Gordon

The Kane Hospital loomed over East Uptown, its concrete facade streaked with grime and rain, merging seamlessly with the gray skyline of Robbinsville. Traffic in the eastern part of the north island was a racket of screeching brakes and blaring car horns. The backstreets were no better. Flooded roads turned nearly every route into a dead end. By the time Gordon reached the coroner's office, his nerves were stretched thin, his temper a hot simmer.

Inside, the air was sterile and cold, tinged with the sharp bite of chemicals and faint traces of decay. Years as a detective in Chicago had made Gordon all too familiar with the smell. He'd grown accustomed to it, but the detached indifference of coroners still caught him off guard.

Dr. Joe Tran whistled softly as he tied a black rubber apron over his portly frame. Matching gloves stretched up to his shoulders, creaking faintly with each movement. His actions were deliberate and practiced—the precision of someone who'd been at this for years. Yet Tran looked close to Gordon's age, perhaps even a few years younger. His plastic face shield rested above his forehead as he meticulously arranged his tools. The faint clang of metal on metal echoing too sharply in the tiled room.

Two other bodies, covered in white sheets, rested on nearby tables. Gordon's attention, however, was drawn to the girl near the far wall. She lay motionless under the fluorescent lights. Her pale skin luminous against the cold steel. Damp black hair spilled over the edge of the table, stark and lifeless. She was small—no taller than five-foot-one—slender, with no visible wounds or needle marks.

"Do you mind?" Gordon asked, motioning toward a box of disposable gloves.

"Go for it," Tran replied without looking up.

Gordon squeezed on a pair of gloves, the latex snapping faintly in the still air. Stepping closer, his damps boots squeaked softly against the dry tile. He touched her pale cheek with a gloved hand. Even through the latex, her skin felt icy, its chill seeping through. Gently, he pulled her lips back to examine her teeth—white, slightly crooked, with healthy pink gums.

Moving to her side, he examined her wrist, turning it carefully. He was surprised to find the black trident from earlier was smeared. The details smudged and distorted beyond recognition. Tran's whistling cut through his concentration—light and unbothered, it grated against Gordon's nerves. Forcing himself to refocus, he shifted his attention to her hand.

He spread her short, thin fingers, inspecting for needle marks. Some junkies shot up between their toes and fingers to hide the evidence, but there was nothing here. Instead, he noticed faint cuts, with thin dribbles of dried blood marking her palm and fingertips.

"Fresh," he murmured, barely audible.

The cuts weren't ragged like those from a fall or asphalt scrapes. They were small, precise jabs made by something jagged—too small to be a knife, but sharp enough to break the skin.

"Not defensive," he concluded, setting her hand back down.

Gordon's gaze moved slowly over her body, scanning for anything out of place. When his eyes landed on her feet, recognition struck him. The soles were blistered, cracked, and discolored, the peeling skin caked with grime.

"Trench foot," he said aloud, his voice louder than intended.

Tran glanced up from his tray, raising an eyebrow. "Good eye, Detective. I noticed it when they brought her in. Did you serve?"

"Navy," Gordon replied, peeling off his glove and tossing it into the hazardous waste bin.

Tran nodded, a flicker of understanding crossing his face. "Explains it. Most cops come out of the Army or Marines. You don't have their vibe."

Gordon arched a brow but didn't bite. His attention shifted to the evidence bags on a nearby steel table. Her underwear and bra were in one; her shirt and shorts, stained and wrinkled, were in others. He picked up a bag containing a faded band tee. The logo depicted a black-and-white silhouette of kids on a wall, the words Killing Joke scrawled in white. Another bag held a tangle of cheap black plastic jewelry—the kind teenagers bought at mall kiosks.

"Trench foot takes time to develop," Gordon said.

"Half a day, give or take," Tran replied, shifting his weight as he leaned against the counter. "It's usually the homeless or junkies who get it."

"She doesn't look like either," Gordon said curtly.

"You never know what people are hiding," Tran offered with a shrug.

Gordon frowned, mulling over the words. They hit closer to home than he liked.

"My bet?" Tran continued, resting a gloved arm over his belly. "She's a user. Probably new at it. Got a bad batch of something."

Gordon wasn't convinced. Her face had an innocence to it—but youth often did. He took in the details again: clean, white teeth; pale, delicate arms; clothes unfit for the cold; the cheap jewelry. She didn't look like someone living on the streets. More likely, she'd been out at a bar or club. Maybe she'd taken a pill from a stranger. Maybe someone had spiked her drink.

"How long for results?" Gordon asked, his tone clipped.

"No visible trauma means we're waiting on toxicology," Tran replied. "Standard turnaround's three months."

"Three?" Gordon's frustration bled through.

Tran met his gaze, one brow arched. "So, you're an outsider," he said with a faint smirk. "Here's the deal: it usually takes a month. But with something like the mass arrests in Crime Alley? Double that. Too much evidence, too few resources. Be glad it's just three."

"Why does it take so long?" Gordon pressed.

Tran flipped his face shield down, his tone hardening. "A lot can go wrong in a month, Detective. Contamination. Chain of custody breaks. Paperwork vanishes. That's how it works here. You get me?"

Gordon nodded reluctantly. "I get it."

The circular saw's metallic whir filled the room as Gordon turned and left through the double doors.

The adjacent office was dim, lit only by the pale glow of a desk lamp. Papers lay scattered in uneven piles, and a phone perched precariously on the corner of the desk. The sharp, rhythmic crack of the saw slicing through bone echoed faintly in the background. Gordon walked to the desk, picked up the receiver, and dialed.

The line pulsed, followed by a soft beep. He keyed in a sequence of numbers, then hung up. Without hesitation, he made his way to the elevators and rode them to the top floor.

The rooftop was a blur of rain and shadow. Sheets of water pounded the city, drumming steadily against the skyline. Gordon lit a cigarette, leaning against the doorframe to shield himself from the worst of the downpour. Smoke curled around him, thin and fleeting, before vanishing into the storm.

He waited, listening to the steady rhythm of the rain, for his silent partner to arrive.