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Chapter 3:565Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYjrPilu2oC

Mortician's Vice (pt. 1)

I told myself long ago never to trust anything other than my gut instinct. If I had only told myself that sooner, certain things may not have happened. For several years I ignored that belief and it served meg well. My rash judgments paid off. Every case, every scrap of evidence, suspects and trials all led me down the path that coincidentally forced me to retire. A true detective should always be mindful of coincidence. That, I found out, within a few days of landing what I considered at the time to be the most important case of my career; the now infamous "Murdock Case." And I was right, partially. 

For the longest time I was always a bit cocky. I had a loud mouth yet I was hardly one to brag. Or so I thought. The words that came out of my lips during my early years I could easily scoff at. But what did I know? I was a rookie. I had my whole career in front of me and I pissed it all away. 

Richard Murdock, he was charged with aggravated assault and the murder of his wife and two children. When the case for first opened, Michaels put me in charge of piecing it together so the court could gather enough evidence for their conviction. I was at the height of my pride when I learned the hard way just how badly Murphy could ruin everything with one quick and poorly timed intervention. Funny thing, he was an optimist.

I was desperate for another win. I didn't care whose name they wrote on the paperwork, I just wanted to be the one who solved the hottest case and helped bring a man to justice. I didn't think about the consequences or the impact it would have later. I ached for the attention. And I got it.

Murdock didn't even make it through trial. He was murdered outside the courthouse before he could be convicted. Some bent up friend of the family snapped and shot him in down cold blood, at least that's what the newspaper article said the following day. Months later new evidence was found, clearing Murdock from the entire case, suggesting he could have been framed. I could have saved an innocent man's life had I listened to my gut instead going by the evidence that I pieced together out of coincidence and my own sloppy detective work.

The case has been closed since and the true killer has remained a free man. I owe it to myself, not for some sick form of vindication, but to honor the Murdock family and Richard's life by finding the true killer and bringing him to justice. So when Michaels assigned me to work this new case with Roy, my guts turned. This guy could be the one. I knew I had to play this carefully and be objective, but my God, what a better way to get back in the game. 

"Hey, sleeping beauty. Welcome back to the land of the living" Roy called out. "We're here."

I opened my eyes in the passenger seat of Roy's beat up '77 Pinto. "Sorry Roy. I guess I dozed off" I said while pinching my nose with my thumb and index finger.

"Relax princess, you didn't break my heart," he said, putting the car in park to kill its engine. 

"That's right, you'd actually have to have one for that to work."

"Check, mark, and tally. Do you wake up a smart-ass?"

"No. Usually it takes me a few hours, but you seem to bring out the best in me."

"Look," Roy began, leaning over to the passenger side, "we've got work to do and  right now the only thing that will get me through this morning is a nice, hot cup of coffee and a long drag. My day would be a little easier if you weren't a part of it. But here we are, so I suggest you let me do the talking. Got it?" Roy pulled a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket and put one in his mouth before lighting it. I would be lying if I thought that smell wasn't slightly contagious. Roy sucked on that thing like he was licking his fingers after eating barbecue ribs. It was disgusting. For an ex-smoker that sight could either be captivating or nauseating. I took a heavy breath of remorse and left the car.

I grew in my anxiety the less distance there was between myself and the hospital walls. Laura Wells had been all but dormant inside my mind since I last saw her. In all honesty it hadn't been that long, nearly an hour or two, but if I wanted to follow through with her as an integral part of this investigation I couldn't do it from the station. Captain's orders. The doctors would have more than likely examined her inside and out by now. If they hadn't, then releasing her is a big mistake. 

Roy followed me as I walked toward the hospital. For a bulky man, he sure could keep a steady pace, even as he coughed on the black tar poisoning his lungs. I'd give him five years, but that'd be generous. He flicked his bud on the cold cement, and left its tip to burn in the steaming rain.

"Think she'll come easy?" I asked him, almost afraid of his response.

