Part Two:
The scariest monsters are ones that lurk in our souls
-Edgar Allen Poe
Wednesday, December 3rd (Afternoon and Night)
Two bodies lay in two black bags, about ready to be taken to the morgue for further examination, but Detective Walkins had already seen enough. He didn't need a medical professional to tell him the things he saw in that alleyway.
He wasn't much used to things like this—homicides and murders. Yes, he had seen a dead body before, but that was a long, long time ago, and it hadn't been as bad as this. Something this gross and unsightly should've been handled over to his colleagues back at the station, but they were out early, gifting shopping for their damned children and wives. Walkins hated the fact that while the other detectives enjoyed their time at some fancy mall buying perfume or jewelry, or at a cheap toy shop, he was holding back his lunch from spilling on the pavement floor. It was unfair, but he didn't have anyone to blame but himself.
He could've had a wife and kids, hell, he could've had a better job than this. A nice office, a secretary with a nice ass, a stack of paper to read and sign, and a fat, fat fucking check by the end of the month. No, he decided to work with the shit that happens in the city. He hated it. But really, what could he do now? He was too deep in. Might as well hate it till he got his pension, but that wasn't until ten years later. Ten years of hatred and regret?! To hell with that! That's what he thought. He'd rather kill himself, blow out his brains with his gun, and have his brain matter scatter across the floor. It was a morbidly nice thought, if only he had the balls to pull the trigger.
The first corpse in the body bag was a young girl, about fifteen to sixteen. It creeped Walkins out, seeing her eyes cold and cloudy and her skin white as paper, the only color being the black and purple bruises around her neck, and of course, the dried stream of blood emanating from a puncture wound in her left calf; it had seeped into her white sock pulled down by the sicko.
Really, but what kind of person would do this? What kind of person does this? To think it would be messed up, but that happens to everyone, getting random, horrible thoughts that they want to rid from their heads; killing someone in a brutal way, stealing something that would hurt someone else, having relations (forcibly) with someone you really shouldn't, wrapping a noose around your neck. But to act on those thoughts…
Walkins wondered if she had been raped or molested in this case. The pulled-down sock said something, but there wasn't really anything to say that she was. There wasn't anything to say she wasn't, though.
God…
It was better to keep it out of his mind.
Then there was the corpse next to the dead girl. Walkins knew for a fact that this was the dirty fuck—fucking fucked up sicko. What a disgusting creep. Walkins had his men put the man's equipment into plastic bags, a milk jug of blood (probably the girl's), a giant syringe, a plastic tub, and a funnel. Even if Walkins did confirm that the man had inserted his junk into the girl (whatever way he wished), it couldn't have overshadowed the fucking jug of blood, half-filled because it was spilled on the pavement floor in the alleyway.
The man was collecting her blood. Who the fuck in their right mind does that!? But then again, this man was clearly not in his right mind. Whoever shot him did Walkins a favor. It was a shame that they fled the scene, but at least they stopped this blood collector from harming another person like this.
Walkin's guess was that he was part of some satanic cult, or that he was a cannibal who got off on drinking the blood of young girls. Whatever it was, Walkins didn't want to pry any further. Seeing this made that thought of blowing his brains out more enticing than ever.
***
The coroner slowly pushed the girl into the mortuary chamber, giving the poor thing a little dignity by covering her naked, pale body with a thin sheet of cloth—thick enough that you couldn't see the dark areas of her body; breasts, privates, and the large puncture in her left thigh. It was a shame, it truly was. It saddened the coroner that such a young child had died in such a savage way. It was obvious when he did the examination that the girl's spinal cord at her nape had been snapped in two, reducing her neck to a state where it would bobble side to side with the slightest movements.
The man's body, presumably the murderer of the young girl, was behind him, and as he sealed the chamber door shut, he lent the dead man his disgusted eyes. Three bullet wounds around the man's chest, and a hard bruise on his forehead.
Someone must've caught him fleeing… He looked at his hands, seeing the bruising on his knuckles. They got into a fight, and he must've been shot afterwards. Fell face-first on the sidewalk afterwards.
He wanted to get this over with quickly, very quickly. He was used to his job, though he didn't enjoy it very much, cutting open and examining dead bodies. He was good at it, or at least he considered himself good at it, yes, but he found that he would rather not be surrounded with so much death. It was strange, it really was. Before, he wasn't bothered by the thought of seeing a corpse, but now he was beginning to loathe it. It was probably his girlfriend, a lovely woman she was.
He didn't know what it was, but someone about her—talking to her, seeing her, smelling her, touching her—made him see colors other than the bright fluorescent lights or the pale white skin of the deceased. He'd be seeing her tonight at her place—very comfy.
"Ah…what the hell," he put a white towel over the man's genitalia. "I'll finish this tomorrow."
The girl had been quick work, didn't even need to cut her open. This man, this so-called monster, was a mountain of labor; finding those bullets while cutting through stiff, firm muscle was annoying to say the least. He would just freeze the man for now and finish the job the next day. That grumpy police man could wait a little.
The coroner opened the free chamber and started pushing the dead man to his cold, cold bed. He wondered if she'd made dinner; he hoped she was. After living life on instant ramen for a few years, real, homemade food melted with delight in his mouth. She really was—...
The body twitched.
He let out of short squeal, jumping back from the body. A shock went up his hands. A chill crawled down his spine. It twitched, the body twitched. It wasn't just a small twitch either; it was a jerk. The dead man's head just suddenly jerked upwards, the damn thing.
The coroner would've rather left the body there and run. It was impossible for that body to twitch; it just wasn't possible… especially because of the full rigor. Not possible, those were the words that spun in the coroner's head, but yet, it happened.
He didn't waste another second; he pushed the body into the chamber and slammed the door shut. He didn't imagine it, but that was his only explanation. He must've been working too hard—got tired and was starting to go mad. He needed this visit to her house more than he thought.
So, he got the keys, clocked in, locked up, and left in an eager hurry.
***
So…cold…so cold…cold…freezing…where am I?
Darkness and silence met him.
Can you hear me, my love?
Only silence.
Why can't I sense her…? Why?
Shivering started.
So, so…cold.