November 30, 2002.11.30.02. - lead on, dr. slaughter - part 2 [imogen] *fv[north jersey, at the morgue, cont'd from previous scene]
(james)
holding his breath worked in the short foray into the pack apartment
it doesn't work here
the road is entirely too long and narrow
he remembers the place, and the way, allright
how could he ever forget?
and if he did?
he's only to follow the smellImogen's used to it
Imogen's nerves have begun to deaden to it
Imogen's got the mind to just ignore whatever filters through
the nicoteine stain of exhaled smoke only lasts so long
soon enough it begins to seep into his awareness
beyond the tingling that's running up and down his spine
it's the smell of stagnant deatha smell that every animal loathes
a smell that most animals instinctively fearand his grip on the gurney tightens
hands pointedly placed so that the weld marks and joined bars dig into his palms
providing his own little distraction above the sound of sqeaking wheels and footsteps in the empty halls
the Cornish kin is a beacon of saturated hue in the gray walls
like some little floating sphere of light in the darkness
like some little lone flower in the middle of desert's waste
even though he's covered in the most haphazard mismatched rainbow imaginable
by the time he's standing in the morgue proper
he wishes he could do what the colors of his coat's patches have already done
just. fade. away.odd, the times you can't do that, Mr. Gnawer
he doesn't like it here
for a thousand reasonschin dipping in a nod
gurney number one parallel parked with gurney number two
then he stretches across number two to lift/drag the trunk over
whatever you do, Jamey-boy
don't. in. hale.(imogen)
"Wait," spoken quietly, barely heard above the scrape of wood against metal, shaking her head slightly, causing flamed hair to spill forward over her shoulders, dancing before her face. "I can't x-ray through that. Sorry, I wasn't thinking."I need to get it out of the trunk," she explains, pulling thick latex gloves from a box on the table, and quickly fitting them over her hands. She doesn't need to worry about fingerprints on parchment skin, nor can she actually destroy important evidence, if they already know the killer. however, she'd just as soon not touch her skin against the dead mummified flesh of the child.
James is showing signs that she's seen a hundred times, a thousand times on a thousand different faces. Interns, coming to watch an autopsy. Police officers, seeing their first one. Politicians, other doctors, new pathologists. The white-around-the-mouth haunted look that so many get around the dead. The Gnawer may kill things, but that is fresh death, and it is a thousand times different (a thousand times better) than the reeking dry, crinkling death before him.
He doesn't need to do this (he doesn't even need to be here), it's not his job, and at the very least, while she is not jaded to everything, she is at least able to put this aside, until some time later. Because of what needs to be done, and why, and that it's her job.
And sometimes it helps. Somehow. She thinks.
"I'll move it..." she begins, stepping forward as she settles the latex more firmly over her hands, slid like a second skin over her flesh, moulding to the shapes of her fine bones and skin. "I need to make sure nothing's damaged."
And she steps forward, around the gurney, and begins to reach into the trunk to pull out it's sad, pathetic occupant.
(james)
Wait
pause, dark eyes lift
I need to get it out of the trunk
oh bloody fucking fantastic
or more, dryly crumbling fantasticsooner or later he knew they'd have to open it
and while anticipation may be the greatest of all enemies
he sorta was hoping for the laterlower lip draws between his teeth
a thoughtful slide of hard enamel of skin
pressure whitening the skin before capillaries refill
it was just something to unlock the clench of jaw
as she moves up, he moves to the side
rotating the trunk to give her easiest accessclicksqueeeee
the slow opening of the dented lid
creak of hinges considering misalignment
held up so she can concentrate on not damaging the body
(since the trunk is beyond repair)
the waft of airpressure change breeze that stirs the tiny tomb
such a plain, little sarcophagus
such a small, forgotten mummy
lip curling in the jumpstart to look awayand it's like a fucking car wreck
you don't want to look
but you do
he doesn't want to look
(you'll have to see it eventually James)
but he does
gaze dropping to the little OshKosh overalls tucked neatly around the folded body
dark umber slowly finding the features left behind after the processes that are so far from naturalmost would be sick
most would feel their stomach's rising in revolt
most would want to join and turn - run - away
most would spit a curse at whomever did this
most would snarl at the the dead child before themhe?
