The Dark Places

by R. S. Whitfield

  Parker didn’t consider himself someone with a weak stomach, but there is something about the smell of an autopsy floor in a morgue that was more mental than physical. It’s an overtly chemical smell that’s almost sickly sweet. Your brain immediately tells you that it must be rotting flesh that you’re smelling — the pungent odour of death — but in reality, all it is usually is formalin, formaldehyde and a mixture of various cleaning products. Morgues, in general, consist of offices you would find in any other government building, staff rooms with kitchens, and in some cases, a chapel for the family and friends of the deceased to find some measure of peace. The actual autopsies are performed in extremely sterile environments on designated floors. Access to the viewing rooms is restricted and mostly reserved for the police and family who need to identify bodies. Any contamination, including decomposed and burnt remains, are well contained and usually kept in special rooms with vacuum ventilation.

  Even though Parker knew all this, the foreign smell still hit him like a wall when the automatic doors slid open, and it caused an involuntary gagging reflex that he tried extremely hard to disguise. Surin was standing with Vector talking inaudibly.

  “Ah, Detective Rhodes.” Vector gestured with a smile. “I’m just finishing up on this poor fellow’s external examination,” he said, looking down at the body on the table. Parker walked over and stood by the steel gurney. The poor fellow in question was a middle-aged man who sported an extremely impressive thick black beard that instantly reminded Parker of a pirate. He was dressed to the nines, black tux, white vest and even a pressed hankie in the front pocket of his tailored jacket. Parker also noted gold cuff links that appeared to be engraved with a set of initials. The only thing that looked remotely out of place was the brown rope that was looped snuggly around his neck.

  “He really outdid himself this one,” Vector stated, shaking his head sadly. “Even shined his shoes.”

  Parker looked down, wondering as he always did, how and why someone could have something so bad going on in their life that ending it seemed to be the only way out. To feel so alone must be terrifying.

  “Family?” Surin asked from the other side of the table.

  “Wife, grown-up son, money problems apparently, emailed his farewell note to his boy ten minutes before he did it. They were estranged and apparently it was the first email he had gotten from his dad in years.”

  Vector pulled the white sheet up and covered the dead man’s body.

  “Anyway, I leave all those details to you people. After I have finished our girl, I’ll come back and finish him up, his neck is snapped clean, so it’s a pretty open-and-shut one for me at least. I prefer not to know too much; it’s the science, the medical side that’s my business,” he stated absently, waving his hands in the air. “If I thought about the rest, I might not be able to come to work each day.”

  Surin and Parker both nodded. It took a special type of person to do the job of medical examiner. Not only were they highly intelligent and medically trained but contrary to their portrayal in TV shows and movies as cold, weird and sterile people, in most cases, they possessed an extraordinary empathy for the dead. From a police perspective, they deserved the utmost respect.

  Surin had once witnessed Vector carefully dress and swaddle a deceased new-born baby girl that had been dumped at the door of a convenience store in Newton. The mother was never found, and no one ever came forward to claim her remains. In cases such as these, it was government protocol to petition the Department of Justice for what was called Burial Assistance. Once approved, the remains in question were cremated, stored and then discarded after two years. In the case of what the media had dubbed, the 7/11 baby, Vector had refused to let her be thrown away again. He paid for her funeral and burial himself. Several police officers, including Surin, had attended the small and terribly sad ceremony, and as far as Surin knew, he still visited the tiny headstone marked “Sweetheart” every year since.

  Vector pushed the gurney back into the wall fridge and walked to the other end of the cabinet.

  “Right, Miss Isabelle Lacross,” he said to himself. “Let’s find out what special kind of hell you have been through.”

