Angel of the Void

Chapter Thirteen

I won't go watch the autopsy. Really I'm supposed to, but this time I don't think I can make myself. I would be fine if it was a forty-year-old homeless man, or a greedy wino that got on somebody's bad side...they're commonplace here. Or, well, they're the only cases I get, being fresh off the beat. But I've never had a kid on that table, and I refuse to embarrass myself by showing the least bit of emotion in front of Dr. Gutheil. He feeds off of it, muttering under his breath the whole time he's cutting them open that this is why we shouldn't allow women on the job, and I can't deal with him today.

Really really can't.

But Vince will probably drag me down there anyway, so I figure I should at least do something to keep my mind off of it until he comes for me. If I get lucky, maybe I'll even find something and get to leave the office during Gutheil's "house of horrors" show. I sit at my desk, rooting desperately through my meager sheaf of notes, skimming the few "eyewitness" testimonies that we managed to obtain for anything that I could look into. Sure, yeah. I saw a car a couple of weeks ago - a blue sedan or something like that - that's been hanging around for awhile. Or Yeah, I think I heard someone on the road at about that time. But that's as interesting as it gets and Vince has already made it clear that we are to double-check those together.

As if there's enough substance to those accounts to warrant a double-check. Ha.

My partner can be a very funny man.

I sigh, shove the papers into one of my desk drawers, and try not to think about Jane Doe or about what Levi is doing right now. But in the end I have to pick one or the other because my mind keeps bouncing back and forth between the two, so I choose the lesser of the evils. Levi is watching the news, I decide, as he makes more pastry shit for breakfast instead of eating what's spilling out of the fridge. Fucking worrywart. Maybe I should call him, tell him to feed Puffin because I forgot to do it before I left.

"Hey. McMurphy." The nasally sound of Peter Moore's voice drags me unwillingly from my thoughts. I fend off the urge to smack my head on my desk. "Heard you got in on the God Complex case. Who'd you suck to get a piece of that action?"

There's no use trying to ignore Petey. I roll my eyes, dreading what is bound to come next, and then swivel my chair so I can face him head-on. He's closer than I originally anticipated. Still, I conjure up a believably angelic grin and let him have it. "Jealous?" I want to tack dickface onto the end of that, but the Captain's door is open so I refrain.

But only just.

Petey shrugs, though it's incredibly hard to tell because he doesn't really have a neck due to his morbid obesity. He says it's a gland problem, but really. Nobody's glands are that shitty. "Mm. No. Moran will probably give it to me anyway, once he sees you sitting on your ass out here like a brainless fucktard. Isn't your autopsy supposed to be happening soon?"

Eventually my civility will give me the upper hand...like when I file my harassment claims. And it's this knowledge only that allows me to keep myself somewhat level-headed. "If you want to go sit in for me, you're more than welcome to. But I'm pretty sure Gutheil wouldn't appreciate you shitting yourself again." I drop my voice considerably, so that he's the only one who hears, and his face goes red.

"Whore," Petey mutters, and then skitters off towards his own desk.

"Dick," I whisper back. When he turns to glare at me, I twirl my hair around one of my fingers and bat my eyelashes at him as adorably as possible, giving him the daintiest princess wave that I can. "You have a good day too, Detective Moore," I say breezily. Oh, how I detest that man. That bulbous, oozy, sleazeball of a man. He's been an ass ever since I got promoted - apparently I am favored by the brass because my bedroom skills are coveted, which is news to me seeing as I've never slept with any of them - and will likely continue to be an ass until he's shot or something. Maybe then he'll see the light.

I highly doubt it.

Still, he has a point, as much as I hate to admit it. I can't just sit around at my desk doing nothing, waiting for Vince to come and get me. I could very well be reassigned, and I don't think I can sit through another unsolvable "homeless junkie" murder. They're incredibly frustrating; nobody wins, but nobody loses either. It's as if the case doesn't even matter, and if there's one thing I hate, it's the fact that I can't do anything. So I make myself scarce. For a while I ride the elevator, getting off every two floor rotations and boarding again to repeat the cycle. After that I decide to poke around in the break room for a snack. There isn't much there that is to my liking. There's donuts and cookies and a cracker plate that has been out for two weeks, but I'm not up for stale crackers or sweets. Not since Levi's been with me. Luckily I see some oranges at the last second. I grab one and expertly peel off the skin so that it stays intact, making a spiral almost as long as my arm.

They aren't in season, so it's not very good, but I drink the juice from each individual section anyway as I wander the halls. I still haven't seen Vince, and between all of my elevator rides I probably should have if he'd gone up to our floor. So when the elevator stops again I step out, discarding my orange carcass into a trash bin, and venture outside to look for him.

I find him chain smoking on the side of the building. It looks like he's been through almost half the pack, and it's only been two hours. Maximum. I sit on the bench next to him, wiping the snow off first. "You shouldn't be smoking," I say, grabbing the box from his hand. He lets go of it without much of a fight, but he does tell me that I'm not his doctor. "No, I'm not," I agree, "But I can read the 'no smoking' signs that are posted everywhere. Come on, Vince. Don't be stupid."

"Why aren't you watching the autopsy?" He waves me off and produces another cigarette from his sleeve. He lights it before I can snatch it away and doesn't give me enough time to answer his question. "I'm not always going to be around to do it with you," he grunts.

"I've been on my own down there before. You remember how well that went over."

"Gutheil's a dick to pretty much everyone." Vince says, puffing smoke out of his nose. "You just have to know how to handle him."

"He's more of a dick to me."

"Only because you're not what he wants."

I roll my eyes. I know that much. My detective skills have gotten me at least that far, thank God. I'd be piss-poor at my job if they hadn't. "Really? Shit, Vince. That had never occurred to me."

"It's not because you're a woman," he clarifies. "It's because you're not the kind of woman he thinks you should be. If you play to what he imagines, he'd give you more answers. Take a look at Adamson. Gutheil's real sweet on her, have you noticed? Her DNA results always come in faster, her Tox Screens. Everything. And why do you think? She's not that much of a looker. If you tried, you could get a whole hell of a lot further."

I blush, weirded out and embarrassed, and Vince seems to realize what he's said - his ears match my coloring perfectly. "A bit of a cradle robber, isn't he?" I cough, giving a breathy laugh to try and break the tension, but Vince only deepens in color. He's got his cigarette burned almost all the way down to his lips. I hand him another one to distract him and then make my escape, dumping the rest of the pack in the garbage. At this rate I could probably guilt him into overseeing the autopsy for me, but what's the point? I might as well be the one, considering I can apparently play myself to our advantage.

My job and prostitution, I think, are very similar. Except I bet my pay isn't as good.

Still, I get to wear clothes, so I guess that's where the price deduction kicks in. That, and I get dental, too.