he isn't most
he doesn't wretch
he doesn't run
he doesn't curse
he only looks very, very sad(imogen)
"Thanks," as he moves the trunk, and she pulls up the lid, in two pieces and many shattered splinters, because Decker broke the lock and the lid in the process of finding out what was inside.It's the first time she actually looks at the body, dark blue eyes passing across the tiny form, made that much smaller because it has shrunk in on itself, half curled as the tendons and muscles shrunk on itself, the skin pulling tighter, away from small white teeth, now yellowed with age, leaving them exposed, and leaving tiny moon shaped nails jutting out from the skin like a storytale witch's.
Like him she doesn't recoil. Nor does she retch, or snarl. But she doesn't look sadly upon it, either, instead reaching in and carefully slipping latex sheathed fingers beneath a pencil thin neck, while the other hand shifts beneath the child's knees. Lifting carefully, slowly, not because the weight is heavy (in fact, it is incredibly light), but because she does not want to damage fragile skin against the rough sides of the trunk, the child is removed carefully from its makeshift tomb. Cradling the child carefully away from her with a gentleness that its parents should have shown when it's alive, she deposits the child on the gurney, with barely a sound, only the faintest crinkle of dried and stiffened clothing against metal. Released of its sarcophagus and placed on a gurney designed to hold all manner and size of body, it looks that much more pathetic, barely taking up a quarter of it's length, and half of it's width. Displayed now in the cold white light, without the benefit of softening shadows of the trunk, that much more has been drawn into light.
It still has its socks on, the fabric hanging because much of the flesh has been worn away. The clothing is discoloured and stiff. White latex hands reach over, and carefully unbuckle the clasps for the overalls, because metal will get in the way of the x-rays.
If this were a horror movie, the body would move, now, twitching and moaning horribly, trying to kill our two "heroes", and finish what it's sister had started. If this were a horror movie, this moment of horrible silence would be broken by some sudden chaos. Instead, however the body just lays on the gurney, stiff and still unmoving, it's dried flesh a parchment yellow, it's teeth a similar colour. Like so many things in this place, the body is a monochrome of yellows and not quite flesh tones.
The firehaired doctor turns her head to look at James, speaking as she lays the overallstraps by the child's tiny head. "I'll take it through," a tilt of her chin toward one of the many doors in the autopsy suite, "there and x-ray it... Then perform at the very least an extlernal examination. There isn't much I can do by opening it up, at this point, but I'll see what I can find out." He can stay and help her, or leave her. Perhaps it's simply because she cannot imagine anyone else but her doing what she does, that she provides so many ways out.
The trunk by James is now empty, the insides stained by old old fluids, and hair trapped in the dried mess, because much of it had fallen out as the child had slowly petrified in the dryness.
(james)
if it were a horror movie........ you mean it isn't?
depends on your definition of a horror movie, one supposes
pulling a mummified child out of an ordinary trunk would qualify as Hollywood Only for the populus
of course, so would sprouting fur and battling the Apocalypse
quite the quandry, isn't it, Jamey-boyhe simply unlocks fingers their raptor grip of the lid
slowly lowering it
rather than outright dropping it
thewhoomph of air would probably do somethign detrimental
and so far, he's been doing pretty good
so let's keep the record goingfingers drum absently on the lid
soft sounds hollow even in this soul-empty place
the internal conversation is obvious
a move screen made of his features
the script scrolling across dark eyes"What can I do to help?"
finally lifting his gaze to look at her
earth's dark soil to sky's dark bluehe remembers what happened last time she was alone with a child's (supposed) corpse
Decker would kill him for abandoning her should something like that happen again
the pack would only see another Bone Gnawer running when times got tough
not to mention that someone - even her - shouldn't have to do this alone
just because it's her job to do so on a daily basis doesn't mean it's fair for him to walk out of a situation they both don't want to be in
and maybe.... just maybe.... he has his own inner demons to face
whatever those invisable creatures are that placed the weight on his shoulders years agohe's having a hard time removing himself enough to think of it as another learning experience
almost any other corpse he wouldn't be having this problem
but this one(imogen)
It maybe a horror, but sweetie, this is no movie.She half turns to look at him, considering for a moment. It would be completely in character for her to say 'nothing, let me work', and it would be completely unsurprising, praticularly to the one who, after Decker, was the first one to be subjected to her cold eyes and demeanour. Finally, "I can do the x-ray myself, and probably should... But after that," and she is honest here, "I'd need some help cutting off the clothing, and removing it without damaging the skin, to take measurements. And if you can write down the measurements as I take 'em, so I can guestimate an age."
