Chapter One
Ezra
The morgue is its own world, the quietest place in the hospital. The only unit where none of the patients are monitored, where none of them care if the staff cracks jokes at their expense, where we lock the door at night and walk away.
The dead have nowhere better to be.
That’s not entirely true. We see a steady stream of pick-ups from local funeral homes, where friends and relatives can mourn their loved ones’ passing. Patients move from their hospital bed to one of our refrigerators and from there to a funeral home, a clean trip from A to B to C. Some spend quality time with a pathologist having their guts examined before their ride in a hearse, but in the end, they get a proper send-off.
Well, they get sent off anyway.
My shift starts at seven a.m, and I’m very nearly on time. Rather than wait for the elevator, I jog down the stairs from the main floor. Most hospital morgues where I’ve worked are on the lowest level, close to the loading dock so funeral homes can make their pick-ups without drawing undue attention to their activities.
The morgue itself is divided in half. The front area is our workroom, separated from the autopsy suite by a bank of coolersthat open on either end. That’s where the bodies go. We only fully staff the area during the day, though some days run into the evening if our postmortems aren’t complete. After hours, some combination of nursing staff and hospital security guards bring the deceased down and log them in.
That means I never know what’s waiting for me when I roll into work. There’s a weight in my gut, though, heavier than usual, even accounting for Monday morning. I tell myself not to poke at it in hopes it’ll go away.
My counterpart, Geneva, is already logged into her favorite of the four desktop computers, her posture left over from years as an Army medic. She sits perfectly straight, as if her lieutenant is going to show up any minute.Do they have lieutenants in the Army? I don’t even know.
“How many on the list?” I scan her computer screen over her shoulder. She’s taller than me and she wears her hair pulled back in a knot so tight it gives me a headache. My hair’s not quite as long, cut blunt at my chin, and held out of my face with a skinny black headband.
“Oh, hey, Ezra. You’re not actively late this morning. Lemme make a note of that.” Leaning to one side, she gives me a better view of the census.
I bend lower, crowding into her space.
“Back off, asshat. Dr. Chen wants us ready for the first case by nine, with two to follow.”
“So far.” There’ll likely be more. Dr. Chen is the chief pathologist, and while I’m sure she has a first name, she carries herself with so much authority that she’ll always be Doctor to me.
Geneva firmly—make that rudely—shoulders me aside as she straightens. “The ME and a couple detectives will be here for the first one. You want to play OR tech or stenographer?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, that weight in my gut getting heavier. Nothing like adding cops to my Monday. “Your choice. Either way I’m going to need caffeine. Can I go to the Brew if I promise we’ll still have everything ready by nine?”
“Only if you get me something, too.”
“Same ole?”
“Yup.”
“BRB.”
She snorts and I leave her clicking through patient charts, finalizing our schedule for the day. The Brew is short for Brew on the Hill, a coffee shop that’s right next door to the hospital. We’ve also got a decent grocery store across the street, and several restaurants in the immediate area, which is a good thing because the cafeteria here sucks.
St Luke’s isn’t the biggest hospital in Seattle. It’s not a trauma center and doesn’t have any truly premier programs—despite what their advertising promises—but like they say in real estate: location, location, location. St Luke’s is in the heart of Capitol Hill, which means we have access to all the problems of downtown with a side order of gay bashing and the kind of violence that makes street kids so vulnerable.
Pulling my coat on over my scrubs, I head out into the chilly grey morning. Fortunately, it’s a short walk. The Brew is the kind of place they feature in Hallmark movies and cuddly romances. It’s open 24/7 since the hospital is open 24/7 and the owner says the nurses need good coffee to give good care. I could do better about stopping on my way into work, except that would involve getting up earlier.
Unlikely.
The coffee shop’s air is warm, a little hug I didn’t know I needed, and the line is only a couple of people long. I’ll have time for a quick cigarette before Geneva starts looking for me.
Jett is working. Now Jett is an interesting person, in my opinion. Their face is a roadmap of hard living—a goal I aspire to—they’re butch af, and their nametag specifies they/them pronouns. They might actually own the place, since they seem to be there every time I come in.
At any rate, they pull a mean cappuccino and their baked goods don’t suck either.
While waiting my turn, I come close to relaxing. Or as close as I get, anyway. The air smells of roasted beans and the sconces hanging above the tables give off a warm, golden light. None of the furniture matches, except that all of it is comfortable, and the chalkboard sign lists all the standard coffee shop beverages, plus a couple of unusual choices.
Witches Brew? I guess. It’s November already. I’ll have to ask Jett if they’re going to make something more turkey-adjacent.