  Surin and Parker stood back as Vector’s assistant, a young medical science student named Eric, laid out a fresh tray of instruments and switched on, bright, overhead lights. The forensic photographer was standing off to the side, ready to capture each step of the process for the official file. Eric pulled back the white sheet to reveal Isabelle’s lifeless body. Parker immediately noticed the deep lacerations on her wrists. The binds had cut deep, and there were multiple grooves from where she had obviously struggled to free herself. Looking down, he saw the same indentations on her ankles. Reaching into his back pocket, he took out his tatty notebook.

  “We’ll get all the details in the report, Rhodes,” Surin murmured, “put your book away.”

  Parker stared at her. “What are we doing here then if we can just read the report?” he bit back.

  “We are here because sometimes you need to actually witness what she went through, in the flesh, face to face, to feel what he wanted her to feel so that we can understand why. Any monkey can read a report,” she whispered, her eyes not leaving Isabelle as she spoke. “Tell me what you see?”

  Vector had already finished her external exam and removed what was left of her clothing, which had been bagged and sent for testing. Photos were continuously being taken of her various wounds when Parker spoke up.

  “Obvious restraints, by the looks of the marks, I would say handcuffs, the repetitive pattern up and down caused by violent struggling.” He cleared his throat, trying to remain objective.

  “And this?” Surin asked, pointing to a large red-and-purple bruise above the right breast.

  “Bite marks?” Parker answered.

  Surin nodded. “The first ones are hesitant, here on the left side.” She gestured towards small red indentions below the left nipple. “But these ones are deep, first tormenting her with the idea of pain, then brutally inflicting it.”

  “She was raped multiple times,” Vector chipped in. “There’s a multitude of vaginal tearing and bruising. I’ve taken swabs, but it appears he wore a condom. I found a minute amount of latex residue on her inner thigh.”

  “Great,” Surin responded, shaking her head. “He’s careful. Let me guess, no fibres in her hair? Under her nails?”

  “No, nothing that we will be able to work with. I did take a throat swab to check for oral penetration, there was none by the way, but I found what appears to be some biological flora material in the mucous lining of her larynx that is similar to the properties of Stachybotrys chartarum. It’s a black mould that is sometimes found in soil, requires high moisture content to grow, and is often associated with wet material or wallpaper. This may point to her being held underground, somewhere dark and damp, possibly in a basement. I know that narrows it down to about a million potential places in this area. I’ve sent it off to be analysed as well so I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Why is there all this bruising around her neck?” Parker interrupted. “It wasn’t this dark and mottled when we found her.”

  “Finger marks from strangulation,” Vector answered. “I estimate he strangled her to the point of unconsciousness over five times according to the impressions I can see, the last time being the one that finally and mercifully killed her.”

  “So, cause of death is manual strangulation?” Surin confirmed.

  “Without a doubt. There is a considerable amount of haemorrhaging in the strap muscles, and the stress has broken the hyoid bone. This poor girl was tortured, raped and beaten, but it was his hands wrapped around her throat that finally ended it, gloved hands I might add.”

  “Time of death?” she asked.

  “Between two and four this morning,” he answered. “She was found by the cabbie around six a.m., so she hadn’t been there long.”

  Surin nodded as Vector picked up his scalpel and made the fir
st cut of the Y-incision.

  “Wait, he strangled her five times?” Parker asked. Surin and Vector looked at him questionably. “Am I missing something?” he added.

  Surin looked at Parker, clearly not a clue as to what he was asking. Vector smiled sadly.

  “He revived her, Parker. Each time he revived her, so he could do it all over again.” With that, he sliced down the centre of the chest and began eviscerating the body. Once the skin had been separated, he laid the blade down, picked up the shears and prepared to crack the ribs.

  Parker was still staring at him when the sound of the rib cage and sternum coming free shifted his focus.

  “Shit,” he mumbled, watching Vector lift the bone plate and place it on the table. “I’m done,” he said and with that strode out of the room.

  Surin heard the whoosh of the automatic doors and caught Vector’s eye as he lifted out the first organ and passed it to Eric for weighing.

  “He lasted longer than I thought,” she said, smiling.