Above them, the vents begin to whirr, air conditioning starting up, circulating the rooms atmosphere. It's just a degree or two colder than is comfortable. Keeps the bodies in better condition.
(james)
she wouldn't have come to him in the first place if she didn't need help
in for a penny, in for a pound, as the saying goes
lungs filling as chest expands into the chilled circulated air
nodding silently
half absentlyyou really are going through with this, aren't you, Jamey-boy
she's got the gurney
and he's...... got a clipboard!
from the desk!
and a pen!
which is mightier than the sword!
or somesuch bullshitholding it up in something like a toast
attempting that grin he had found earlier
his attempt fails miserably"Just call when you need me."
funny he says that now
(imogen)
She disappears into the other room pushing the gurney before her, door slamming behind her. She glances warily at the camera that surveys the room as she enters, beginning to set up. The only camera she cannot be sure as to whether or not it's working, and aside from the fact she cannot think of anything he could do as she does this, it is the reason she did not want him in this room.Outside, James can see a red light turn on over a sign declaring in english and spanish "if light is on, do not enter room', and sensitive ears can pick up the whirr of machines.
He has his pen. And his clipboard. And a desk. Everything about the room is clean. Sterilized formica counters, stainless steel sinks. Heavy doors, one that leads to the hallway, another that apparently leads to showers (or so the sign would lead him to believe), another into the obervatory room. Everything crammed into the high ceiling space, and kept clean by what must be anal maitenence staff.
It's a good five or ten minutes before she returns, putting a heavy and wide envelope on the edge of the counter where she leaves it to be developed, and pushing the gurney with it's unfortunate victim back into position. Gloves had been removed, while she was touching the machinery, and after a moment, she removes the lab coat, tossing it by the envelope, goose flesh rippling slightly in the over her arms. She wears a blouse the sleeves of which fall only to her elbows. Hiding the tattoo, but not hiding the white marks of small finger nail scars on the top of her wrist.
"You may want to put on some gloves," she offers, nodding toward a package of extra large gloves, as she slips on her own, which are smaller (and she likely had to insist they buy when she began to work here). "If you can slit the clothing, and I'll get it out of them..."
Unfortunately a job that would be tedious with only one person doing it.
(james)
he did his best to go on pause while she was in the room
amazing the tricks you learn when you're put in situations that you have no choice
he spent most of the near ten minutes staring at the floor between his boots
attention snapping upwards and back to the present as the doors opened againhere we go, Jamey-boy
the nod, once more, is absent, reserved
(uncomfortable)
the tattered trench shed and folded to place on the deskchair
the clipboard laid on top to match
dark gray bandana taken from a pocket and used to tie heavy dreads out of the way
gloves carefully pulled onto his hands
fingers flexing into fists to settle the latex across his knuckles
the hairs have risen across his forearms for an entirely different reason than the cold
the same reason he can feel it bristling invisable up his spine"Any particulars to the process?"
when he takes the bandage scissors held out to him
his hands don't shake
hesitant, perhaps, but not shaking
there's a slight hitch in movement before gloved fingers finally make contact with bitter fabric
the cut a slow and methodical line as directed
so damned careful
as if any errant move would wake the child from it's nightmare
moving only as quickly as she can keep up with him
peeling the denim and cotton away
making sure it doesn't fall to mar skin beneath
(imogen)
"It'll be stiff... so you want to be as careful as possible. Start with the overalls, and cut down to the crotch, and then do the pant cuffs. I'll start with the shirt," because the shirt is like to be a more difficult process. "Try not to pull at anything, because you might damage the skin," or worse bring it apart all together.The process is completed in silence, with only the sound of scissors, the faint hiss of breath and the whirr of vents and cold air as their companion. The body is very unwilling to be removed of its clothing, and the clothing seems just as unhappy to have parted from the body. They do not do any further damage to the body, though it's a near thing, particularly when they were trying to remove the dingy once white cotton shirt from the tiny back, where fluids had stuck it to skin.
