I work in a sterile room filled with stainless steel, the sound of squeaky linoleum flooring and the pungent smell of formaldehyde. It's my detective's office, if you will. Although, I've only been working since last week.

Death shouldn't smell.

What is it? An ending of life.

If anything, life itself is far filthier. Mean people, abhorrent conversation, flatulence, sex. From birth, human beings learn how to misbehave. Their morals are in a state of decomposition. From innocent newborns to demanding toddlers, we plummet. Until one day, you're a forty-seven-year-old woman peeking at your pubescent step daughter in the shower.

The smell of formaldehyde is simply a mistaken representation of death. It isn't death.

You might call me a curious person.

It's my father's office, to be truthful. He's dead. So he doesn't need it. And my mother barely leaves her fucking bed. She has no idea what happens down there or out there. She has no idea what life is. Nor do those bodies. Anymore. They never stopped to think who was behind them while they were walking home or that their meal at Al Salacino's would be their last.

I'm curious as to why they decided to dump them downstairs.

It's a one in million chance that some fucking lunatic would find another psychopath with a bench and stainless who was curious. Statistically, there's eight hundred of us in this town. There are far less doctors. And even fewer police. Not that getting caught would be of any concern to them.

The first.

I was in the kitchen brewing coffee. I can't get enough of the stuff. Instant, single origin, black, milk. Whatever. I like it all. When I'm out, I only drink the fancy stuff. Effervescent white, foamy bubbles shiny and bouyant at the top of the cup. I'm in the habit of asking the waitresss to "Surprise me." I saw it in a movie once. Those two fucked two scenes later. It goes down easier than saying, "I don't give a fuck. Whatever's easiest."

It was 2:38 am. I always lean against the counter opposite the microwave, so when the first stone pinged against the window, I looked up from my phone at those green numbers glaring at me, then out the window. I got close enough so I could look down to the ground.

There was just an arrow pissed into the snow pointing to the rear of the house. I turned my head to look in that direction but nothing seemed apparent. Any normal person might be freaked out. I have friends. It isn't as though I'm some loner. Pranks and shit-stirring isn't uncommon.

I grabbed my mug and swigged from it as I walked downstairs toward the rear of the house. Dad's lab had an access door outside so I walked through the garage, into the lab and opened the door. As soon as I turned the handle, the door swung in against the weight of something on the other side. She was probably in her forties or fifties. Blonde hair. If it wasn't for all the blood down her front, she would have looked nice. Lipstick, makeup and everything.

I stepped over her and ran out into the snow.

Who kills a person and dumps them on another person's doorstep? Someone trying to taunt me. That's who. I've been on a load of meds that I willingly took to suppress my violent tendencies. They do work. Don't let Joe-Public fool you. But as soon as you stop taking them, your mind goes back to the way it was. I know my place in this town. It's full of egotists, rich kids and hardworking folk. I just happen to be the one pulling the strings. I won't move for mothers pushing strollers. Why should I? I park in the closest parking spots. I've never seen a disabled person drive a car before, anyway. I'm glad for those signs. Although, I'd prefer if city hall just wrote my name instead.

I didn't see footprints, let alone a person. Elusive fucker.

I called her Trudi. She was heavy. She didn't look heavy, but it took all my effort to drag her into the lab across the threshold. I couldn't leave her out in the snow. She was in her best after all. I propped her up against a leg of the exam table. I had to tie her head back with her hair to stop her head from lolling forward. I slumped next to her wondering what she was doing when she was attacked. She wasn't pale. In fact, she was still warm. I put my hand under her jacket across her breasts. They were full. I would have enjoyed it more had that fucker, whoever he was, hadn't stabbed through her left one, no doubt piercing her heart. Inconsiderate prick. At least she wasn't totally spoiled.

I sat there drinking cold coffee with my hand down Trudi's pants. Her killer needed to be aprehended. This is my fucking town.

Nick.

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All content is original and belongs to @nickmorphew. [23 June 2018]

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