June 29th, 2021
1500 hours
Garcia stood awkwardly in the bright autopsy room, clad from head to toe in sterile gear: robes, slippers, the works. He inwardly cursed that damn FBI agent what's his name for sticking him on demolition duty. Leave it to the government trained suits to delegate the less appealing tasks to the general police force. Quinn, meanwhile, had negated to accompany him, electing to remain at the site and question the witnesses instead.
Garcia, despite having the best interrogative technique in the county, was not particularly miffed about being shuffled off to the morgue. True, he would much rather gather information to build up a profile, that he might form some sort of order from the chaotic pieces that were whirling around his brain. He didn't enjoy overseeing the autopsies, and he desperately wanted to close this case, but he figured he would leave the eccentrics of it to the master of strange, himself.
Quinn was an oddity immediately in Garcia's eyes. From the moment they shook hands he detected an unpalatable, jovial sort of arrogance that didn't sit well with him. Garcia was down to earth, honest, and harshly blunt. In contrast, Quinn spoke in serpentine riddles, hinting at a sort of mental game-play in which Garcia had no intention of participating. The agent was very wise, witty, and maddeningly superior.
The lieutenant imagined such a personality stemmed from a highly studied, well versed and impeccably trained background. However, he refused to acknowledge his short-comings in comparison to the skilled agent. Though he would have willingly agreed to preside over the autopsy, what angered him was Quinn's snide remark about trigger happy, impulsively ignorant, law enforcement buffoons. Garcia replied with several choice expletives, knowing it would effectively land himself in the morgue for the day. It got him away from the suits, which was his intent. Quinn wasn't the only one who could play games.
"Uh," he said tentatively through his mask "are we going to start soon?"
The M.E. chuckled slightly, his lined eyes crinkling merrily behind his goggles. "Yes, very shortly. Do you have a sensitive stomach, Detective?"
"Not usually." He responded gruffly, glancing at the eerily still figure on the table.
"Good." The medical examiner spoke cordially. "Nice to meet you, by the way, Lieutenant."
Garcia huffed sarcastically. "Sure. Under less morbid circumstances, I imagine you're a joy. I might take you for a drink after."
Shari, the usual M.E., was on an extended sabbatical, and Garcia missed her like a stiff drink. She and the Lieutenant had a rather long, torrid history, but it didn't stop them from upholding the statue of professionalism in the office. Out of the office, however, was a different story. In one another they found a convoluted solace from the weighing grind of crime and despair. Shari was open and real, and Garcia admired the simplicity of knowing someone so genuine.
This M.E. had been discrete, not at all forthcoming about his experience, only vaguely hinting where he'd come from. Apart from his name, he withheld isolating details about himself, and based on this, Garcia highly suspected that he had been secretly placed there by Quinn Jones. He didn't presume to put it past Quinn to infiltrate every aspect of the investigation. He had a very controlling, dominating demeanor, and indicated he had no intention of leaving any stone unturned-with his approval, of course, and only through his own means.
Garcia imagined he should be grateful Quinn included him in that assessment, but it only served to piss him off more. Perhaps it had been a nicety, though Garcia seriously doubted it. Quinn might have simply been under the impression he could, through the Lieutenant, control the involvement of the local task force. Which was laughable, of course, considering the track record of the precinct, and with good reason: Garcia personally knew officers who'd taken bribes, and it wasn't hard to inspire them to turn a cheek with a few crisp bills. He did, conversely, consider himself honest, and never stooped to the level some of the others would. He did, after all, uphold the sanctity of justice.
Garcia realized that nobody in the room was moving: uncomfortable silence greeted his ears, and immobile bodies stood, waiting. They, like himself, seemed to be lost in their thoughts.
The tension was palpable. "Should we cut the crap, or what?" Garcia grumbled, irate, mostly at Quinn. The aggravatingly indomitable agent had his hooks in everything. "Literally." He admonished, aloud.
The double meaning was not lost on the M.E. "I too agree that sense of humor is necessary in this particular field or work. Scalpel."
The assistant to his left handed him a blade. She was but a wisp of a woman, no older than thirty, with large, coke bottle glasses and a frizzy ponytail that looked as if it had been hastily affixed on her head. Ghostly white, her skin seemed to fade into the pale floor and walls. Garcia wondered if, like the three in here, all the 'lab rats', as he called them, were so pasty and outwardly malnourished. None of them gave the impression they cared about their appearance, and looked like a good, hearty meal would benefit them. He almost wanted to shove a burger down the girl's mouth; he feared she would fall over any moment.
"Now, subtleties aside, I'd like to begin the procedure."
