Marrow

JACK

Muffled sounds of the gala fade into the scenic backdrop of the Brentwood building behind a thick veil of crisp, fall air. I pull in a satisfying lungful to cleanse the muggy feel of crowded bodies pressed too closely together and stalk toward the edge of the steps, just in time to watch a white Corolla pull away from the curb.

Annoyance gathers beneath my ribs in a tight spasm. Enough of an irritation to make my bones itch.

I don’t like the loss of control.

I had one objective in mind for tonight, and it didn’t involve stalking Dr. Roth.

In fact, she’s managed to upset more than a few of my plans this evening.

With the reminder, I remove my phone from my blazer inseam to note the time. Right now, I should be seated inside Black Rock Distillery, the bar favored by college students. Colby Cameron is there, like he is every Thursday. He has a routine for his study sessions.

I never miss a study session.

Phone clenched tight in my gloved hand, I move toward the parking lot, torn between sticking to my routine and trailing my colleagues.

Precaution has to come first.

Especially when one of those colleagues is the outgoing, outspoken Dr. Roth.

She has a serious problem keeping quiet.

The woman is like a frenzied ball of energy; she never settles long enough for me to pin her down.

The first time I encountered the strange, annoying creature, I had the overwhelming urge to strangle her and trap her constant prattle of words in her slender throat. Then stuff her in a freezer just to see her in a calm state.

I’ll admit, I’m curious enough to wonder what her animated features would look like suspended, motionless, her thick lashes resting stationary over her high cheekbones. Her plump, berry lips drained of color.

One reason I throttled the urge was because I don’t shit where I eat.

As crude as the cliché is, it’s a nonnegotiable rule that has kept me safely hidden my whole life.

Another reason is, like the distinct perfume she wears that announces her presence before she enters a room, Dr. Kyrie Roth’s magnetic personality draws all attention on her.

When one requires the shadows to maneuver, one should be grateful for the sunshine that provides them. No matter how irritated your eyes become while staring at the bright, bothersome light.

The onslaught of torturous thoughts further wastes my time as I reach my Beamer and slip behind the wheel. I remove my black gloves and crank the engine. The A/C vent blasts my face with arctic air. I don’t change the temperature settings.

The stretch of busy roads leading away from downtown narrow into suburban streets as I tail the white car at a distance. My jaw sets as I realize where my two co-workers are heading.

Dr. Bradley Thompson’s house.

Before the car ahead brakes, I veer off onto the shoulder and park behind a wall of manicured shrubbery. I kill the engine and watch as they both exit the car and make their way up the walkway to the front door of Brad’s modest home.

All hope they were simply sharing a ride is defeated, and I push back in my seat to settle in and wait. An intimate relationship between Dr. Thompson and Dr. Roth doesn’t bode well. People have this irritating tendency to share details and secrets when sex is involved.

An unwanted image of Kyrie sneaks across my vision, and I reach for my leather satchel on the floormat and remove the spiral bound notebook. I flip to my most recent sketch.

My fingers reverently trace the contrasting play of light and shadows along the anatomy of the leg. I use a hard graphite pencil to capture and define the muscle structure, then a softer pencil to outline the bones. This technique is more delicate as, where light cannot penetrate the body, there will be darker tones.

Then there is only the open view to what lay beneath the flesh and veins and sinew.

I imagine the detail on the femur pectineal line is smooth and fine, no indentations due to his youthful age. Depicting the flesh flayed away from the bone is like tearing open wrapping paper to discover what’s inside. One of my favorite parts is to compare the accuracy of my rendering to the actual bones.

But as it’s not yet time to unwrap Colby, I close the notebook and glance at my Rolex, gauging the time Brad and Kyrie have spent inside. I have to handle a nosy colleague first.

An intrusive thought of sweaty, overheated skin slipping together fills my head. I can almost smell the stench of sex drifting from Brad’s house, and my nostrils flare in revulsion at the thought of them together.

After two hours of watching the front door, Dr. Roth still hasn’t emerged. The stale air inside the car presses against my skin like a moist towel, humid and suffocating. I remove my clammy palms from the steering wheel and open the door, welcoming the hit of fresh air.

The lights inside the house blinked out a while ago. I take my chances that Brad doesn’t have much stamina and they’re now asleep. Carelessly, the front door has been left unlocked. I slip my gloves on and let myself in, doing a quick sweep around the living space.

I made sure there are no cameras or an alarm system the first time I searched Brad’s home. For all his arising paranoia, I figured he’d at least get a dog. His bedroom is off to the right of the narrow hallway. I creep along the hardwood toward the cracked door and nudge it farther open.

Brad is asleep on the left side of the bed nearest the door. Dr. Roth is missing. My hackles raise and I dart a look around the darkened space, using the sliver of moonlight from the slatted blinds to search the corners, listening for any movement from the ensuite bathroom.

The stillness of the house settles my nerves, and I enter the room and stare down at Brad.

The single white sheet is rumpled around his stomach. A blue foil has been discarded on the bedside table, along with two glasses of alcohol.

A trace of her perfume still lingers—bitter notes of angelica flower and sweet vanilla. The collision of scents loiter in the stagnant air, combusting within my chest.

Fists balled, I watch the rise and fall of Brad’s pale chest, curbing the impulse to smother him with his sweaty pillow.

As far as Brad goes, he’s useless in my department. No great loss would come from him simply slipping away in his sleep. But lucky for him, there is nothing interesting about his bone structure. My time spent on him is merely out of necessity, so I’ll be quick about it.