Finally, the clothing has made a card board stiff pile at one end of the gurney, and the body is without it's final last protection of the glare of lights.
Congratulations, it's a boy.
Without further ado, she motions to James to take up the clipboard and writting, and she begins to measure bones. Skull size. Shoulder width. Length of arms and legs done awkwardly because of the position of the child. Each one is carefully read out, slowly spoken to give him time to scribe.
Everything is tiny. Three years old does not give you much time to grow. Three years old does not give you much in height or width.
(james)
there is no time wasted moving from the now unsheathed body to the desk for the clipboard
already beginning to write on the slow steps back to the gurney
not exactly in a position to rush back and help
so why not keep the distance comfortable
but at least make it so she doesn't have to raise her voicethe numbers and assignations written down the left hand side of the page
neat, orderly, in all capital letters for ease of later read
space remains on the right side for whatever informational sketches were to comehis jaw has begun to tense up again
that chord of muscle that stands out above the bone
the tendon that tightens down through his neck
into shoulders futilely hidden beneath thin tee
the deep sadness remains in his eyes
whatever it is that gets to him, still
it isn't the smell
it isn't the sight
it isn't even the situation anymore
that much is obvious(imogen)
For what must seem like forever, she informs him numbers and designations, even taking a look at the teeth, because how many teeth the child has might be a small indicator of age, at least when taken into account with many other pieces of information.She indicates that the bone structure, the disproportion of head to body, even at this young age, is a possible sign of malnutrition. That the teeth are decayed, damaged.
For him, it must seem as if she is terribly unfeeling, as she just rattles them off, carefully slowly moving the body so she can measure spine, knobby and sharp against parchment skin.
Finally, without a word, she leaves the body, exhaling sharply, clearing her lungs of all the air she has, and hopefully clearing it of the smell of decay. Across the room, to the formica counter to a large stiff envelope.
X-Ray film, one after the other is placed on the light box, clipped carefully in place. A switch is flicked, and bones are ignited in sharp relief, bright and powerful white against dark inky black. Because she can use stronger x-rays than most doctors; her patients cannot be damaged by radiation.
Gloved hand hovers inches from the film, tracing paths of bones, slowly. The leg bones connected to the... shin bone... the shin bone's connected to the....
(james)
as she rattles it all off
he keeps writing it down
just as automatically as she says it
the right hand column now used for the details
the decay
the disproportion
the devastation wrought upon the young body by neglect and timeno emotional investment by either of them means no pain, right? riiiiight....
occasionally, he does glance up at the x-ray
plucking what knowledge he can from her prattling
you learn from every situation, Jamey-boy
even if you don't want to(even if you don't want to think about it
even if she would have been about this age)(imogen)
The neck bone is connected to the ... skull. Well. He's dead, Jim. Graveyard quip smothered as her lips harden into a thin line.The movement of her gloved hand stopped hovering over the x-ray of the skull, her fingers above hair line fractures showing as dark cracks on the x-ray. "This kind of damage can be caused by falling out of a third storey window. Or from being.. Well. Repeatedly slammed against something." Her hand moves again, this time tracing the spiderweb of a skull cracked like an egg. Not broken, just... cracked. "More likely the latter, though bones isn't my specialty."
(james)
that's about when he finally looks at the x-ray
not the cursory glance
but a good old fashioned study
stepping closer
standing just behind and to the side of her
nibbling lower lip in thoughtan arm extends to use the pen as a pointer
continuing to keep the distance between
every little bit counts"Repeated blows get fragments chipping off the cranium as it shatters and caves in.... you can see it there... there... and there. I'd bet on the latter."
not saying a word on how he knows this
it's not your common intro medical book knowledge, is it(imogen)
A quick glance, a vague flicker of surprise as he points out the slight things she had noticed, and repeats what she had suspected, but with much more certainy than she had. Bones are not her speciality, as she had said."Yeh," she agrees, a sharp sound, turning back to look at the x-ray. "I don't see any other actual unhealed damage... arms were broken," finger points, "here, and ..." sliding to another x-ray, "here, but it's been healed." She exhales slowly, as she looks away from the x-rays, in sharp contrast of bright whites and dark shadows, turning to face the Gnawer.