"Uh, sure thing. Do whatever it is that you do." Garcia murmured; eyes inexplicably fixated on the naked body. He'd seen his fair share of violence before, but in all his experience responding to vicious assaults and gruesome murders: this one took the cake. Killers were right up there on his shit list with rapists, whom he abhorred almost more than the most hardened, sick murderer, for personal reasons of his own. This, though, was just as twisted as anything he'd seen, plus some.
"Doctor David Magineau presiding, assisted by John Folley and Midge Stevens. Beginning the exterior examination of the corpse."
Garcia gulped, attempting to settle his still churning stomach.
"No visible defensive wounds." The doctor observed, delicately inspecting the pale, rigid hands. "Mark that, Midge. It's not likely our victim got a piece of our murderer, then. Please take scrapings from under the nails, anyway." Magineau gently placed the arm back upon the table as Midge came around with an evidence tube and began studiously cleaning the fingers. "John, please point the lamp over here." He gestured to the victim's stomach and moved in. "The epidermis is intact on his extremities. Visible trauma is confined to the torso, specifically the abdomen and pelvis. Move the light a bit more, would you, John."
Several minutes of silence followed, in which the medical examiner stared at the body while Garcia stared at the doctor. John fiddled with the lamp at the request of the examiner, who couldn't seem to decide where to point the light. The only sound was a soft grating as Midge removed the dirt from under Stan's nails.
"There, that's perfect. The subject appears to have been vertically dissected beginning at the left pectoral, through to the left abdominal minor. Beginning transverse dissection of the abdomen." The doctor moved closer, face a half foot away from the corpse. Though he couldn't hear as the incision was made, Garcia mentally imagined the noise of the blade slicing into the tissue. He grimaced, and John shot him a glance.
"You alright?"
"Better than you will be, buddy." He growled, glaring back at the assistant. "Just aim that light." Midge's mask crinkled in amusement as her lips curled in a smirk behind it, and John flushed. Both men opened their mouths to start.
"Now," said Magineau sharply, immediately dispelling the eminent bickering, "the wound is torn, not sliced, indicating a serrated object was used to disembowel the victim. However, there is no bruising, so this weapon is not blunt, but does come to a point, or is conical in shape. Would you agree, detective?"
Magineau indicated that he move closer, which Garcia did begrudgingly. He started at the sight of the wound. The plane of pale skin was interrupted by a large, jagged hole that gaped from chest to groin. The bits of organs that remained were unrecognizable to Garcia. Blood had begun to congeal by this point, pooling in the bottom of the cavity and leaving the skin and extremities that much more colorless. His inspection of it at the rig had been fleeting, or perhaps he'd just blocked it out, but the evisceration was extreme: overkill, to put a word to it. Garcia grunted in acknowledgement, swallowing the lump in his throat.
"So, sharp enough to tear but not dull enough that it doesn't cut skin." Garcia agreed, having seen his fair share of injuries. He frowned, searching his memory for such a weapon. "What can do that?"
"It will be nearly impossible to make a cast of the weapon. Midge, begin preparing the mold. I want to start as soon as my inspection of the organs is complete."
He began prodding inside Stan's body, and Garcia shivered. It was very cold in the room, as always, to ensure decomposition didn't hinder the process, but he never got use to the sinister chill. Garcia tried to ignore the ominousness of the exam room, and his own fleeting mortality, as well. Every murder was one more reminder his days were numbered, but he never planned on going out like this, ever.
"I have a clear view of the body cavity." Magineau murmured through his mask. "Do come closer, Lieutenant." He pushed aside the flaps of skin and clamped them, leaving the abdomen gaping, like the maw of hell itself. "I want to make sure you can see everything for your report."
"Sure." Garcia gulped, bringing himself to stand right next to the table, so close his thigh brushed the cold, metal surface.
"I'm having trouble making out the general anatomy. The organs in particular are extremely dismembered."
"You think?" Garcia's sarcasm started up; it was a reflex to the gruesome nature of his profession.
"Why yes, don't you?" Magineau replied smoothly, in a tone equally sardonic.
Garcia cursed under his breath.
"I can't get a thorough picture with these organs." The M.E. huffed, poking around the remains.
"What do you mean?" Garcia asked.
"There's too much damage for me to work with." Magineau straightened up in exasperation, brows furrowed. "Did your men secure everything from the rig?"
"You mean the guts?" Garcia's question was defensive, and he frowned back. "Yeah, we got them all. It was a damn cake walk."
It had taken a good hour to locate all the pieces, and another half hour and a team of twelve officers-including the stand in district M.E.- from the crime scene investigation to bag the parts.
"Good. I hope so." The doctor replied haughtily.
Garcia sputtered and gawked. Had he any doubts this man was employed by Quinn, they were all but gone.
"Midge," Magineau continued, turning to the assistant. "I'll need to extract and catalogue the organs. Find the remains from the scene and assemble them here: we need to reconstruct them before we continue. Once I have the body cavity cleaned, please do gather any evidence from the wound and, once clean, make a cast. If you can."
