Dawn of the Mad (18 page)

His patient had been a frontline special assault soldier and had partaken in numerous behind-the-lines operations. Soldiers like this were trained for years in the art of war. When he was killed in action, his body was immediately flagged for research and development. Dr. Keitel had convinced the military authorities that highly trained soldiers were critical for his experiments if he was create a solution that could effectively render deceased soldiers fit for duty again. He now realized he was correct. Not only had the solution worked in rejuvenating dead tissue, it also would allow the soldier to once again think independently and be returned to the front. Dr. Keitel expected to be forever immortalized in the annals of science for his research. One major problem remained: Those that could help him had no idea where he was, and that he was currently stranded because of the wrecked shuttle.

Dr. Keitel finished constructing his tracking device and emerged from the crashed shuttle. The device was a little larger than he had anticipated, but it would serve its purpose. Fortunately, according to the device, his patient hadn’t traveled too far. He checked his pocket for the two syringes filled with the pink solution and ensured he still had his pistol in the back of his pants. He set off as fast as he could, letting his tracker show him the way.

After about ten minutes, he arrived at a large gathering. Vehicles with flashing blue and red lights and several uniformed persons were in his path. Numerous heat signatures were now pinged on his scanner. Narrowing it down would be difficult now. His patient would have to wait a little longer.

Dr. Keitel watched as a corpse was enclosed in a black bag and loaded into the rear of into a large white vehicle with the words “County Coroner” displayed prominently on the sides. He saw enough to determine it wasn’t his test subject. An obese man loaded the victim and entered the front of the vehicle. After a few minutes, the vehicle departed the area.

Dr. Keitel’s patient was operating completely on its own, which was significant. Obviously it felt threatened and fled. Self-preservation was taking over. Dr. Keitel had not yet decided how long he would allow it to remain free, but he had to bring it back soon. He considered this a test, and his subject passed. As the white vehicle rounded a corner and left the area, Dr. Keitel realized that he needed to examine that body himself before anyone from this planet was able to. If his subject had been responsible for this murder, he needed to determine cause of death. Was it savage and barbaric, like an animal? Or was it precise and quick, like an ex-military professional? He realized he couldn’t chase the vehicle on foot. The tracker was emitting a barely audible beeper. A simple view screen with displayed a direction and estimated speed. He hadn’t the faintest idea how he would be able to catch up to it until a yellow painted vehicle with the word ”taxi” written on the door slowly approached. He waved towards the driver. As the taxi pulled over, he fingered the pistol in his waistband.

“Beginning Y- shaped incision,” the coroner dictated. “There is no visible evidence of chest trauma … HEY! You are not supposed to be in here!” The tape recorder fell to the sanitized tile floor with a loud crash.

“Don’t do anything foolish,” Dr. Keitel told him, aiming a pistol at his head. “I know how to use this. I implore you to drop your scalpel. We have much to talk about and very little time.”

The coroner slowly lowered the bloody scalpel onto the corpse lying on the examination table. He raised both hands in the air. His name tag read “J. Jewell, M.D”

“Are you alone here?” Keitel asked.

“My assistant will return any minute. You will never get away with whatever you are trying to do,” Dr. Jewell said. With one hand, he lowered his surgical mask and took off his plastic safety glasses.

“Oh, I think I will. But as of right now, I can’t have you conducting any examination on that body that was just brought in. You have a means of transportation outside, correct?”

“Yes-s. A b-black Mercedes,” Dr. Jewell stuttered.

“Good. I am going to conduct a cursory examination, then we will walk outside slowly, and you are going to drive. If you alert anyone, I will kill you and them as well.” Dr. Keitel retrieved his tracking device from a bag he had slung over his shoulder, and gave it a quick glance. The machine registered 100.1 degree body temperature of the recently brought in corpse, rather than the 98.6 degrees of this planets inhabitants. Now he could dial in an exact heat signature rather than relying on a heat range.

“Sit down and don’t move,” Dr. Keitel said as he motioned with this pistol to a nearby chair. Dr. Jewell sat down. Dr. Keitel moved over to the next examination table. His eyes immediately gravitated to large gaping neck wound. It was savage and beastly, definitely not the work of a skilled assassin. Either this wasn’t caused by his patient, or it was and his patient was resorting to some kind of animalistic behavior.

A chime went off in the room, startling Dr. Keitel.

“What is that?”

“Front door. My assistant is undoubtedly returning.”

“Let’s go. I am not quite finished with you yet,” Dr. Keitel responded as he aimed the pistol once more at Dr. Jewell’s head. “Back door, let’s move.”

Dr. Jewell raised his hands and exited the room with Dr. Keitel close behind. He needed to do a full examination of the body, but he didn’t want any more interactions with the local populace for the time being. The taxi driver he shot a couple blocks away would undoubtedly draw attention. He did note one positive, tracking his patient would be much easier now.

Maynard Fontenot?” Roman asked, as he offered his hand. He saw that the coroner tech was sweating profusely and holding onto a large styrofoam cup with both hands.

“Yes. You must be Detective Roman. Sorry about earlier. Please follow me,” the portly coroner tech responded, shaking Roman’s outstretched hand weakly. He tossed the cup into an overflowing trashcan. “I’m glad dispatch gave me your number. I was running out of options.” Maynard Fontenot was in his mid-thirties, had a short, stocky build with black oily hair that ended in a ponytail, and wore thin wire frame glasses perched on the end of his nose, which Roman noted was sporting a nice large patch of untrimmed nose hair. He was dressed in the typical white lab coat, with a crooked name tag over the breast pocket. Numerous stains from old, greasy, heart-stopping lunches dotted the coat as well.