I glance at the condom wrapper again and a tight knot forms at the base of my spine. If not for the name I need that only he can provide, I might just break my rule and take a giant shit right in my territory, then smear Brad’s face in it.

The imagery leaves an unpleasant aftertaste in my mouth, and I decide to leave. My original plan was to get Brad wasted at the gala, drugging him if need be, to retrieve the information. Then have him removed from West Paine permanently, making the disposal of my problem less of a burden due to proximity.

I still have time.

As I move through the house, I note the back door, realizing Dr. Roth must have left out that way. Curiosity directs my steps past the laundry room, where I see discarded clothes piled on the floor. I lift the garment with my gloved hand, recognizing the gown Kyrie wore at the event tonight.

Her scent envelops me, and my hand clenches around the shimmery material.

I’ve never been one to pretend to fathom human nature—but everything about Dr. Roth is infuriatingly confusing to me. I’ve even imagined strapping her to a table and dissecting her on more than a few occasions.

I place the gown back in the same spot before I leave the house.

My drive to the university takes a little over twenty minutes. I use my keycard to gain entry to the research labs, where I’ll be logged with a timestamp. I first seat myself behind my workstation and open a community file with my last saved draft, giving myself a reason to be here at this hour. I made sure Dr. Cannon heard me twice tonight when I stated how my research project on locating burial sites needed completion by this week, reiterating how impatient I was to leave the gala.

As I push away from the desk and head toward Brad’s office, I sweep aside all thoughts of Dr. Roth vanishing into the night without a gown, and focus on plundering through Brad’s notes.

He’s so damn helpful, keeping the body logs so well organized. He can’t remember to return my proton magnetometer, but he can micromanage his underling grad student to crosscheck the donation records for accuracy.

Which uncovered the hyoid of a recent donation missing from the body.

Such an obvious oversight had to be a mistake.

I’m cautious. I have a system in place. The record was flagged and then cleared. It should’ve ended there. But I saw it in Brad’s eyes when he first mentioned it to me, the twist of confusion followed by the spark of fear.

Because Dr. Jack Sorensen doesn’t make a mistake.

I’ve memorized this look. It’s the expression I normally crave. It’s what sets my ice-cold blood aflame and ramps my dormant heart rate when I stare into my victims’ eyes as they take their last breath.All text © NôvelD(r)a'ma.Org.

So in the fraction of a second where it coasted across Brad’s features as a micro expression, I recognized his dread.

He knew.

And he was scared of me.

Which means it’s only a matter of time before he finds the rest of the pieces to puzzle together why I’ve been so dedicated to my body decomposition research for the past six years at the university.

By design, I don’t stay in one place for more than a few years. However, when West Paine incorporated nearly fifty acres for the university’s body farm program, making it the third largest in the country, it became difficult to find a better, more ideal location.

Finding nothing of relevance to the record in Brad’s journals, I look at the locked drawer to my right. Before I’m tempted to break the lock, I back away from the desk, then shut my computer down.

There’s still time.

I won’t be brought down by someone as unremarkable as Brad.

A crescent moon hangs in the black night to guide my way toward the body farm. Walking the fifteen acres of wooded terrain helps clear my thoughts. I pass the different zones of the farm, where bodies have been left to decompose in a number of environments and settings.

Over the past six years here, I’ve never made a mistake.

I’ve never been questioned.

Routine and discipline have been my key factors to operating below radar. I recall the day my routine was interrupted for the first time, and the bubbly, tinkling laugh which followed.

It would be asinine to blame Dr. Roth for this…upset. It’s not as if she has purposely set out to destroy me. However, the fact remains that, until she arrived at my university, I had never allowed for a mistake.

The distinctive sound of metal shuffling earth drifts to my ears, and I halt walking.

I strain to listen as a soft groan echos against the thinly spaced pines. I move in the direction of the noise, soon catching sight of a trail marking the muddy earth. Deep footprints line the side of the long stretch of track leading to the stream embankment.

My steps falter and I draw to a stop before the clearing when I see the reason for the disturbance.

Dr. Kyrie Roth drops a shovel into the riverbank, releasing a groan as she drives a booted foot onto the step, then heaves a scoop of silt. She pauses a moment to drag in a breath, and I stop breathing on reflex.

When she resumes digging, I expel a slow breath and pan the area, my gaze falling on a large expedition pack.

I should leave. Right now. But my instinct to reverse my steps is thwarted by the extreme, clawing curiosity infecting me at watching her dig up the earth. Her dark hair pulled up into some messy style, diamond earrings glinting in the moonlight, makeup still in place—yet she’s covered in mud.

Is this why she left her gown at Brad’s? So she could sneak off and—

What the actual hell is she doing?

Her heavy breaths plume the air around her in puffs of silver fog, and my chest tightens at the alluring sight. God, I almost smile, the sensation so fucking foreign a morsel of unease burrows in deep. It wouldn’t be difficult to seize this opportunity. Impulsive, yes—but oh, so damn tempting.

I could have that shovel in my hand in a matter of seconds. In the next five minutes, Dr. Roth could be buried in the very hole she’s digging.

Rather, with panged regret, I decide to satisfy my curiosity instead.

I sink my hand into my pocket and clutch the object there before I bring it out and flip the silver top open. I strike the flint wheel of the lighter, and a thin ribbon of flame dances against the dark night.

Kyrie stops shoveling at the sound.