Dead are Forgotten

by Morgan Kelley

  Please follow up with your physician.

  Harmont Labs.’

  Holy shit!

  WHAT?

  He read it five times, trying to find the joke, the mistake, or something to make him not throw up. There was no way this was a prank from Elizabeth.

  No one could be that cruel—including her, so that meant it had to be legit.

  This had to be the real deal, and that caused his life to bottom out around him.

  This was his death sentence.

  This was his end.

  On the fifth time that he read it, he headed into his lounge and locked the door so he could be alone to digest this. Someone had just told him he was dying via letter.

  Could it be colder?

  More brutal?

  Doctor Christopher Orion Leonard was given his worst-case scenario.

  He had HIV.

  There was that moment where he couldn’t believe it—followed by that moment when he realized that it had to be true because of his mistake.

  Now he had to pay for it.

  He was dying.

  Oh, shit!

  His carelessness during an autopsy had sentenced him to death by one of the nastiest ways to go. HIV was a horrible death sentence, and he was now its newest victim.

  He was a ticking bomb, and he’d never know when he’d go off, but that he definitely would. His body was the enemy, and he was going to die alone, in pain, and with a horrible death.

  After all the years of being super careful, and making sure to be aware of what he was doing in an autopsy, that one nick to his finger—that one cut...

  That one mistake.

  It had cost him everything.

  All the horrible scenarios battered him. They inundated him with the horrible truth.

  There was no way he’d see his daughter marry, he wouldn’t see the birth of his grandchildren, or grow old with his family. Chris was going to be the first one to die.

  He was going to be the one who ended up crossing into the nothingness, and alone. He was going to die without anyone beside him.

  He was a dead man walking.

  And in that moment, he knew the truth.

  As he slid down the wall, he began to cry.

  HIV was his death sentence, and it had just cost him everything.

  Suddenly, his birthday didn’t matter.

  Christopher Leonard’s clock really began ticking.

  Faster.

  Chapter One

  Knox Hill

  Washington D.C

  Thursday Mid-Morning

  I t was just another day in the city for the two detectives on duty. The only thing that made it a good day, as they were heading to a crime scene, was the fact that they were friends and genuinely got along with each other. That made for a much smoother day.

  When you worked with someone you respected AND liked, it made it go so much faster.

  That was the highlight of a murder scene. They were still getting slack from the other cops in their division. Neither man was from around there. They were both oddities in the homicide division.

  One was a full Native, proud of his heritage, and the other a good ol’ boy from the Deep South.

  Together, they made a damn good team, and they were closing cases left and right. The oddity had become the pinnacle to which all the other cops were measured.

  Detective Kane Redwolf had implanted from the other side of the country when his wife, Christina, had been asked to return to the FBI. There was no way he could tell her no, knowing that she was all about science.

  It was her jam.

  Still, he’d, initially, been hesitant because of his fear of fitting in, but Ethan Blackhawk had taken care of that. He’d gotten him a detective job with the DC Metro police, and for that, he was grateful.

  What made him even more grateful?

  His new partner in crime.

  Literally and figuratively.

  Detective Quinton Gaines was also a transplant. His wife had asked him to move to the East Coast with her, their kids, their dog, and a shitload of boxes.

  The man made the move, just like Kane, and they were now working side by side in Homicide. He, too, had practically been handed his job.

  Oh, he had the resume to back it up.

  First, as a cop in Atlanta, then a sheriff of a small town, and then a detective in Damascus, so it wasn’t exactly a gift job.

  Quinton had earned his stripes, and he planned on doing the same here in DC.

  The perk?

  It was a pretty sweet deal to be near his wife fulltime. There were no more business trips or her being away.

  The worst part of picking up and moving across the country?

  Neither man knew the lay of the land.

  They were like two fish out of water, using GPS, and navigation systems to get everywhere. Since Kane had been there longer, he was tasked with the driving.

  For them, trying to navigate DC—as two newbies—was hellish at best.

  Take this case.

  They’d been handed the information and sent out the door to get there. At that moment, they were late to the current scene as their GPS rerouted them.

  Again.

  “I may never get accustomed to this town,” Quinn said as Kane drove them.

  The man laughed.

  He’d said the same thing to his wife just a few weeks ago, and it wasn’t any better.

  “I know I won’t, Quinn. I’m not even talking about the weird-ass way the streets run. I’m talking about when I walk around, and I get stares.”

  Quinn felt for him, but he was all about busting Kane’s ass as much as he possibly could.

  “Well, you are a giant,” he said, laughing. “It may be all that hair. What time do you get up to start brushing it?” he asked, laughing at the way it blew through the open window.

  Kane liked the cooler air, and the wicked snow of the East made him happy.

  Quinn, meanwhile, was freezing his ass off.

  They were the odd couple.

  “Well, Mr. Southern Boy, I have news for you. After they’re staring at me, they’re trying to figure out what the hell ‘worn slap out’ means. At least I ‘English’ better than you do.”

  Quinn snorted.

  The first week with Kane, he’d had to calm it down. Okay, that was a lie. He tried to confuse him with his Southern colloquialisms at every given chance.

