It takes them the better part of an hour to collect samples, and for most of it, Detective Determined’s partner bitches about the waste of time. “We’ve got better things to do than chase after prank phone calls.”
I fight the urge to respond because there’s nothing I can say that’ll help. When they’re finished, I show them where to toss their protective gear and ask if there’s anything else they need.
“If anyone comes by asking about this guy, call me.” Detective Determined hands me a business card. His parting glare makes it clear he doesn’t find me particularly trustworthy. That’s okay. I don’t like him, either, and I’m not sorry to see him go.
I’m supposed to be cross-checking patient files, making sure they have all the necessary documentation. What I’m really doing is pondering the nature of sin.
Most people don’t believe in god anymore, and if there’s no god, logic would say there’s no sin. So then maybe it doesn’t matter that I sent a murderer to the afterlife with a clean conscience.
But if that’s true, then I’ve been wasting my damned time.Have I?As far back as I can remember, Mom punished me whenever she said the devil was talking through me, which was whenever I’d say things nobody could know. That lasteduntil Dad taught me how to put the devil’s gift to good use. Somewhere along the way, though, that gift had grown into a compulsion. I need to take on sins the way a vampire needs blood.
I shake my head at my own analogy.Vampires aren’t real. At least, I don’t think they are. Doesn’t matter, I can’t stop anyway. I’ve lived half my life with the half-formed fear that I either eat sin or go to hell.
Which might not exist.
Fuck me. It’s all so incredibly exhausting.
I get up. Time for another cigarette.
The weather’s too shitty for more than a couple puffs. The rest of the day turns into a carousel of death; new bodies, autopsies, and funeral home pick-ups interspersed with cigarettes and caffeine. In fact, the next couple of days roll out the same way. The only differences are the tech I’m working with – Geneva instead of Shanny – and a couple of awkward visits from Damon.
Apparently, he’s decided we’re friends, and once a day, about the time my need for caffeine has me ready to crawl out of my skin, he brings me a cappuccino, like some kind of psychic Prince Charming.
“Uh, thanks.” It’s Friday morning and I’m clutching the day’s offered Brew cup like it’ll give me the keys to the universe. “You really don’t need to do this.”
He smiles and shoots a glance at Geneva, who can’t quite stifle a snicker. “It’s fine. I’m getting to like this place.”
“I call bullshit on that.” If nothing else, I’m a little suspicious he and Geneva are playing some kind of trick on me. “Nobody likes to hang out in the morgue.”
He raises his cup, and I automatically lift mine. “Here’s to good company,” he says, and with another of those dick-hardening smiles, he leaves.
I stand there with my jaw on the floor. He’s way too handsome—that smile alone should be against the law—and I’m waaay too much of a prick for him to think I’m good company.
“Besides,” I say, not quite aware that I’m speaking out loud, “’dude’s gotta be straight.”
“Nah.” Geneva’s lounging against her workstation, arms crossed, grin fairly evil. “He’s gay as a purse full of rainbows. Just plays it pretty straight.”
“No fucking way.”
That makes her laugh. “I got it straight from Methusala on 4 Northeast. She saw him at Neighbors one night, and whatever he did left very little doubt in her mind.”
I tease myself with the scent of coffee, then take a tiny sip. “Do I want to know why you were asking Methusala about Damon?”
She hops to her feet and punches me in the arm. “Just looking out for my little buddy. You know he used to play baseball, right? For UW?”
“What?”
“He was their center fielder until he got injured, otherwise he’d probably be playing for the Mariners right now.” She drops that little factoid and keeps talking despite my stunned expression.
I bring up a mental image of my last ex—the one who keeps texting me for a booty call—and compare him to Damon.
Ex: built like a snake, long and flexible. Smells like yesterday’s dirty clothes. Reliable as the Seattle transit system.
So, not.
Damon, on the other hand, is built like a brick shithouse, as my grandma used to say. He smells like a man, and while I’ve had few opportunities to judge his reliability, he has been bringing me a damn coffee every day.
Honestly, there is no comparison. There’s also no universe in which a former college athlete is interested in a guy like me. Nope. None. Damon Clemens is so far out of my league it gives me head spins.
