Page 56 of Torment
“I’m growing on you. Admit it. You like me,” he taunts. He’s an insufferable prick. Yes, he’s growing on me, but I won’t tell him that.
Slater’s already in the room, leaning against a stainless-steel counter, paperwork in hand. He looks up as we approach.
“Didn’t expect you to be here,” I say, shaking his hand. “It’s weird seeing you not behind a screen.” My head tips, looking him over.
“We’ve got ten days before he’s released,” Slater says, dropping the paperwork on the counter and folding his arms over his chest. Straight to business.
“I’m sure Martin over here could hold him a little longer if we need him to. Won’t you Martin?” Cole turns toward the medical examiner. Martin shrugs, pulling on his gloves and walking toward the far drawer. Steel scrapes softly as he rolls it open. Cold air spills out.
The body rests under the unforgiving lighting, highlighting the impact damage along one side of him. Bruising blooms along the pale skin. His jaw slightly off from being broken and wired back shut. Eight stories leaves a signature.
Slater talks about cremation deadlines, paperwork and county release policy with Martin. I listen. Mostly. Martin adjusts the head to inspect something along the man's temple. One eyelid shifts open just enough to expose the eye beneath.
I don’t think about color. I think about tension. There’s something in the set of it. Not vacant. Not broken. Wrong.
Jumpers don’t hold onto anything. They’re already gone before they hit. This one isn’t. There’s resistance left in him. I look over his face and really see it. He didn’t choose this. My jaw tightens as I step closer. Cole notices.
“You good?”
I ignore him. I’ve seen this man before. Never close enough to matter, but close enough my brain logged him. Background noise. A repeat face. And now he’s on a slab. Something about that isn’t sitting right with me. It’s not his injuries. It’s not his autopsy. It’s the proximity. Like I should have clocked him harder when he was still breathing. My molars grind once.
“Did we run DNA?” I ask.
Slater looks up. “Through the system? Yeah. No hits.”
“The sample still good?” I ask.
“Yeah, why?” Martin answers.
I finally tear my eyes from the body.
“Because he’s not random.”
Cole shifts beside me. “You sure?”
I let out a sigh. “No.” I look back at the drawer as Martin pulls the sheet over his face. “He’s familiar.”
Slater raises a brow. “From where?”
I shake my head once. “Doesn’t matter.”
What matters is I missed something. And I don't miss things.
“Run it again,” I tell Martin. “Expand it. Whatever you can access.”
Slater studies me for a long second, then nods.
“Alright.”
The drawer slides with a hollow echo. We head for the door, but as it swings closed behind us, something lodges at the back of my skull. Not grief. Not curiosity. Recognition. And I don't like recognizing men I can't place.
Back in the parking lot, the Camaro roars to life, the engine loudly vibrating the frame like it wants out as badly as I do. Cole leans back in the passenger seat, one arm resting on the door.
“You really think that guy matters?” he asks.
I pull out onto the road not answering. Because I don’t know. And that pisses me off more than anything. The afternoon sun beats down on the windshield, shadows of the trees we pass bouncing through the beams. My mind runs through every camera feed, every shift report, every time I saw the man's face in the background and thought nothing of it.
A face you see once is nothing. Twice is a coincidence. Three times means he's part of the environment. And I helped build that environment. Which means he should have stood out, but he didn't. My jaw clenches.