  It was fun.

  “Uh, that’s an easy one. It means tired. Jesus. It’s like you pretty boys up yonder are all catawampus.”

  Kane shook his head.

  And so, it continued…

  “A grown ass man shouldn’t be saying catawampus. I don’t give a shit what it means. You sound like a lunatic even uttering that word. Why they thought you were sane enough to give you a gun is beyond me,” he busted right back.

  He snorted.

  “Well, we can’t all be citified like you, Kane.”

  Oh, he was aware.

  Between Elizabeth and Quinn, once you got them started, you didn’t know what the hell they were saying. She was generally normal, but when the detective beside him showed up, she reverted to ‘bless your heart’ and ‘fixin’ to fly off the handle’.

  It was like they had a secret club.

  One that NO ONE wanted to join.

  “Hey, I can’t help that I’m civilized,” Kane stated. “I’m beginning to wonder about you.”

  Quinn was amused by his partner. He genuinely got along with the man.

  Kane…he was good people.

  That meant everything when someone was watching your back. In the bad section of town, you needed eyes in the back of your head.

  Literally.

  He was those eyes.

  “Well, if the creek doesn't rise…”

  “STOP.”

  Quinn laughed.

  “My bad. I guess I do use them a lot.”

  Kane lifted a brow.

  That was an understatement.

  “I’ll be o
n my best behavior,” Quinn offered, giving him the three-finger Boy Scout salute.

  Bullshit.

  Somehow, Kane doubted that.

  “How’s Chrissy doing with her pregnancy?” Quinn asked. “I know she was as sick as a dog with the first one. Callie mentioned it to me once.”

  Yeah, that had been bad. Milo had worked her hard and put her away wet.

  So far, this baby wasn’t making her a puke-a-torium.

  Yet.

  “She’s good, but the baby…we are screwed.”

  Quinn looked over when he said that, and there was a general concern there.

  “Is everything okay? Can I do something?” he asked, hoping that there was nothing wrong with Kane’s second baby.

  “No, she’s healthy, and so is mini-muffin number two, as she calls the baby, but this child will not let us see its baby junk. I swear. Milo was easy. He flashed the world. My son wanted every ultrasound tech to know he was proud of what the Great Spirit gave him.”

  Quinn laughed.

  Yeah, kids were a mixed bag.

  You never knew what you were going to get. That’s exactly why he wanted more.

  Quinn loved his wife, being a daddy, and a cop.

  In that order.

  “Suzie was easy too. Maybe it was because she was a surprise, and we nearly lost her when those cuckoo killers took my wife. I think the universe opted to go easy on us. God knew I couldn’t handle much more,” he said, as he crossed himself.

  He’d been a mess.

  “With Honor, we had to wait until he came out. That’s why I picked a name that would fit a girl or a boy. I had no freaking clue what I was getting,” Quinn admitted.

  Kane was at that point.

  “How’s Callie doing?” Kane asked.

  “Well, she’s puking her brains out. We didn’t even have to piss on that stick.”

  “We?” Kane asked. “Do you have some weird Southern ritual?” he teased.

  “Har-har. You know what I meant.”

  He did, but it was still fun to bust his buddy’s ass. They both had pregnant wives, and Kane’s was going to pop first. She was a good four months ahead of Callie.

  “I’m hoping that maybe with this next one, we’ll have easy again. Then again, my wife is as stubborn as a tick on a fat dog, so I know where the kids get it.”

  Kane laughed.

  “Sexy.”

  Quinn punched him in the arm.

  “I’m just glad she’s pregnant again. A pregnant wife is a blessing,” Quinn stated.

  Kane stared at him like he was crazy.

  “Uh, are you drinking at nine in the morning, son? My wife cried because the houseplant she grew from a sprout died. She made me bury it, and then she made me dig it up because she realized it might grow again and come back to life. She didn’t want a zombie plant…”

  Quinn snorted.

  “The burden it must be to be married to a forensic scientist.”

  “She dusts the cookie jar, Quinn. I have to keep my cookies in the garage, in an old nail can, and it’s marked turpentine. She told me if I ate her damn cookies, she’d neuter me.”

  “And did you steal them?” Quinn asked.

  “Hell, yes. I’m a big man. I can’t eat just one cookie. I need at least ten. How was I to know she’d actually pull out a fingerprint kit and dust the jar? Who keeps that lying around the house?”

  Quinn found that amusing.

  “You’re not the only one who has to bear that cross, buddy. My wife is a shrink. Do you know what that’s like?” Quinn asked.

  Talk about a burden.

  “Every time she asks me a question and I answer, she says ‘uh-huh’, and then scribbles something down. I’m analyzed all day long. Most of the time, she’s just making the grocery list and multi-tasking, but it makes me paranoid.”

  “I wouldn’t worry. She already knows you’re insane.”

  “I reckon.”

  Kane laughed as he pulled up to the scene. “Oh, goodie. It’s in a piss-filled alley in the worst section of DC. Whatever could we have by way of a body?” he muttered.