"I should be able to tell you soon how old he was, and I guess we know how he died. Should I do anything else?"
(james)
they aren't his either
unless you count bashing them in
but he doesn't go there
no. sir. ee.the surprise in her glance was not enough to warrant an explanation
she'd have to ask
that's when he looks away and back towards the body, then quickly down to the clipboard
but he's not studying it, it's just something to look at"I'd guess two or three, four at the most if you take malnutrition into it. I.... don't know what else Decker would want to know, so I don't know what to tell you to look for. Is there a place you can keep this until he gets back so we can get his questions?"
there's something missing in his voice
its normal warmth is gone
leaving it fairly unspoken that it's back the pack apartment if all else fails(imogen)
She'd have to ask, and likely when a Garou shows a large amount of knowledge toward skull damage, she considers this a fact she'd rather not know.She frowns, looking at the body for a long moment, "Do you know when Rohl will be back?" she inquires. "I can keep it here until Sunday, but no longer. They would notice an extra body just sitting around, particularly one in this condition."
She begins to remove her gloves, one finger at a time, slowly releasing her hands from the grip of latex.
(james)
his head shakes"He said he would be back around Monday, but there wasn't a guarantee. If you pack it up we can take it back......"
though noting she's already removing her gloves
well...(imogen)
She stops midmotion, beginning to shove her fingers back into the stretched plastic. Perhaps she doesn't want the body damaged more than it is, and didn't want to risk him touching it. Or more possibly she didn't think he would like touching the child anymore than he already has.She repeats the process recently performed, only in reverse, picking up the long dead child and carefully depositing it back in the trunk (all the children she ever holds are dead). As an after thought, she picks up the clothing and places them carefully over the decrepit naked form, and closing the lid behind them, with a creak of hinges and a faint scratching sound as the broken pieces rub together.
A part of her feels like she should have done more. It was no autopsy, and she's hardly done anything for the body. Carefully removing her gloves again, she half voices the thought, beginning to remove the films, "There isn't much more I can do... any other examination would likely involve tests I can't explain, or a forensics anthropologist. Which, unless you know of a kinfolk anthropologist, I can't call in, anyway."
The gloves are thrown into a garbage declaring "biological waste". "Hopefully this'll help some." Though lord if she could see how. The films are returned into their envelope, and tosses her lab coat over one arm. The envelope of x-ray films are then tucked under her other arm, to take with her. Trying to remove all evidence that this child was even here, beyond gloves tossed into a designated waste disposal. And hopefully, nobody would think anything of that.
(james)
she returns the baby mummy to its sarcophagus
he doesn't watch
instead removing his own gloves with the snap of latex
clipboard returned to its rightful place, as with the pen
his trench shrugged back on
trading her the orderly notes for steering of the gurney holding the trunk
he now has all he came with....
unfortunately"Maybe Livingston can find something, too.... or Rune might have connections... I'll ask then when they return, but I'm just the lackey on this one."
when is he not?
there's not much of a conversation through half of the gray maze of hallways
finally his voice finds her attention once more
quiet
so very quiet"Once everything's done.... I can bury the kid."
something in his tone
it definitely isn't the first time he's done it
(imogen)
A faint breath of what might be a mirthless cough of laughter, "You and me both." She replies, a faint smirk slip sliding across her lips as she slips passed the gurney to walk toward the elevator doors.It's in the elevator he finally speaks, and she looks at him for a long moment, dark sky blue eyes meeting the earthen shades of brown. "I'll help."
She's never had that particular pleasure before, however, it is not something one does alone, nor is it something one allows another to do on their own.
Because the dead deserve to be buried.
And children deserve to live.
And somebody should have done this years ago.
Better late than never, right?It's a long silent drive back to the pack apartment and then through the city streets to reach the isolated condominium plaza where they have both made their homes.
Posted by james at November 30, 2002 12:00 AM