The Chosen Few

Tom headed to Raeston to check on the autopsies. He could make his life so much easier, just staying at his desk, and spending his time delegating his duties and doing little himself, but that was the exact opposite of what he wanted. He had spent far too many hours, days and weeks sitting at his desk praying for the working day to end. Why inflict that mental torture on himself when he could be doing what he sorely missed? He wasn’t going to pass up an opportunity to do what he loved best, reminding himself of the high points which were the only things keeping his interest in the job. Even though initially his job in these cases was morbid – going over autopsies and the like – it soon picked up once he had some tangible leads he could follow, and as he neared the end of his search for the culprits, it felt as though only adrenaline pumped through his veins. All too soon, though, it was over and he was back to the platitudinous tasks he faced more frequently at work. Each time he got the rush of success, it was quickly watered down by the mundane job he more commonly frequented. They seemed poles apart.

Each time he felt the thrill of the chase, he felt conflicting emotions; he yearned to complete the puzzle of evidence to find the perpetrators - to feel the highs of success - but he was wracked with indecision, because all too soon it would end, so he wanted to draw out the gratification as long as possible. He felt sure that this assignment would be over far too soon, that the terrorist faction or whatever (assuming it was one and not due to some gross negligence). It was not a high profile target such as the houses of Parliament, so it was almost certainly the work of amateurs. A hospital was such a mediocre target.

Reprehensible as it may be, Tom caught himself wishing – if only for a second – that there could be more for him to do than it appeared he would be able to. Not to the extent where he was at the point of collapse - as that had been the case once before, and he had looked like death warmed up for a month. No, just enough so he could savour the thrill of the chase and his victory (assuming it came) would feel like a true accomplishment that he deserved. That, however, seemed unlikely to arise. Amateurs wouldn’t cover their tracks well, would make mistakes, and they would be caught with relative ease. Tom sighed and realised that he was already nearing the mortuary. He turned into the car park and parked. He’d continue on to Beckford if he had time, to see what evidence had been collected, though it was unlikely anything of value had been found.

He walked in through the main doors and stopped. The building seemed to have a sombre aura about it. It was all so sterile, the smell of the corpses hidden under disinfectant and air freshener. Tom had never got used to mortuaries, and doubted he ever would. It was such a bleak place. Some people can’t bear to be in hospitals or dental surgeries, but those were places where healing took place, lives began, or started again. This place had only endings. No one brought here would ever play with his or her children; make love or breath again. This place was the final destination on life’s journey for those who met despicable unexplained or horrific ends. This look and smell of mortuaries to Tom meant death. He never wanted to come here outside working hours. He wanted to die somewhere else, anywhere else but here, never to visit it after his (hopefully swift) demise. We cannot choose exactly how we die, but Tom knew he didn’t want to come here once it was over, to be hacked, drained and separated-for that was an indignity he would not wish on anyone be them fully functioning or a cadaver.

Lost in his own thoughts, Tom didn’t hear the mortician walk up behind him.

‘Tom Dalzell?’

He turned around and saw her standing in front of him, her arm out stretched towards him. Tom was immediately struck by her appearance. She had dark silky skin and beautiful features - deep dark green eyes, full lips and shimmering jet-black hair that cascaded over her shoulders. He was stunned for a moment, then collected himself, grasped her hand and shook it firmly.
‘Yes, and you are…?’

‘Simran. Simran Arora. Are you ready to come down and see the victims?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ He replied, and they walked along the downward sloping corridor in silence until they reached a set of sturdy double doors at the end.

Simran handed Tom a white lab coat that was on the desk near the door, and a pair of latex gloves swiftly removed from a dispenser box. As he put them on, she wheeled over a trolley covered with a sheet, obviously to hide the body on it from view. Before she removed the sheet, she spoke.

‘There were many bodies which had been in near proximity to the explosion, and so no real evidence could be gained from them. We examined ten bodies at random to be careful, but there were no anomalies, and the bodies in the immediate area near the bomb were too badly damaged to give any answers.’

‘What about outside the blast radius?’ Tom asked. ‘Were there any anomalies there?’

‘Just one. A doctor was found inside a cupboard, his neck broken.’ Simran pulled back the sheet, to reveal the body. The man looked peaceful, as though he was merely resting.

‘No bruising’ Tom observed.

‘No, there are no signs of a struggle, so the killer was either someone he knew, so he let his guard down, or they were too quick for him to defend himself. The only marks on him are here and here where he fell after death.’ She said, indicating faint marks on his cheek and torso. ‘There are no marks on his hands, like bruises or puncture wounds from a knife, and there’s no skin under his nails or bruising on his knuckles.’

‘Would you say it was a professional who killed him?’ Tom enquired. ‘It doesn’t seem like the work of an amateur.’

Simran thought for a moment. ‘I’d say a professional. An amateur would have been more likely to go in with a knife or blunt object. Snapping someone’s neck is more hands on, so most amateurs tend to shy away from it. Of course, this could be the exception.’

Tom nodded. ‘Were there any other victims like this?’
‘No,’ she replied, ‘that was the only one. All the others died from the explosion or were crushed by flying or falling masonry.’

Tom decided there was little more he could learn there for the time being. He took off the latex gloves and the lab coat, threw the gloves in the bin and handed the coat to Simran. ‘Thank you miss Arora, you’ve been very helpful. I’ll probably come back in a week or so.’ He reached into his inside jacket pocket, pulled out a small card with his name and number on it and handed it to Simran. ‘If anything important turns up, contact me on this number. It’ll be quicker than going through the station.’

She accepted it and put it in her trouser pocket. ‘I’ll do that. Do you know the way out?’
‘Yeah, thanks, I won’t take up anymore of your time. Tom smiled, gave a casual wave goodbye then left.

Tom sat in the car and thought the case through. He was beginning to think that it was more complicated, more layered than it had first appeared. Though the attack seemed amateurish, it seemed too professional. A sophisticated terrorist group would have gone for a bigger target, something more prominent in the public eye. A hospital wouldn’t have the same shock factor. Also, he thought, why at night? To truly shock the public – which was usually the main aim of the attacks – they would be done in daylight so they were more shocking, more surprising, and essentially, usually meant more casualties.

He pulled out of the car park and began to drive home. I’ll go to Beckford tomorrow or Wednesday. It’ll have given them time to find something useful, he decided. He had conflicting feelings within himself. On one hand, the case seemed that it would be over far too soon. On the other, it looked like there may be more to it than initially met the eye.