Molly

The dead never stop coming so why would he? Just as reliable as tax season, my double doors widen just enough to reveal Bert, the county coroner in chorus with the rotary clock flipping to 7:45 AM. He snaps the light switch and replaces his black trench coat with a white one.

The refrigerator temperature gauge he checks first, a perfect 36 degrees, then navigates the room with precision verifying the four medical cots are still neatly lined in the corner. He inspects the troughs on all sides of the stainless steel embaling table and makes sure the bucket for drainage is securly attached. His perky eyebrows indicate he’s satisfied. Next, is the autopsy table. He stands tall cataloging each instrument on the cold metal tray. First, the scalpel, then scissors, followed by a mallet, and lastly his hand grazes over the star of the show, the bone saw. All accounted for. He swallows a warm sip of his French-pressed brew, confirming his morning is perfect, then Inhales a long satisfied breath.

Basking in another successful start, Bert mutters “Re-check temps, open emails, call in lunch order.”

Bang! The double doors fly open. Bert stumbles backwards nearly falling over the instrument tray. Detective Spooner leads the charge.

“Holy Shit Spooner”. Bert cries out.

“Bertieee, I need your goddamn attention on this body now!” spouting off orders without consideration.

A sandy-haired paramedic, Tim, follows him into the room pushing a gurney, then parks it near the coat rack like usual. Bert nods at Tim expecting little in return.

“Hey, Tim.”

Tim, usually less social than most offers up an awkward raise of his wrist and a half smile.

“Hi, Bert.”

Rushed for time and patience the detective shooes Tim out.

“Get the van moved and meet me at the front doors!”

Tim stares at the floor then slips out the double doors doing what he’s told.

Today shouldn't have been any different. But today there was an urgency. You were the urgency.

“This one’s fucking important, she's the Mayor's daughter, Bert. They need to know what happened to her and they need it fast.” he barks. He turns to push through the door shouting “You know the fuckin drill, call me with the results.”

“Yeah, I will.”

Agitated and fuming, Bert grunts and stomps his way to the prep station. He grabs a plastic apron, surgical mask, and gloves, then takes a deep breath being careful to take extra time to calm down. Not even Spooner can de-rail Bert from his professionalism. He’s never lost his cool.

Methodically he pushes you to the perfect spot in the middle of the room with the best light making you the center of attention, and he lifts the stained white cloth from your face and chest, then presses the dial on the radio next to the table. The ambiance of Beethoven's moonlight sonata reverberates the mood off my walls as he begins.

He examines your bruised left temple, stopping every 30 seconds to jot down notes and repeating them to himself. Fingers tactfully move down to your chin, lingering for a bit to verify your broken jaw. His hands move with grace onto the purple ring around your neck. Respectfully he moves your chestnut hair behind your collarbone for better inspection. More notes. I can hardly contain myself. I need to know what happened to your beautiful soul.

The blood, dirt, and skin under your fingernails show you didn't go without a fight.

Finally, his gloves, mask, and apron come off indicating a verdict. With depressed shoulders he walks towards the rotary phone on the wall, dialing each number slower than the next.

“I'm finished with my investigation. Spooner” His voice defeated.

“Her cause of death was—

Static over the intercom interrupts Bert's final words.

“Paging Dr. Monroe to I.C.U. Dr. Monroe to ICU.”

Leaning his forehead on the wall, Bert gently rests the phone on the receiver then drags himself to his desk, pulls the chair out, sinks into the leather, and weeps.

These are the days I wish I were the walls of ANY other room.