"Depends" he said dryly.

"On what?"

"How hard I make her."

"You're a dirt bag, you know that?"

"She can look at it as incentive, even repayment for assisting us in an investigation. Her choice."

With the sickest of sadistic smirks across his seasoned face, Roy opened the door and brushed my shoulder as he entered the building, his eyes beaming in a state of over-expressed self-righteousness. It was just another addition to an ever growing list of his typical blatant disregard for human compassion. I've found Roy can be summed up with a single phrase; "a one-dimensional character with a heart carved in disdain." But I didn't argue with his moral choices. It seemed to be working for him.

The hospital was what you'd expect. Bright, over-extravagant, and covered with just enough paintings and pictures that you thought you were in the lobby of a museum. I never understood why people would go to such extremes to pretend such a place was pleasant enough to find solace in. Every room was filled with death and disease and the only way they could fool people into thinking hospitals are lively were to hang pictures and wear pretentious, warm smiles? Call me crazy but people don't come to hospitals expecting to have a good time. They come knowing that things they've taken for granted could easily be what the sick ache for, and their healthy is only temporary. Who wants to stare at a picture of an ocean where the waves glow from the Sun's shine of radiance when hundreds of people are touching death's arms? There may be sick people in this world but that's not the type of sickness hospitals attract. Not this kind of hospital. 

Across from the service desk in the center of the lobby was a concession area. Behind the desk was a beautiful young woman. She couldn't have been older than 25. Her long, curly brunette hair, and the way she wore her burgundy shaded lipstick, even down to those ocean blue eyes, perfectly captivating and exquisite enough to make da Vinci jealous. Then there was Roy; bloated, dirty with a two month old beard, and stained with the stench of nicotine and cigarette ash, brushing his thinning hair over his ears with a greasy finger.

"Hey doll. What's such a pretty face like yours doing workin' in a stiff joint like this huh?" Roy asked, hunched over the desk with his arms folded over each other for support.

The young woman's face turned burnt red, but I couldn't tell if she was flattered or embarrassed. I begged Roy to stop with my eyes but he didn't even flinch.

"Listen, I'm gonna need a large mocha with some whip cream and lots of sugar, if you know what I mean?"

My God, I didn't know who I was embarrassed for more, Roy or the poor innocent young woman. Yet, she smiled, and not a half-assed "trying not to hurt your feelings" kind of way. It was purely genuine. Man, this chick was easy.

"Make sure it's decaf," I cut in, "if he has too much caffeine boy here swill stroke out and have another heart attack. He's really old. Oh, and hold the whip cream and sugar while you're at it. Thanks."

Roy glared, his eyes burning with a rare, perfect fury. I slapped him across his right shoulder blade and continued walking down the hallway, my polite way of telling him to go fuck himself.

I moved through the hallway, opposite several patients and visitors, taking mental notes of every expression fueled by a seemingly vague sense of subtle innocence.  Every gesture frail, every glare coarse. Hope didn't have a home here. This was a sanitarium. Their eyes begged for me to be a vessel of release. Whether that was by escape or murder I couldn't tell. I'd never known that level of despair in my life, save for my divorce. I shared those eyes. That pitiful moment where you thought your world was coming to an end was devastating. That's why God invented alcohol. What a tool. Surely this wasn't their form of poverty. If it was then maybe I could help. But that's not my civil obligation. It's to a broader range of the damaged. It was to the one's who's life had become victims of the law. Not nature. At least the elderly and the ill had their family for moral support. The same can't be said for the offended. That was my oath. And I intend to uphold it,

I approached the help desk, Roy still trying to woo that poor young woman not too far behind me, and greeted a similarly attractive woman who sat in front of me with a pleasant smile. She wore glasses with a thin gray frame resting comfortably along the bridge of her nose, a perfect compliment to her more than modest attire, a casual business jacket and burgundy pants. 

"Laura Wells' room please. "​