...” the captain waved his hands vaguely in the air.

“I need the a forensics team on this ASAP. Top priority,” said Bell. The captain scoffed.

“Not happening.”

“Captain, a girl got kidnapped,” she said slowly. “This doesn’t strike you as urgent?”

“Allegedly,” rumbled the captain. “Allegedly a girl got allegedly kidnapped. From a morgue. Allegedly by a man with tattoos on his face,” he sighed. “It sounds like rubbish, Bell.”

“And what about the hand marks in the unit?” she snapped.

He scowled down at the pictures on Bell’s phone.

I quietly took a sip. Regret was immediate.

“It could have been the corpse’s hands as it was taken out,” the captain growled, shifting in his seat uncomfortably.

“That doesn’t track, captain, and you know it,” Bell said determinedly. “Even if it wasn’t in a body bag, what kind of corpse gets left with its arms like that?”

“And how’s this girl supposed to have survived in there?” he fired back.

Detective Bell turned to look at me.

“Pre-autopsy, the unit’s environment wouldn’t immediately kill anyone,” I said. “Even after twelve hours, worst case scenario you’d get would be a moderate case of hypothermia.”

She looked back at the captain.

“Who’s the nerd?” he rumbled. He eyed me as if seeing me for the first time. Which he probably was.

“He’s the mortician from the morgue,” said Bell.

“Medical examiner,” I corrected.

The captain grunted and glanced down at a copy of the report on his desk.

“Male, six and a half feet, muscular, face tattoos, Kevlar vest, black fatigue pants, black combat boots,” he read aloud, then snorted. “That’s a thug out of a spy movie, not a criminal in real life.”

I shrugged.

“Knocks you out,” he continued reading. “Next thing you know, poof,” he gestured, looking back up at me. “Body gone.”

He turned his head slightly but kept his eyes fixed on mine.

“You buy that, Bell?”

“He’s here for a reason, cap,” she replied.

“You said I was here to corroborate your story,” I accused.

“Good,” the captain nodded, ignoring me. He leaned back in his chair and looked up at Bell. “But you queue up for forensics just like everyone else.”

“And to see a sketch artist,” I added, lamely.

“Last time I had to wait two weeks for test results on a paint chip that should have taken an hour,” she said hotly.

“That’s just how it is, detective,” the captain shrugged. “It’s a system we all have to work with.”

“You bumped up Ernie last week!” she argued.

“That was on a case for the mayor,” he rumbled unconvincingly.

“And you bumped up Dwight before that!” she pressed. I looked out the office windows. A couple of people were peeking in on the conversation.

“That was for a double homicide!” he said, turning red. He pointed a finger at Bell. “I’m asking you to get some sort of proof-”

“It’s right there in front of you!” Bell said loudly, pointing at her phone.

“Faded streaks in a body fridge?” said the captain, speaking over her. A group was beginning to gather outside the office. “You’re trying to shove this down my throat with a couple of pictures you took on a cell phone?!”

“And a witness!” she flung an angry hand in my direction.

“Who might as well be a suspect!” He slammed an angry fist down onto his desk, tipping over a cup of writing utensils. Pens and pencils spilled out onto the desk and floor.

Neither of them moved to clean it up.

“Months and months of missing dogs and stolen bikes,” Bell said quietly. “That’s not detective work. That’s a mud stomp. The first sniff I get of a real case and you’re tagging me with so much dead weight it’ll grow cold before I get a second look.”

She stared evenly at the captain who suddenly refused to make eye contact.

“Ever since-”

He held up a hand and took off his glasses with the other. He sighed loudly and ran a hand over his face, muttering incomprehensibly to himself. He heaved himself out of his chair.

Detective Bell and I watched him lumber past her to the door. He opened it halfway and stuck his head out.

Half of the department blinked back at him.

“SCRAM!” he bellowed. There was a sudden hubbub as police officers, detectives, phone operators, office workers, and one evil bequeather of foul brews, suddenly remembered they had an urgently important job to do.

He glared around before shutting the door.

“Ok, Bell, let’s talk straight,” he rumbled softly, turning around.

“Captain?”

I vaguely wondered if they remembered I was still here.

“You’re right,” he said. “It’s a mud stomp. But it’s the best I could give you.”

She looked at him as if she couldn’t decide whether to be angry or confused.

“Ever since the Mulligan case-”

“That wasn’t my fault, sir, and you know it,” Bell snapped, a little too quickly. A slight blush spread across her cheeks. Barker waited a moment.

“But it was your case.”

“If the commissioner and his board,” she almost spat. “Aren’t happy with my work, then they can-”

“Yea, let’s talk about your work, Bell,” the captain cut in tiredly. He put his glasses back on and leaned back against his desk. “You’ve been a detective now for two years, right?”

“Two and a half, Captain,” Bell said stiffly.

“Twenty-six months next Tuesday,” Barker shot back. Bell blinked in surprise.

“You’ve had four cases, all homicides,” he said. “Norris, Bittaker, Rader, and Gaskin.” He ticked them off on his fingers. Bell looked at him with a strange expression.

“They were good cases, Bell,” he continued, not noticing. “Fast, clean, cases. Damn good work.” He looked at her evenly.

“But the Mulligan was a downright mess,” he said, frankly. “If it weren't for your previous work, the commissioner would have kicked you down to traffic months ago.”

“But I had nothing to do with it,” she said angrily.

“But it happened on your case, Bell,” the captain said, doggedly. “Your case. You were the detective. And whether it was directly your fault or not, it went down on your watch. Press got involved. The mayor had to make a statement. Mulligan walked.”