  Quinn pulled out the customary twenty because this was their thing. They’d see who was buying lunch. When in hell, all you could do was make the most of it.

  “I say it’s a drug dealer with a side of gangbanging to make it a nice round case.”

  Kane joined him by pulling out his own twenty and dropping it on the console.

  He liked this game.

  It involved food.

  He was always down for that.

  If he won, they were eating pizza and getting donuts for dessert. He could put on some winter weight while his wife was carrying a baby.

  “I say hooker whose John got a little over-enthusiastic, and ended her life in the most spectacular way.”

  “That’s what you always pick,” Quinn stated. “You’re sucking the fun out of this.”

  Oh, he was having fun.

  Only, Kane liked to win.

  “Uh, this is DC. What were the last three cases we got called to?” he asked.

  “Dead hookers.”

  And there it was.

  When in Rome…

  Kane liked to play the odds.

  If Quinn won, they were going to be eating BBQ, and that sucked in DC. This was about saving his mid-day meal.

  “I like to go with the house on this one,” Kane said, taking both twenties and tucking them in the visor until after they found out who had won.

  Quinn hopped out, and he grabbed his suit jacket from the back seat. It was a mild winter in DC, but that could change at any moment. They had warmer gear in the trunk.

  Once on, he got serious, and the switch was flipped. It was time to do the job, and there would be time to play later. This was about the victim.

  If anything, they both took their jobs beyond seriously.

  This was their world.

  It was filled with blood, gore, and piss-filled alleys, but it was all theirs.

  At the tape, the uniformed cop lifted it so they could duck under.

  “What happened?” Kane asked, pulling out his phone to begin making notes for their case file. It was his turn to construct, and Quinn’s turn to drive the bus.

  Besides, he was sick of looking at dead hookers. This was his way of preserving his lunchtime appetite.

  “We have one woman, knife to the back of the skull, and she was carved up. ME is on the scene, and he’s handling it. There’s not a lot of blood—for once.”

  That could mean a lot of things.

  She’d been dead before she was carved up, she’d been dropped there, or she was a victim-cicle.

  “Not a drug dealer?” Kane asked.

  “Nope. She’s too neat and clean to be one of them. She was dressed decently, so she’s not a homeless person either,” the cop offered.

  It looked like Quinn had lost that bet.

  Kane grinned victoriously. His guess might not be a hooker, but he was closer to the win on this one than his partner.

  “Uh, you can stop smiling. You look like you’re having a good time. That’s all kinds of wrong, my friend.”

  Oh, he was aware, but this was his fourth win in a row.

  Never bet against the odds.

  It looked like they were having pizza and donuts this afternoon.

  “I told you a hooker,” Kane said, as they approached the scene with their badges out, and their sunglasses on. The sun off the snow on the streets was a bitch.

  “What do we have?” Kane asked again, but this time to one of the city’s doctors.

  The ME, Doctor Lester Vanbrunt, glanced up at them as they approached.

  “Well, if it’s not the cowboy and Indian,” he stated, lightheartedly.

  Kane let it go.

  It was a losing battle.

  The man was just lucky his wife wasn’t there. Christina, while pregnant, could chew ass with the best of them. She might even give Elizabeth a run for her money when someone dropped the ‘I�
�� word.

  Besides, he had other things to worry about, and he knew the ME wasn’t being malicious. People just didn’t get that Native Americans didn’t like being called ‘Indian’. Those were people from the country of India.

  It was fairly simple to grasp—for most people—except the ignorant.

  Quinn, on the other hand, didn’t appear to plan on backing off. At the word, he actually pulled off his sunglasses and was ready to go there for his partner.

  Yeah, not on his freaking watch.

  “Oh, well, it’s nine o’clock and already, we had our first racist comment of the day. We’re getting better. Usually, it’s seven.”

  The man looked appalled.

  “I didn’t mean anything…”

  “What’s up with the victim?” Quinn asked, cutting the older, white man off. He didn’t want to hear him rationalize it. If you saw a person, and the first thing you felt the need to comment on—when standing over a dead body—was a man’s ethnicity…

  You might be a racist.

  It was fairly simple to grasp that concept. When he looked at Kane, he didn’t think ethnicity.

  He thought about the man who was going to have his back when they went through a door or worked a case.

  Skin was only skin.

  Character made the man.

  The doctor gave them what he had, and without putting up too much of a fight.

  Thankfully.

  “We have Beverly Sampson. She’s a local woman who lives not far from here. She was found with her purse and a lot of wounds to her body.”

  They could see that.

  “We were told that she’s not bleeding,” Kane stated as he checked out the cuts to her torso. “Pre or postmortem?” he asked, making detailed notes.

  “No, she’s not bleeding, and in this case, she was likely dead before they were made. We have some blood, but that signifies that her heart was stopped at the time. The killer nicked an artery or two on her torso, and that was the blood that leaked out.”

  They made their notes.

  “What else?” Quinn asked.

  “I have her liver temp. Normally, the cops beat me here, but you were late.”

  “We stopped to grab some hookers and beer,” Quinn stated.

  The man stared at him.