  “Not everyone’s like you Surin,” Vector countered, beginning to run out the intestines.

  “Well, he is my partner, and this is how I work,” she answered, feeling a little guilty as Vector shook his head.

  The only sound left in the room was the snapping shutter of the camera as the forensic photographer continued to record the horror of Isabelle’s final moments.

  13

  “Lunch?” Surin asked as she walked to meet Parker, who was casually leaning against the car door, jotting notes down in his book.

  “Sure, I’m starving.” He reached up and stretched, making a small grunt of pleasure as his arms reached above his head. Surin tried not to notice how tall he was, or that a small section of his shirt had hitched up as he stretched, revealing a tanned and solid abdomen.

  She looked away, chastising herself.

  “What are you hungry for?” he asked.

  She spun around, facing him, slack-jawed. “What!” she squeaked, hating the sound of humiliation in her voice.

  “For lunch?” Parker replied, looking at her like she was a complete nutcase.

  “Oh,” she said, holding back the urge to laugh. “Mexican?”

  “Sounds perfect. My treat for being such a sook in there,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder to the front doors of the morgue.

  “You weren’t a sook,” she laughed, “but you can still pay. We’ll eat and then go interview the cab driver who found her. Apparently, he will be at the station around one,” she stated, opening the passenger door and sliding in.

  “Where to then?” he asked, starting the engine.

  “Miguel’s,” Surin smirked, “best Mexican this side of the border.”

  ***

  Surin chose a corner booth and slid along the seat to lean her back against the cool wall. She had always loved this place. It reminded her of a little restaurant called Siesta’s, that her parents used to take her to when she was young. The music over the speakers was soft and enchanting; she listened as the singer crooned in Spanish, and tapped along to the tempo with her fingertips on the table. She loved how this music made her feel. The delicate beat and trumpet melody drew her in; the soulful voice sang words that she didn’t understand but could somehow feel. It was impossible to hear this music and not move along with the rhythm.

  A young waitress came over to their booth. She was wearing a pretty red button-up dress that flared out cutely just above her knees. Her hair was wild and dark and complimented her deep-olive skin. “Water, senor?” she asked Parker. He smiled up at her, and she instantly blushed, her cheeks matching the shade of her rosy lipstick.

  “Please,” he replied and pushed his empty glass towards her. She filled it up and looked to Surin.

  “Thanks,” Surin said, studying the menu.

  “I will come take your orders soon,” the waitress said as she left, tossing one last look over her shoulder in Parker’s direction. Surin rolled her eyes.

  “So, what’s good?” he asked, placing the menu down, paying no attention to the waitress and looking at Surin.

  “Everything actually,” she replied, “but it’s always a toss-up between the nachos, which are amazing, and the chicken fajitas. Today the nachos have won.” She stacked her menu on the end of the table to let the waitress know she was ready.

  “Make it two, then,” he replied and placed his menu on top. The young girl saw her cue and returned to take their orders.

  “Two nachos with chilli beans, extra guacamole and two Coronas with lime, please,” Surin said. The waitress smiled, mainly at Parker, and headed back to the kitchen.

  Parker leaned back into his chair, taking in the atmosphere. Even though the place was busy with patrons, it seemed to somehow feel completely relaxed. The wall lights were turned down low, which let the natural sunlight filter through the slatted blinds. The tables were painted a rustic black, with mismatched salt and pepper shakers, red napkins and large bottles of Tabasco sauce.

  “So, Rhodes,” Surin began. Parker turned his gaze in her direction. “You, unfortunately, know a hell of a lot about my personal life, down to the layout of my apartment.” Parker shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I, however, know nothing about you, and I have decided it’s time to even the playing field.” She grinned wickedly, her green eyes glowing.

  Parker’s head fell into his hands, and he pushed his golden hair back from his face. “OK, Elliott, I deserve this, I guess.” He sat back and waited for the barrage of questions. “Fire away.”