"Wait," Garcia interrupted as the examiner snapped off his gloves "that's it?"
"That's all I can do, for now." Magineau sighed. "Unfortunately, the process will take a little longer than anticipated. There isn't much I can tell from the current state of the internal remains." He removed his head lamp, hair damp from sweat, and Garcia wondered how he could perspire in the frigid atmosphere. The only warmth he felt was from his own breath behind his surgical mask.
"Of course," Magineau continued, placing a sterile sheet over the body "if you'd like to wait for a few hours and oversee the organ reconstruction, I'm happy to oblige you."
"Screw that." Garcia murmured. He wanted nothing more than to leave, and began shuffling toward the exit, happy to get away. He did, however, recall Quinn expecting a complete report, which meant that he had been sneakily coerced to stay. He groaned, recognizing defeat, albeit from a distant enemy, and yanked off his scrubs. He tossed them in the bin by the door.
"You guys taking five?" He grunted, turning to what he called human lab rats.
They nodded.
"I'm grabbing a cup of joe. Want any?" He offered brusquely.
"Why yes, thank you." Magineau said jovially, the two assistants nodding again, rather vigorously. "There's a machine in the break room. I believe there's some pastries left over in there, too. They're probably a little stale, I bought them this morning."
Garcia's stomach churned, his thoughts far from food at the moment. The images of Stan's body still burned in his mind.
~
It had been hours since Magineau and Marge began sorting through the entrails, and Garcia was struggling to keep his coffee down. He frowned, extremely agitated that he was stuck there because of Quinn.
"Marge, what's that strange substance there on the liver?"
"I don't know." She frowned, picking up a vial and a swab. "I'll get a sample of it." She gently rolled the q-tip onto a revolting black slime, and Garcia watched with sick fixation as her nimble fingers twirled the swab over what was left of Stan's liver.
"Good, good. Now, if we can-"
"That's disgusting." Garcia grunted, squinting at the swab. "What the hell is that?"
"I have no idea," Magineau mused, continuing his probing of the organs "but I agree it's absolutely grotesque."
"I'll be right back." Garcia grumbled, yanking off his mask and gloves. "Gotta check in with Uncle Sam."
"What?" Magineau asked absentmindedly, gently picking what looked like small, transparent balls from an organ. Garcia gagged.
"Quinn," Garcia grunted, gesturing to his cell phone and rubbing a hand over his ample stomach "ah, never mind."
He huffed, yanking the door open and stepping into the hall, the fresh air a welcome relief from the scent of formaldehyde.
He dialed the number, listening to it ring for a long, agonizingly tense time before being shunted to voicemail. "What the hell..." A groan left his lips.
Cursing under his breath, he typed in another number and waited as it rang.
"Gordon." Came the terse, clipped answer from the other end.
Garcia rolled his eyes. What was it with these suits and their stony, standoffish attitude?
"It's Garcia. Look, I need to talk to Quinn. This is taking longer than expected, and it's giving me the willies."
"He's out to dinner." Gordon replied curtly.
"What?" Garcia growled, practically spitting on the mouthpiece. "I thought he was interviewing witnesses!"
"Garcia, you know as well as I do by now that if Quinn says he's at dinner, he's at dinner." Gordon replied slowly, emphasizing the last part.
"Well, where the hell is he?" Garcia shouted, voice echoing in the empty corridor.
"I don't know." Gordon sighed in agitation. "I was told he went for sushi."
Garcia mouthed incoherent babble for a moment before collecting himself enough to sputter out "S-sushi?"
"As I said, Lieutenant, he didn't mean it literally. He's investigating somehow, in his own way. I honestly have no idea where he is."
"You listen here," Garcia grumbled into the receiver, "there's some really weird shit going on in this autopsy and I need to give him the damn update he asked for!"
"Detective!" Barked a loud voice from behind him. He groaned and turned, albeit reluctantly, to meet the very frustrated gaze of Magineau, who at some point had exited the exam room.
"Yes?" He drew out the word, hissing like a snake, barely controlling his anger through his gritted teeth. A blinding light caused him to shut his eyes, and he raised a hand to block it out, squinting reproachfully at the M.E.; Magineau had forgotten to extinguish his head lamp.
"Do you mind? I'm onto a breakthrough in here!" Yelled the M.E. with an embellished twirl, as he danced happily in the hall.
"Gordon," Garcia hissed angrily into his phone "tell your boss to let me the hell out of here."
"When you're done with the autopsy." Gordon replied indifferently, cutting him off with a click.
That asshole hung up on me, Garcia thought.
As he turned to meet the psychotic, overly excited grin that was plastered on Magineau's face, he wished he could shove that creepy ass smile right up Quinn Jones' butt.