Total pages in book: 158
Estimated words: 146477 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 732(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146477 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 732(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Turning my back on the camera, I focus on my work, being extra thorough as I document everything. Once the front is done, I turn him over, and the cause of death becomes a little clearer. There’s a massive cut on the left side of his torso, right below his ribs, that’s currently being held together by medical-grade staples.
“What the fuck did this asshole do to you?” I ask my corpse as I look over the wound and take note of the horrific bruising surrounding it, telling me that this injury happened while he was still alive.
I let out a heavy breath and get busy, and just like his front side, it takes me almost another two hours to document every last gash in his skin. When I finally get to the internal part of the autopsy, I’ve never been so relieved. Only, there’s a stark curiosity booming through my chest from the massive wound on the victim’s back.
Why is it there, and why does it feel so important?
With shaky hands that piss me off, I take my scalpel and make my Y incision, cutting deeply from both shoulders and down through the center of the chest, distorting the message left there. I go right down to the pelvis, and the moment I fold back the skin, I realize that something isn’t right.
All of the internal organs have been shifted around, each one of them showing visible signs of trauma, but on top of that, there’s also a foreign object here. Something long, partially hidden within the rib cage, but it’s covered in blood, making it impossible to decipher.
My brows furrow, that wicked unease growing by the second.
What the hell is this?
After documenting the foreign object and taking multiple photographs from different angles, I reach back into the body cavity, and as my hand slips up into the ribcage, I immediately notice that the lungs are displaced. A shiver sails down my spine, and I try to ignore it as I focus on the object.
Curling my hand around it, I carefully remove it, but there’s something so familiar about how it feels in my hand. Is this a—fuck.
A rose.
My chest heaves, fear doubling down, and as I release the object onto the autopsy table, it becomes as clear as day. It’s a black rose, just like the one that was left here the other night on this very autopsy table.
Tears well in my eyes as I come to the realization that this man was murdered simply for the sick need to send me some fucked-up message, and he wasn’t just killed in a humane way. He was slaughtered. Sliced open while still alive only to have to feel his organs being cut out. At least the good news is that he would have quickly bled out and wouldn’t have had to deal with the pain for long.
I can’t even imagine the type of agony this man has suffered through.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell him as the tears roll down my cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”
Wanting to give him the respect he deserves, I swallow over the lump growing in my throat and continue with my work, vowing to do whatever I need to catch this asshole.
Carefully removing each organ, I examine them thoroughly, weighing and measuring before taking detailed notes on any irregular markings. I find his lungs smashed down into his abdomen, and they mostly look okay. This man was fit and clearly took care of himself. He wasn’t a smoker, and his lungs generally appear healthy. However, that doesn’t change the fact that they were disturbed within the body.
What kind of sick fuck plays around with someone’s organs? Was killing him not enough of a thrill? At least it seems like the victim was already deceased by the time the killer got around to playing surgeon on the lungs.
I work on autopilot, mentally trying to distance myself from the work in front of me, but the moment my hand gently curls around the heart, unease settles deep in my gut. Hearts usually have a smooth texture, but I can feel the deep gouges under my fingers.
My brows furrow and I slowly pull the heart out of the chest cavity, and the moment I place it down on the examination table, horror rocks through me.
More carvings stare back at me, and despite how unsettling the first ones were on the skin, this takes it to a whole new level.
I swallow over the growing lump in my throat, and as my hands shake, I lean in closer and do what I can to decipher the words.
8
KNIGHT
Tossing my keys on my entryway table, I stride through my door before kicking it closed behind me. It’s been one hell of a long day, and an even longer night. I haven’t had a break in over twenty-four hours. But that’s what you get as the leader of the best SWAT team in the country.