Crazy Little Thing Called Death

Chapter 1: The Body On The Slab

She looked down at the dead body eyes gazing at it up and down. Her focus never dimmed, and she kept it in her sights. Her eyes were green with a dark brown ring around the retina, and they stared at the cadaver with ferocity.

The cadaver was of an old woman with sagging, white skin. The white hair was frizzy, and appeared to be in a bun on the top of her head. She had peacefully closed eyes, and her hands were arranged at her side in a serene, even calm appearance.

The only indication that it had been anything other than her dying of old age was the purple marks around her neck, standing out from her powder white skin. The cadaver was naked, as when deceased decency is no longer a priority.

Long lashes brushed her high olive toned cheekbones and she straightened up. "The brother did it." She said, a Canadian accent ringing through her projected voice. It was so easy to figure out. If people just looked at the facts.

"The brother?" The man standing beside her asked surprised echoing on his lined face.

She nodded, pointing the purple marks around the old ladies neck. "See. From the front – fingers pointing back, but one of the imprints of the fingers is crooked," she demonstrated with her hand.

The man wasn't following. She sighed and continued, taking a step away from the metal table.

There were two people in the morgue, one man and a woman. The woman was in her mid twenties, with black hair piled up on top of her head. Long bits of it that had managed to get free lay on the back of her neck. She had smooth olive skin, with a faint scar under her one eye – remnants of a dog bite from when she was a child.

She wasn't that tall, about 5"9, and she was curvy. Her weight was something she always worried about. Even though she wasn't fat or even over-weight she worried that people thought she was. Her breasts were very large, and were something that she was self conscious about; she liked to wear clothes that minimized them.

She was fashionable, but plain during work hours. She wore make-up, eye shadow, eyeliner, mascara, lip-gloss, not a lot, just enough to high-light her large eyes and full lips.

The man was probably approaching fifty-five, and nearing retirement. He had the look of a man that had spent most of his life in an office, from his thick glasses to his tweed jacket. He was short, and fat, a potbelly on his front that he tried to cover with jackets that were two sizes too big. He wasn't balding, and had a thick head of grey-brown hair, with very small eyes. He had a strong jaw line, and gave the air of being able to boss people around, and be good at it. His arms were the only thing muscled about him, and they strained at the sleeves on his worn jacket. A gold Rolex flickered in the light on his right arm.

"You told me that the victim was a hermit – never went out – the only people that came in were the brother and sister, along with the maid and the gardener." She told him, straightening her aching back. She'd spent nearly an hour hunched over the table staring at the body.

He nodded, "The gardener had a rap sheet-"He'd read the folder himself – the guy was the perfect suspect. He had arson, vandalism, an assault, and he hadn't even hit twenty-three. In his mind the gardener was the perpetrator. He didn't even know why they were talking to a criminal psychologist. It was part of procedure though, and had to be taken into account.

She cut him off. "The woman would have had to have trusted the person to let them get so close to her. She wouldn't have let the maid or the gardener anywhere near her without putting up a struggle. There was no sign of a struggle." She watched to see if the man clued in.

The man looked confused, still. He ran a hand through his graying hair, pushing it off his low forehead.

She sighed again. "Was anything taken from the house after the victim was deceased?"

He shook his head, flipping through the cream colored folder that he had set on the filing cabinet. He rifled through the papers. "Uh – it says here that," he flipped through more pages, "Nothing was missing or moved from the scene of the crime." That was the part that didn't make sense.

"And who benefited from the will?" She prompted him.

"Her younger brother-"He said, finally cluing into what she was on about.

"And why take something-"She started.

"When you get it all legally." He finished, slapping the folder shut. He glanced up, realization finally dawning on his wrinkled face, "The brother also has a crooked finger – he told me that he got it in an accident when he was younger."

"It explains the print." She nodded, her long black hair, moving with the motion.

The man frowned, "But do we have a motive?" Motive had to be taken into account. Without motive they had nearly nothing.

She nodded, "Mercy. You'll find that it says that the victim was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. Didn't even have six months left to live. The brother did it so the sister wouldn't suffer."

She looked thoughtful, "It was also to save the family fortune. I would have cost thousands to pay her medical bills." It was kind of depressing. By the brother killing his sister, he doomed the family fortune anyway. It was a paradox.

"Excellent work, Dr. Mortan Pleasure working with you." And with that the man bustled for the door, the back of his grey tweed jacket disappearing around the corner, leaving just Dr. Mortan and the body.

She glanced over at it. She really didn't want to be a body on the slab that everyone talks about. Even though it was her job, she thought it was weird. Suddenly her phone buzzed. She pulled it out of the side pocket and flipped it open, running her fingers over the smooth case. She squinted at the screen to read the small font.

Job for you. Come. L

Hmm. Maybe it was something interesting. She thought to herself, grabbing her coat of the back of a chair. God knew that she got so bored.