M Sellars - Never Burn A Witch

The double gloving completed with a loud snap, she returned to the stainless steel table centered in the room and slipped a wide pair of clear safety shields over her prescription frames. “Am I correct in assuming this is the first time you’ve ever witnessed an autopsy, Mister Gant?”

“Yes, you are,” I responded.

“Well, I can’t say that this is the one I would have picked were I in the same position,” she expressed. “Storm, why don’t you make yourself useful for something other than creating more work for me and start the CD player.”

“Yeah, no prob, Doc.” Ben took the mock insult in stride and did as she asked before dragging a tall stool out from the tiled wall and perching his large frame upon it.

Blending into the background from unseen speakers, music began to play on low volume. It took only a moment for me to recognize the beginning notes of Black Cow.

“Steely Dan?” I mused aloud.

“Absolutely,” she replied, giving a tray of instruments a quick once over. “I saw the reunion tour out at the amphitheatre a few years back. There are other CD’s over there if you don’t like the selection.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m just surprised is all. I figured you more for the Bach or Brahms type.”

“Catch me in the morning, although it’s more likely to be Tchaikovsky or Copland.” She paused for a moment then adjusted the overhead light more to her liking. Satisfied, she carefully drew back the crisp white sheet.

Nothing in the way of obvious identifying characteristics appeared to have survived the conflagration. In fact, little more than charred bone remained below the waist of the blackened corpse. The only blatant attribute of the partially intact torso seemed to indicate the female gender-something I had already deemed as accurate by less corporeal methods. Her hair had been completely singed away, as well as most of her scalp. As it had been at the scene, her jaw was locked open in a tortured wail; so intensely silent, it overpowered all sound in the autopsy suite.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought I could hear her screaming.

“Everyone left before the snow storm really got going,” Doctor Sanders explained as she began, keeping her eyes fixed on the remains and penning notes on an acrylic clipboard. “Everyone except Cecelia that is. Sometimes I think she’s too dedicated for her own good, but there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t wonder what I’d do without her. Anyway, this will go a little slower than usual since I don’t have a P.A. here to help.”

After setting the paperwork aside, she adjusted a gooseneck microphone then engaged a recorder, “Case number oh-two-oh-three-oh-oh-dash-seven. Doe, Jane. Remains appear to be that of a Caucasian female, mid to late twenties. The body was subjected to intense heat and flames, effectively incinerating the soft tissues on the lower extremities and just below the pelvic region. Withering of the phalanges and metacarpus is evident.” Shooting a brief glance in Ben’s direction and making a claw-like gesture with her hand, she added, “The fact that her fingers curled into her palms protected the tips. I was able to obtain a decent set of fingerprints for both right and left.”

“What about dental records?” he asked. “I can run a check against missing persons… ’Course she might not have been reported yet.”

“I finished shooting those films just before you arrived. We’ll get them processed as soon as possible.”

I was keeping my distance from the autopsy table-visibly at least. My breathing was thready and thin. I stood transfixed by the process as each passing moment drew me further inward; every second that ticked by was bringing me that much closer to the horror the young woman had faced. The events of the day were exacting their toll. I was tired, both mentally and physically.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was becoming convinced I could hear her screaming.

“There was an odd residue in her mouth.” The M.E. had taken a scalpel from the tray, working as she spoke. “I took a sample for the lab. I’m not quite sure what it is but it appeared to be synthetic. Like plastic.”

A bright flash of the young woman’s torture stabbed into my grey matter like a blunt arrow. Ravenous tendrils of yellow-orange flame raked across her flesh, hungrily rending it from her bones. An anguished scream fought to tear free from her throat, only to be detained by the soggy mass that filled her mouth; denied exit by the tightly stretched fabric that had once been an article of her clothing. A pitiful nasal whine was all she could manage as tears rolled down her cheeks and vaporized steamily in the intensifying heat.

I blinked away the talon of agony that raked through my brain and cleared my throat. I could still feel the thick gag in my own mouth.

“It IS plastic,” I volunteered in a quiet, scratchy voice. “Nylon. He gagged her with her own pantyhose so she couldn’t scream. They probably melted in the heat.”

The sound of Ben scribbling in his notebook filled the silence that followed my comment.

Doctor Sanders held the scalpel in mid-air above the young woman’s chest and stared back at me, unblinking. “I’ll mention that to the lab,” she finally said.

This wasn’t the first time she had experienced one of my ethereal revelations, and she definitely wasn’t the skeptic she had once been. On the other hand, she certainly wasn’t as used to them as Ben, and I understood that at times the intimacy of my visions could be somewhat disturbing.

Turning back to the job at hand, almost painfully oblivious to our presence, she proceeded to make a Y-shaped incision in the trunk of the body. She first carefully forced the blade through the cauterized skin then into what remained of the softer flesh beneath. With three smooth strokes, she exhibited skill gained by years in the profession and it became instantly apparent to me why Ben called her “the best of the best.”

The arms of the Y curved upward below the breasts and to the shoulders. The tail extended downward to the pubic area. With the deep incision made, still using the scalpel, she proceeded to peel back the burned tissues and muscle. She displayed nowhere near the cold, unfeeling demeanor of the M.E. we had met in this room earlier in the day. However, her professional detachment was evident as she pulled the “chest flap” upward to expose the front of the ribcage.

In a fleeting thought, I was reminded of what a perverted killer had done to his victims those few months ago. Mercilessly skinning each of them for a purpose I was happier not knowing. One primary difference was that his victims had been among the living and conscious when he began cutting.

“In case you are interested, Mister Gant, what I am preparing to do is remove the chest plate. This will allow me to extract the internal organs in one block. This is something we medical examiners refer to as the ‘Rokitansky Method.’”

She glanced quickly over at my motionless form before proceeding. The scalpel clattered noisily against the metal tray where she dropped it. Then she wrapped her gloved hand, smeared with blood, around a somewhat larger device.

“I’m not exactly sure how you do what it is that you do, Mister Gant.” She had returned her attention to the corpse as she spoke to me. “Or, how it is that you know the things you know…but, if it would help at all, please feel free to come closer. Just don’t touch anything.”

I didn’t move. My eyes were still fixed in the direction of the autopsy table even though the clarity of focus had long since fled. The macabre scene had taken on the blurred, grainy appearance of a poorly received image on an old television. Colors were hastily blooming and collapsing-bleeding into one another in a palette gone berserk as rushing noises filled my ears. Doctor Sanders continued speaking for the recorder, and her words became thick mouthfuls of gibberish joining with the mutated cadence of the background music. My vision tunneled and fire danced across my skin as I realized too late what was happening.