Ms. Domme

Chapter Five

"Listen to me, Brent." I was extremely pissed. "If I hear one more goddamn complaint out of your mouth," My fist slammed onto the steel table, the sharp untensils clattering about. "You won't have a job to complain about any longer. Understand? I won't tolerate it."

"Y-yes, ma'am. Not another complaint." His pale eyes were fearful. I loved it.

"Good. Now, since that's finished, we've got to finish these last two examinations before we go home. Off to work people, the county might have a killer to find."

I won't lie, the excitement of having a hand in finding justice for the innocent nearly drove me to madness. Many ask me if it was a certian kink that drove me to this job. It wasn't. The reason was almost as dark, if not even more dreadful.

My tools were already waiting for use (thanks to Emma, she's a doll) by the time I was finished with Brent. Unlike Emma, he never learned to hush up about certain things. Rule No. 1 of being a coroner: you don't complain about how the victim looks.

"Male (Caucasian) with visible lacerations on the chest and torso." He had a rough run-in with something sharp. "Has anybody found his identification yet?"

Rory, my understudy, answered: "No, ma'am. His wallet was missing when we stripped him."

I humed. "So, robbery gone wrong then?"

"Possibly." I take a swab and jar open the mouth, sampling. Everything had to be taken as evidence and I mean everything. Even the tiniest speck of dirt under the fingernails. Lemme tell you, that took forever. It takes hours to do a thorough wipe as we call it.

"It's not really our job to guess why it happened, huh."

"Not really, Rory. But at least we help in the best way we can." I take a probe and prod at the bodys' genitals. "Rub marks around the penis, wrists, and ankles as well. Probably from a rope of some type. Nylon maybe?"

"It is thin." Rory remarked, stooping down and looking closely at the male's wrist. "Like his skin rubbed against a waxy plastic coating for hours." He scribbled notes down on his clipboard. His were always useful for the final examination card we give to who-the-fuck-ever sent the body in.

I smiled down at him. "Nice find. Now I'm setting you to the job of measuring those stab wounds. All sixteen." The blond nodded and set off to find his appliances.

I sighed and threw my gloves away in the bin. I had grown used to the antiseptic smell of death in the autopsy room. Not much here had bothered me anymore, minus the ever-present strain of seeing the dead (especially the babies).

There had been too many bodies that week. Two children that had been drowned, a teen shot in the chest, and now this poor guy. All in a never-ending cycle of mad men and grief.

Just another day at the forensics lab.

My cellphone beeped with a text message bringing me out of my reverie. It was my mother.

I vaguely remember the message being something along the lines of thanking me for agreeing to see her in 'such desperate times'. I ignored her, just as I did most of the time. She still wonders to this day why I moved out at just eighteen.

I decided to clock out early again. I had just wanted to go home and sleep for fifty years.

But....

It had been about a week or so since Lawrence had come by (mostly because the lab got swamped, not to mention he had to work extra hours at the editorial). Besides, he had orders.

I sported a Cheshire grin while grabbing my things.