Bell opened her mouth to speak. The captain raised his hand, stopping her before she could.

“There’s no point arguing, Bell. It’s just how it is. You make even one mistake, in this case, bend one rule, the commissioner'll give you the boot as quick as that.” He snapped his fingers. “Doesn’t matter what I say.”

Bell looked as if there were a dozen things she wanted to say at once. The captain crossed his arms and waited patiently.

After a long moment, she nodded jerkily. He grunted.

“Knew you’d get there,” he growled, then added gently. “You’ll be fine, Bell.”

She nodded again.

“Now,” he said. “Don’t you have a suspect to interrogate?”

Believe you me, of all the bad times to be caught secretly feeding fake coffee to an office plant. This one takes the cake.

---------------------------

I shifted uncomfortably in my metal chair. A solitary lamp hung overhead, reflected by a one-way mirror that took up most of the wall next to the door.

I squinted up at the ceiling. Something wasn’t sitting right in the back of my mind. I kept getting the feeling I forgot something important.

The door swung open, interrupting my thoughts.

“You’re quite the law abiding citizen, Mr. Rucker,” Detective Bell said briskly. She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. She held a manila folder under her arm.

“I do what I can.”

“Don’t we all.” She smiled coldly and sat across from me. “No felonies, no misdemeanors, no warrants, no arrests, not even a traffic violation.” She arched her eyebrows. “That’s pretty impressive.”

I shrugged. “I live a simple life?”

“Simple lives are dirtier than people think, Mr. Rucker.” She opened the folder and shuffled through the papers. “Lives are dirty and messy. Cops know this better than anyone.” She held up a handful of papers. “This is neither.”

I spread my hands. “What can I do to help.”

“Can you describe to me your whereabouts and activities yesterday?” She pulled out a blank sheet of paper and clicked open a pen from behind her ear. I frowned a little, trying to remember.

“Are you looking for certain hours? Or will the day in general do.”

“If you could be specific about hours, that’d be helpful.” She nodded. “But I’ll work with whatever you remember.”

I thought another moment.

“I don’t know, detective,” I said, finally. “I’m a pretty boring guy. I rent my own apartment. I live alone. I go to work around nine or ten at night. I microwave my meals at work. I leave around six in the morning. I go home and sleep during the day...” I shrugged. “Not much to say.”

“Tell me about your work.”

“I work as a forensic pathologist, or medical examiner, at the county morgue. I clean, examine, report, then prep the body for the mortician.” She looked up from her note taking.

“What’s the difference?”

“The mortician’s the one who officially prepares the body for the viewing. They’re also the one who meets with the family, discusses plans, prepares the chapel. More business, less science. The medical examiner’s the one who writes the reports you read. Time and cause of death, tox screens, possible murder weapons, wounds, all that stuff.”

She made a thoughtful sound, then looked back down to her notes.

“Do you know what time the body arrived?”

“Six, maybe seven?” I guessed. “They’re always there before I get there.”

She nodded, pen scratching away.

“Do you know what you were doing around that time?”

I thought for a moment. “Probably either getting up or getting ready for work.”

“Is there anyone who can confirm that?”

I shook my head. “No, I’m the only person in my apartment,” I said, then added. “But the doorman might have seen me leave.”

She nodded, scribbling furiously, mumbling to herself as she followed along.

“Do you know where the body might have come from?” I shook my head.

“No, those sort of details aren’t really relevant to the job.” Then I remembered. “But it’s in her specifications. You should have a copy.”

She furrowed her brow and put her pen down. She opened her folder and flipped through the documents, stopping to read one.

“You sure?” she asked, still reading.

“Yea, why?”

She pulled out the sheet and pushed it over. The stamp box under “Transferred From:” was empty.

“Huh.”

“Huh?” she echoed. “What do you mean, ‘huh’?”

“I mean ‘huh’ as in ‘hey look at that, the box is empty.'”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Mr. Rucker, you are a suspect in a criminal case concerning the potential kidnapping, if not worse, of a minor. Mouth off again and I’ll detain you faster than you can blink.” She looked

I nodded meekly.

“So how did you not notice this before?”

“Eight years on the job,” I reminded her. “After a while, you stop noticing all the little details. I usually only pick up on the relevant details. Male, female. Young, old. Missing limbs. Stuff like that.”

She nodded, understanding. I frowned thoughtfully.

“But this wouldn’t have gotten very far,” I mused softly, reading over the page.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, it might have gotten past the first look.” I followed my train of thought. “But no way it makes past me without getting jammed.”

“How so?”

“Let’s say I get a body. The body comes in and suddenly I’ve got a bunch of emails in my inbox that all have to do with the one body. Property forms, legal forms, mountains of the stuff. Well, the first thing I do is as I told you. Read over the fun details, check specifications, things I need to know so I can prep.”

She nodded, following.

“Then I prep the body for examination, print out the specs, then fill in the blanks,” I said, pointing out the other empty boxes labeled “Cause of death:” or “Estimated time of death (if applicable):”

“That’s also where you stamp under ‘Received At,'” said Detective Bell, jumping ahead. I nodded.

“Exactly, and if I find anything wrong with the document, the body immediately goes into deep freeze. No questions. No one touches it until everything gets sorted out, which could take months.”

Detective Bell scribbled furiously, then read over her notes before looking up.

“Are you the only medical examiner?”

“The only overnight one.” She studied me. I could almost see the gears turning in her head.

“Mr. Rucker,” she said finally. “Are you sure you know nothing about the girl?”

I nodded tiredly.

She sighed and put her pen down and neatly piled her papers together.

“Stay in town, Mr. Rucker.”