Fredric Stern - The Endorphin Conspiracy

The autopsy lab, located in the basement of the old wing of the hospital, was not one of Geoff’s favorite places. He had wondered why Suzanne wanted to meet him there and not her research lab, but concluded it would be more private. So much the better.

Geoff approached the autopsy room, inserted his ID card into the slot. The door opened with a soft whoosh. A waft of moist, acrid air smacked him in the face. His nostrils flared. His eyes watered. Nothing else smelled quite like a room full of stiffs in various states of pickling and dissection.

Expecting Suzanne to be sitting at the desk just inside the doorway, Geoff was struck by the room’s eerie silence. No saws were buzzing, no voices dictating notes. Not a living creature was in sight or within earshot as he scanned the room. Ten autopsy tables, four of them occupied. He checked his watch again and verified the time on the wall clock: 7:56 p.m.

Geoff walked over to Suzanne’s desk and sat down. He hunted around, looking to see if she had left the information she had promised. Nothing but scattered papers and research grant proposals. He scanned the room to be sure no one was watching, then searched her desk drawers one at a time. Nothing in the top three, but the bottom drawer was locked. He glanced up at the clock: 8:02 p.m. Suzanne was nothing if not punctual.

Geoff picked up the phone and dialed her research office, let it ring ten times. He was beginning to feel uneasy. He looked around the dimly lit room again, thought he heard a sound. He waited. No sound. No movement.

Geoff began to wonder whether Suzanne was playing games with him, testing him. He stared at the locked drawer and was somehow sure the information he was after was inside. He rummaged through the other drawers for a key, found none. He had to get into that drawer.

Geoff took a letter opener out of the top drawer and forced it in the crack between the drawers. He fiddled it back and forth, trying to force open the lock, but it would not budge. He grabbed a paper clip and tried to pick it the lock, but to no avail. In frustration, Geoff pounded the drawer with his fist. A metallic clink from beneath the desk echoed through the room. Geoff looked down and found a small key. Couldn’t be that easy. He tried it anyway. The drawer opened.

He found a large, thick manila envelope, clearly marked: “Theater tickets for Geoff Davis. Hope you enjoy the show!” Geoff looked around the room again to make sure he was alone, then ripped open the envelope. Inside was an SD memory card, a flash drive, and a stack of papers. Geoff rummaged through her desk for a handheld digital recorder and found one. He put the memory card in and turned on the recorder.

“Hi,Geoff. I don’t have much time…” Suzanne’s voice had a sense of urgency and echoed through the room. Geoff instantly switched off the recorder, placed the contents back in the envelope. Suzanne was obviously in trouble, and he was convinced he had to get out of there right away. He’d listen to the rest of the recording when he got back to his apartment.

Geoff scanned the room one more time. He listened for any sounds, his hearing hyper acute. Nothing. The morgue was often the most private place in the Trauma Center.

I don’t have much time…

The words jolted him like an electric shock. Who knew he was coming here besides Suzanne? Where was Suzanne? He looked at the clock: 8:17 p.m. His mind raced with options.

It was past time to get the hell out of there. Geoff stood and stuffed the envelope into his pants, covering it with his sweat shirt. He reached down his leg, removed the Colt from its holster, and slowly walked away from the desk, weaving his way between the autopsy tables.

Geoff heard a strange sound to his right, the sound of water dripping onto the floor. His gaze darted from table to table, searching for any sign of an intruder. The dripping sound became louder.

Slowly, he moved past the last table, toward the exit, revolver drawn. Geoff found himself standing in a puddle of blood. He turned, almost lost his footing, tried to stabilize himself by grabbing the edge of the table. Instead, he grasped the body’s arm and pulled its dead weight on top of him, landing on the floor with a crash.

Covered with warm blood, Geoff jumped up, lifting the freshly autopsied body off of him in the process. Geoff forced himself to look down at the body as he tried to wipe himself clean.

He gasped.

“Oh my God, Suzanne!”

Suzanne Gibson, her skin chalky white, her belly slashed cleanly, surgically— professionally— was lying on the floor in a dark crimson lake of her own blood. Geoff grabbed Suzanne’s face, looked at her lifeless eyes, checked her carotid pulse. She was still alive, gasping for air, her pulse barely palpable. Geoff grabbed a towel from the table and applied pressure to her oozing abdominal wound, trying to stop the bleeding. Suzanne had lost a lot of blood and Geoff knew he didn’t have much time. He had to get her to the ER right away so they could stop the bleeding and replace her lost blood volume.

Suzanne opened her eyes, stared at Geoff, tried to speak, but no words flowed. Geoff’s eyes were glazed, somewhere between sadness and anger.

“Who did this to you, Suzanne, who? ”

Suzanne whispered a response, nothing Geoff could understand. Geoff bent down, kissed her cool, waxy lips. “Stay with me Suzanne, I’m taking you to the ER. You’re going to be O.K.”

His instincts told him to get them out of there as quickly as he could. Geoff placed his arms beneath her, lifted her carefully and turned to run but something blocked his path.

A tall, broad-shouldered man in a ski mask stood in front of them, holding a large autopsy knife dripping blood. Suzanne’s eyes widened with a flash of terror. Geoff set Suzanne down as quickly and carefully as he could. He was breathing so hard his ribs hurt. His heart felt like it was going to burst. He started to reach down for his gun, realized it had fallen on the floor by the autopsy table. Once again, he and this masked man stood across from each other, facing off. Only this time, there would be only one survivor.

“What the hell do you want?” Geoff demanded.

Ice blue eyes, set deep in their sockets deflected Geoff’s anger, gazed at a limp Suzanne now moaning on the floor nearby. The assailant approached, knife in hand, slashed at Geoff, who dodged the lunge, then ducked under one of the autopsy tables.

Geoff ran from table to table, knocking over buckets of body parts, staying low to the ground, out-maneuvering the less agile killer.

A foot kicked in from the side and connected with Geoff’s ribs. A sharp pain radiated from his side around to his back. The foot came swiftly again, but this time Geoff was prepared. He grabbed it and flipped the man to the ground with a loud crash.

The knife bounced to the floor, and both men scrambled to get to it. Geoff was just a foot away from the weapon, when the man grabbed his leg with a grunt and pulled him away. Geoff kicked fiercely, heard a loud crunch as his heel connected with the man’s nose.

Geoff broke free, grabbed the knife, turned and lunged. He put the knife to the man’s throat. Though Geoff had been trained to kill as a Navy Seal, he was a healer, not a killer.

“Who sent you?”

Silence. Geoff reached to rip off the mask, but the killer grasped his hand and squeezed. The knife dropped to the ground.

The man seized the knife again, thrust it at Geoff who had stood to run toward Suzanne, then collided with one of the autopsy tables. The slashing knife missed its mark, but the man’s momentum carried him forward, the weight of both combatants knocking table and corpse to the ground.

Geoff’s head hit the ground, and he was dazed briefly. He looked up just in time to see a glimmering reflection coming at him. He rolled to his right, the knife whooshing by his ear and piercing the dark flesh of the supine corpse.