Fontenot led Roman down a nondescript white hallway and finally came to a door with a glass pane that read “Autopsy
.
” The coroner’s office appeared to be devoid of any other staff. Inside the autopsy room were two bodies, one partially dissected, with a prominent hole on the left side of the skull, and one that was not, but had most of the throat ripped away. Roman instantly recognized it as the victim from earlier in the morning. It was this body that the coroner tech escorted Roman to see.

“First off,” Fontenot said, “the chief coroner is on vacation, and the deputy coroner is nowhere to be found at the moment, so I am pretty much in charge. Anyway, this is the body that I picked up from your crime scene. I know that you were one of the investigating officers, so I felt compelled to tell you of my findings before I put it in the freezer.”

Roman took a step back, defensively putting both hands in the air, and replied, “Again, I am not the investigating officer. This is my first day on the job, and I don’t want to get messed up working the lieutenant’s case without his knowledge. Please omit me from any of your paperwork, OK?”

Fontenot looked at him for a moment, slightly irritated. “Just look at the goddamn body.” His face was quickly turning a bright red.

“What do you have?” Roman asked, oblivious to Fontenot’s rising blood pressure. He viewed the corpse with morbid fascination; working patrol he didn’t visit the coroner’s office. Detectives always did the follow up investigations. Numerous tools of the coroner’s trade were neatly laid out on a metal tray, but the tools had barely been touched, except for a large, bloody scalpel lying carelessly across the corpse’s chest. A Y-shaped incision had been started, but abruptly stopped. He peered into the skull at the partially exposed brain.

“Not that body. It’s the same one from earlier, remember?” Fontenot said.

“Yea, sorry. Lost my train of thought for a second,” Roman said.

“Well, the thing is, I brought the body in and started prepping it like I usually do,” he said as he indicated toward the body with an apparent animal wound. “Anyway, I have to inventory property, scrub the body, and all that crap. The bite or whatever is still there, except now there is some black ooze leaking out. It’s not blood. Also, feel the body.”

Roman looked at him with a puzzled look. “Feel the body?” he asked. “What the hell for?”

Fontenot grabbed Roman’s hand and placed it on the corpse’s abdominal area before he could react. He withdrew it in an instant.

“Holy shit!” Roman exclaimed. “That’s hot!” Roman calmed down and poked the corpse with the end of his pen. “You sure he is dead?”

Fontenot stared at the body as if expecting it to sit up at any moment. “Well, he is dead now, I think. Besides missing most of his throat, he has no vital signs. He was pronounced at 8:10 and it’s now…” He checked a wall clock, and said “10:36.” Maynard produced a handkerchief and wiped some accumulated sweat off of his brow.

“You told anybody else about this?” Roman asked. He again placed his hand on the corpse.

“That’s where it gets interesting. The deputy coroner was here, but now I cannot find him anywhere. He must have started the autopsy.” Fontenot indicated towards the bloody scalpel on the neighboring corpse. “It’s like he just decided to go home for the day; won’t answer his cell or anything, plus his car is gone. I would call EMS, but this guy has no vitals. I mean, he was already pronounced at the scene, he should be dead. No pulse, no heart rate, nothing. I was an Army medic in Iraq back in ’03, so I am not a complete moron.” Fontenot paused, expecting Roman to make a comment about his weight and military service. Hearing none, he continued, “It’s like he no longer has any blood, just this black ooze, which I cannot identify. I would like to perform some more tests, but that’s not my job, and the boss would probably fire me for doing this on my own. I can probably send a blood sample to the lab, but that’s probably a 48-hour turnaround or longer. Anyway, I just wanted you to know.”

“Maybe your boss will be back in a few minutes?” Roman offered.

“Maybe so, but the fact is this corpse isn’t acting like a corpse. If this guy wakes up and it turns out someone screwed up and he is really alive by some miracle, I don’t want to get blamed for it and sued. That’s why I called you, got it?”

“OK, black ooze and hot body,” Roman said. “I got it.”

Fontenot looked at Roman quizzically and asked, “Exactly how long have you been a cop?”

Seeing he wasn’t going to get a response, he continued, “This black ooze just started leaking out when I called you.” Fontenot’s face revealed his confusion. “Like I said, the deputy coroner was already in here getting ready. I brought this new body in and left. I came back in no more than ten minutes later to see if he wanted a sandwich, and he was gone.”

Roman watched with fascination as some sort of black ooze seeped out of the corpse’s neck. The ooze was beginning to pool on the side of the table and slowly drip onto the floor.

“I’m no doctor, but that is much thicker than blood. It’s almost like honey.”

Fontenot opened a cabinet and retrieved a petri dish. He squatted with some difficulty and, using the lid, scooped up some of the ooze into the dish. Satisfied that he had enough, he put the lid back on. Black ooze was all over the outside of the dish and on his hands. Fontenot wiped them on his white lab coat.

“Sounds like you have a problem,” Roman said. “Let me know when that blood or whatever it is gets identified. I just came from another crime scene with the same cause of death, dude torn to pieces. I thought I saw blood, but seeing this, it may be the same kind of ooze,” Roman replied. “Any info you can give me will be appreciated.”

“No problem. Just remember, I scratch your back, you scratch mine.” Fontenot’s cell phone emitted the first few notes to the
Knight Rider
theme song. He pulled out his phone from his pocket and read a text message. He replaced the phone and walked past Roman back into the hall. “Find your own way out, OK? I have another pickup to make.”