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Monica
I still can’t believe Emma’s body is lying on the table. It’s not like any other autopsy I’ve performed; it feels more personal. But I remember a saying from a monk explaining a verse from the Bhagavad Gita, ‘Your body is the one that is emotionally connected to others, not your mind. Never bring emotions to work; do your karma and don’t concentrate on the result.’ I’m not sure if it’s as accurate as it is in the text, but that’s all my memory serves for now. However, I am certain that emotions can weaken you and make you a slave. So, I closed my eyes and remembered every moment I spent with Emma, from the first time we met to our last phone conversation. It dawned on me that everything and everyone fades away from your life; all that remains is memory. Opening my eyes, I looked at Emma’s lifeless body. I scanned her naked body; her head was swollen due to the head injury, her curly hair, the blue bruises around her eyes from lack of blood circulation, her neck with exposed blue veins, her sagging breasts, her expanded abdomen with cuts from the fall out of the window, her thighs with deeper cuts than those on her belly, and her feet turned blue. It was just like any other dead woman’s body. Closing my eyes again, I took a deep breath before opening them and starting the process.
The revelation that Emma was entangled in the web of Methamphetamine addiction sent shockwaves through my core. How could I have missed the signs, the subtle clues hinting at her descent into darkness? Never once did I glimpse the telltale needle marks on her arm, blinded by my unwavering belief in her innocence. But now, as I gaze upon her left arm, the evidence is unmistakable — tiny puncture wounds, a testament to the insidious grip of addiction. Someone had been injecting her, fuelling her descent into oblivion. The pieces of the puzzle start to fall into place — her sudden demands for money, the exorbitant amounts she requested without explanation. It all makes sense now, a chilling realisation of the depths to which she had sunk.
I found myself explaining the grim reality to Harry, still in the early stages of his work. He needed to grasp the full spectrum of the havoc wreaked by substances like Methamphetamine on the brain and body. While he had studied the theoretical aspects during his coursework, confronting a real-life case demanded a heightened level of awareness. Methamphetamine, with its insidious allure, sets in motion a sinister chain of events within the intricate pathways of the brain. At its core lies the release of dopamine, the neurotransmitter responsible for euphoric sensations. Yet, lurking beneath this veneer of pleasure lies a malevolent force — reactive hydrogen species. Born from the volatile interaction between Methamphetamine and dopamine, these molecular assailants launch a relentless assault on neuronal integrity, heralding the onset of neurotoxicity.
I stood there, incredulous at the completion of Emma’s autopsy. Four gruelling hours it took to dissect her body, unraveling the enigma of her demise. Surprisingly, the task wasn’t as daunting as I had anticipated. Perhaps it was the wisdom gleaned from the verses of the Bhagavad Gita that guided me through, offering solace in the face of such sorrow. Yet, despite my efforts, I remained unable to issue a death certificate. The circumstances surrounding Emma’s death remained shrouded in uncertainty. The presence of Methamphetamine in her system moments before her passing, coupled with the discovery of semen in her vagina, cast a shadow of doubt over the entire investigation. The realisation hit me like a sledgehammer, tears welling up uncontrollably as I grappled with the horrifying question — had she been sexually assaulted before her death? I carefully collected a sample of the semen, preserving it for further analysis, but the answers remained elusive. With these troubling details at hand, I found myself unable to conclusively determine that she had taken her own life by jumping from the building. Another unsettling thought gnawed at the edges of my consciousness — what if she had engaged in consensual intercourse before her death, only to succumb to hallucinations induced by the Methamphetamine, leading her to a tragic end? The notion seemed preposterous, yet it lingered in my mind like a stubborn shadow.
As I grappled with these haunting possibilities, I couldn’t help but reflect on Emma’s tumultuous lifestyle. Her penchant for sexual encounters, often indulged in at pubs or in the privacy of her own home, painted a picture of a woman unapologetically embracing her desires. It was a stark reminder of the fragility of human nature, of the depths to which one could descend when discipline waned and hedonism reigned supreme. Yet, despite her flaws, Emma remained a friend, her memory a beacon of light in the darkness of my thoughts. I refused to succumb to judgment, recognising her struggles and her aspirations for a better life. Her dreams of starting anew with Tony, a man she had introduced me to at the pub, now seemed like distant echoes of hope in the wake of her tragic end. But amidst the turmoil of unanswered questions and lingering doubts, I knew I had to find peace. Stripping off my autopsy suit, I stepped into the cleansing embrace of the shower, allowing the warm water to wash away not just the physical remnants of the day’s work, but also the emotional weight of Emma’s passing. In that solitary moment, as the water cascaded over me, I confronted the harsh reality that I would never again have the chance to speak to Emma, to understand her pain, her fears, her dreams. And with that realisation, I wept.
Mike
I embarked on my journey towards the hospital, my mind consumed by the nagging question of whether Dave was withholding crucial information. The relentless speculation gnawed at my rationality, casting a shadow of doubt over my thoughts. Confronting Dave directly was out of the question; not only was he a friend, but he also held seniority over me. Any direct inquiry might prompt him to obscure the truth, leaving me with nothing but suspicion. Before broaching the subject with Dave, however, I resolved to meet with Monica and obtain the necessary reports. Clarifying the details surrounding Steve’s autopsy was paramount. I decided to initiate my own investigation, recognising that while truth may be multifaceted, lies remain uniform. It was a principle I had gleaned from years of detective work — truth may have its nuances, but lies are unyielding, devoid of perspective. With this conviction feeling my resolve, I arrived at the hospital. The clock struck noon, a stark reminder of my tardiness; I had intended to be there by 10 in the morning. Parking my car, I made my way through the obligatory security check, a routine procedure for every officer.