  “Why psychology?” Surin began. He laughed out loud, a twinkle in his blue eyes.

  “I was expecting something more, well, personal I guess,” he replied.

  “I’m only just getting started,” she answered back.

  “OK, well, I don’t know. If you were wondering if I suffered some childhood trauma and felt the urge to find out the whys and whos then sorry to disappoint. I had a happy childhood, normal overbearing parents, high school was a blast, and college was a real eye-opener, in a good way.” He grinned.

  Surin rolled her eyes, God, he had led a charmed life.

  “I always wanted to be a cop though, always.” His voice turned serious. “I did my research and basically decided it was either psychology or law, and I truly disliked my law professor, end of story.” He leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head, elbows out.

  “And Jolene?” Surin asked, enjoying the brief look of shock that crossed his face before he regained composure.

  “Why you have been busy, haven’t you?” he replied. Surin sat back and raised her shoulders, shrugging innocently.

  “Jolene, my ex-girlfriend, is a school teacher in Miami. What else is there to say?” he asked, then reached forward and picked up a cardboard drink coaster, fingering it nervously.

  “Well, what happened?” Surin continued, noticing his discomfort.

  “What happened with your fiancé?” he fired back defensively.

  “You know damn well what happened with my fiancé, you have met what happened, twice,” she snapped.

  “I’m pretty sure that was the last straw, not the first,” he replied and leaned over the table towards her. Surin took a deep breath, closing her eyes as she inhaled the lingering scent of his aftershave. “Fair is fair. You show me yours, et cetera,” he said and sat back, tossing the coaster to the side.

  “Work,” she breathed, “he hated that I worked so much.”

  “But he knew you were a cop, right?” Parker asked gently.

  “Oh yeah,” she added, “even before we started dating, I knew him through friends. At first, he was fine, of course, and I guess it was exciting for him then, you know, dating a cop. But once I became detective, the caseload got bigger and the hours got longer.” She shifted in her seat and watched an elderly couple take a booth near them.

  “So many missed date nights and family get-togethers, BBQs he went to solo. I was even caught up on a case and couldn’t go to his grandmother’s funeral.” She looked at Pa
rker. “But I never apologised, never felt I had to. This is who I am, and I thought he knew that.” She placed her hands face down on the table, trying to control the emotions bubbling under the surface.

  Parker felt like an ass. “You know what? This is your business, I’m sorry.”

  “No,” she replied, “I pried first, I mean I actually got a copy of your college transcripts for God’s sake.”

  “You what!” he responded with a smile. “That takes stalking to a whole new level, Elliott, wow!” he added with a gruff laugh.

  She smiled and continued. “It would never have worked with Grayson. I think I always knew that, but he was the only person I had ever confided in and trusted which is hilarious on my behalf because, in the end, he betrayed me in the worst possible way.”

  The waitress had quietly set their beers on the table, and Surin took a long pull.

  “That night we had a huge fight about setting a date for the wedding. I wanted to wait, looking back now, maybe I wanted to wait forever. Anyway, he was pissed, started saying that I was never home, that we were never intimate.” Surin shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “He kind of lost it, even accused me of spending too much time at the station because I was seeing someone else. It went way too far, and horrible things were said. I stormed out and went to work, of course, and he went to the pub.” She smiled. “And we all know how that went.”

  Parker looked at her. She was sipping her beer slowly, a long tendril of hair had fallen out of her bun and was tucked messily behind her ear. He already felt like he knew too much but looked up and smiled sadly, urging her to continue.

  “I left work early, which I had never done before and can honestly say haven’t done since. I felt so guilty, and I wanted to make it up to him, so I went home. As soon as I opened the front door, I knew. There was this pair of hideous high-heeled shoes on the floor; they were wet and caked with mud. I slid down the wall, sat beside them and cried.” Surin looked at Parker. Her eyes were teary even though she tried to hide it. “I cried for what seemed like forever, then I picked myself up and walked upstairs into my bedroom.”