Stepping into the coroner department, I was immediately enveloped by the pungent scent of chemicals mingled with the metallic tang of blood — aromas that had become all too familiar over my five years of service. As I made my way through the corridors, the cacophony of bustling activity surrounded me, a symphony of forensic work in progress. Approaching one of the assistants seated in a nearby room, I inquired about the status of the Emma case, hoping for some semblance of progress. With a weary expression, she informed me that the autopsy was still underway. A pang of realisation struck me; I had momentarily forgotten the time-consuming nature of the procedure, a fact that seemed to have eluded even Dave, my seasoned colleague. Faced with an unexpected lull in my schedule, I found myself at a loss for what to do next. Unable to venture out for another cup of coffee or place a call to anyone, I decided to appease my rumbling stomach instead. Making my way to the hospital canteen, I sought solace in the promise of a hot meal amidst the chaos of the day.
Entering the bustling hospital canteen, I found myself amidst a sea of patrons — elderly couples sharing quiet meals, young children gazing curiously out of windows, and the occasional patient enjoying a brief respite from their medical concerns. The air was thick with the scent of disinfectants mingled with the faint aroma of food cooking in the kitchen — a familiar blend that stirred memories of countless meals eaten in similar settings.
Joining the queue for food, I perused the limited menu options with a sense of resignation. Hospital fare was never known for its culinary delights, and today was no exception. Opting for a falafel wrap paired with a grilled chicken salad, I placed my order and received a token to collect my meal once it was ready. As I waited for my food, a familiar voice called out my name, jolting me from my thoughts. Turning, I was surprised to see Clara — a former flame from my pub-going days. Our relationship had fizzled out, but we had remained on amicable terms, maintaining the possibility of rekindling our connection in the future. Her presence brought a sense of warmth amidst the sterile surroundings, her elegant perfume a welcome contrast to the hospital’s antiseptic scent. Inviting Clara to join me, we exchanged hugs and pleasantries before catching up on each other’s lives. As I excused myself to collect my order, I couldn’t help but notice the hunger in Clara’s eyes — a subtle telltale sign that she hadn’t yet eaten. Grabbing an extra spoon, I returned to the table and offered her a portion of my salad, insisting that she indulge for my sake.
Though initially hesitant, Clara relented, taking a small bite of the salad. Her reluctance betrayed by the subtle pleasure that crossed her face, I couldn’t help but smile at her attempt to downplay her hunger. It was a gesture that spoke volumes, revealing her vulnerability in a moment of shared intimacy. As our conversation shifted, Clara revealed the reason for her hospital visit — her boyfriend had been involved in a minor accident the previous night, sustaining a shoulder injury in a hit-and-run incident. Expressing concern for her partner’s well-being, Clara’s eyes betrayed her worry, prompting me to offer words of reassurance. Touching her hand gently, I assured her that everything would be alright, a simple gesture meant to provide comfort in her moment of distress. Grateful for the reassurance, Clara returned my smile, her gratitude evident in the depths of her gaze. Curious about my own presence in the hospital, Clara inquired about the nature of my visit. Choosing to keep the details brief, I explained that I was here on business — seeking an autopsy report for a case I was working on. Sensing her reluctance to delve further into the matter, I redirected the conversation, allowing us to enjoy each other’s company without dwelling on the complexities of our respective lives.
After bidding farewell to Clara, who had to meet a friend, I realised with a start that it was already 2 in the afternoon. Engrossed in our conversation, time had slipped away unnoticed, a testament to the captivating nature of our interaction. Making my way back to the secluded coroner of the cafeteria, I couldn’t shake the reluctance that had settled over me like a heavy shroud. The thought of facing Monica and delving into the complexities of the case held little appeal at that moment. Clara’s presence had a way of soothing my frayed nerves, her easygoing demeanour a balm for my troubled mind. Recalling our shared moments, I couldn’t help but reminisce about the warmth of her embrace — a memory tinged with a hint of longing that I quickly pushed aside. Dwelling on past affections was neither prudent nor ethical, particularly given the circumstances surrounding our parting.
Shaking my head in a feeble attempt to dispel the barrage of conflicting emotions, I marvelled at the intricate workings of the human psyche. Love, guilt, desire — all tangled together in a web of uncertainty, each vying for dominance over my thoughts. Was my affection for Monica genuine, or merely a product of misplaced guilt stemming from my previous indiscretions? The question lingered in the recesses of my mind, refusing to be ignored. Human emotions, I mused, were indeed a labyrinthine maze, fraught with complexity and contradiction. Rarely did people betray the trust of their partners out of mere caprice; rather, it was the tumult of inner desires that drove them to seek solace elsewhere. Lost in contemplation, I finally arrived at the pathology section, steeling myself for the task ahead.
To be Cont..
