Blood Legacy: The Story of Ryan (2 page)

Susan stared at the profile of a woman, an incredibly beautiful woman. Shoulder length golden hair surrounded perfect features. Long dark eyelashes rested against high cheekbones above a full, sensual mouth. It was the profile of a sleeping angel.

Susan moved closer and the illusion of sleep was immediately shattered. The right side of the woman’s face was crushed inward, and dried blood was splattered down the right side of her body. The remnant of clothing that was left appeared black, but was actually encrusted with dried blood.

Susan took a step back so she could not see the damaged side of the face. She examined the woman’s features and could see why Mason was in a quandary. The woman could be anywhere from twenty to forty.

“Who is she?”

Mason glanced down at the clipboard. “That’s why I called you. She’s a Jane Doe. Apparently was involved in one hell of a fight. I’ll be damned if I can determine her age, though.”

Susan understood his indecision. The woman had an ageless quality about her; perhaps twenty to forty was too narrow a range.

“Take a look at this.”

Mason pulled the sheets upward from the bottom of the gurney. Susan moved to look and let out a small gasp.

The woman’s legs had numerous compound fractures with bone protruding in several places, most noticeably where the right femur had broken through the side of the thigh.

Susan looked closer, something did not seem quite right, beyond the obvious fact that the woman’s bones should not be protruding from her body. She glanced up at the length of the torso.

Mason nodded, following her train of thought. “She’s about six inches shorter than she should be. Her legs are telescoped.” He glanced at the clipboard again. “She appears to have jumped from some unbelievable height. They thought she was involved in that terrorist bombing downtown, but they found her several blocks away. There was no evidence she was dragged or carried.” He paused, looking down at the body, “And it’s not likely she walked.” He cocked his head to one side, examining the damaged legs. “Whatever she jumped from, it looks like she landed on her feet.”

Susan glanced at the length of the torso. “She was tall, then.”

“I would guess around six feet. She’s also a good 25 inches across the shoulders. Between that and the quality of muscle she carries, I would guess she had the body of a world class athlete.”

“Have you done any work on her yet?”

Mason shook his head. “No, she really doesn’t have any priority. She’s been here for some time now, case remains open, ruled as a homicide. But I was given instructions to go ahead with the autopsy, then dispose of the body. I’ve been keeping her in the icebox. Don’t really know why,” he said self-consciously, “I just felt like doing so.”

The “icebox” was a neat row of refrigeration units in another room. It was a step above the meat locker, and closer to the television/film version of body containers. It was where they put bodies needing identification by next of kin. They sure as hell didn’t want the next of kin walking into the meat locker.

“Jane Does” were rarely put in the icebox, but strangely, Susan understood Mason’s compulsion to do so. She felt an odd sadness as Mason pulled the sheet back over the woman’s body.

“I thought maybe you could give her one more chance to make a difference, since they’ll probably never find out who she was.”

Susan felt suddenly grateful to Mason, that he had reframed her ethical struggle in such a way. She nodded thankfully to him. “Yes, I think I can use her. I’ll make arrangements to have the body moved upstairs after hours.”

Susan opened the door to her house, carefully eyeing the walkway behind her. She lived in a low-crime area and the walkway was well lit, but one could never be too careful at 5 o’clock in the morning. She had stayed at the lab far later than she realized.

She pulled the tasseled cord to a lamp and soft light fell on beautiful antique furniture. She set her paperwork down on a smooth, mahogany desktop. The room, a study in luxurious grace, was also in meticulous order.

Mr. Earl, her gray, short-hair cat, leaped up onto the cushioned seat. She picked him up and scratched the back of his head. She set him back down and he trotted into the kitchen behind her, knowing he would be fed. Mr. Earl was one of two allowances of disorder in her very ordered and elegant world.

Susan boiled a cup of Earl Grey tea, her favorite, then settled in her chair near the bay window where she could watch the sunrise. Mr. Earl leaped up into the chair and settled in her lap next to the steaming cup of his namesake. She stroked the back of his neck as she sipped her tea.

For some reason her mind kept returning to the golden-haired woman in the morgue. Perhaps it was simply because her research that night had been mundane, but Susan found her thoughts returning to the dead woman with unusual frequency. Certainly the woman’s injuries were notable, but Susan did not generally dwell on any of her research subjects, and technically the woman wasn’t even her subject, yet.

Susan finished her tea and rinsed the cup out in the sink, setting it to dry in its rack. She let Mr. Earl out, then turned as she heard the sound of little padded feet across her wood floor. Her five year-old, Jason, stood in the doorway, his red hair tousled and his eyes still sleepy.

Susan held out her arms and he ran into them, his little padded feet slipping and sliding on the floor. She picked him up, hugging him tightly.

“Did you sleep well, munchkin?”

He tried to appear petulant, but his effort was comical. “No, I was waiting for you to come home.”

“Now don’t you act that way,” said the large, genial woman in the doorway. She moved into the kitchen, patting Susan on the shoulder. “Your mommy works very hard.”

Susan smiled at the older woman, grateful for her support. “I’m sorry, Neda. I should have called—”

Neda gently cut her off. “I know how you are when you work. I slept in the spare bedroom. And little bossy boy here,” she said, affectionately ruffling Jason’s tousled hair, “was asleep at 8 o’clock.” She held out her arms for the boy, addressing Susan. “You’re very tired. Why don’t you go to bed and I’ll get Jason breakfast and get him to school.”

Susan hugged her son tightly, then gratefully handed him over to the woman. “You’re a godsend, Neda. I’ll set the alarm so I can pick him up.”

CHAPTER 3

SUSAN TOOK A FEW DAYS RESPITE FROM WORK to spend with Jason, then returned to the lab. It was one of the benefits of being a prime producer for the hospital; she could name her own hours.

She donned her lab coat, making a mental note to call Mason in a few hours and make arrangements to get the body. She hoped he still had it in the icebox. She settled down to review her notes.

Mason pulled his latex gloves from his fingers with a snap. He pulled hard on the fingers of the gloves, then released them. They shot across the room like a rubber band, bounced against the wall, then slid down the wall into the waste receptacle.

“Two points.”

He meandered down the dimly lit hallway to his office. He turned on the small lamp on his desk, then killed the overhead flourescents.

“That’s more like it. A little ambiance.”

He stretched out on the worn couch next to his desk. A short nap wouldn’t hurt anything; he didn’t have any pressing cases right now and it had been slow the night before. He pulled a tattered pillow to his chest.

He was just beginning to relax and drift off to sleep when suddenly he was jerked rudely awake. Something was not quite right. He listened intently, but it wasn’t really a sound that he was listening for.

Mason sat up. If it wasn’t a sound he was listening for, then what the hell was it? That didn’t make any sense. He started to settle back in the couch, rearranging the pillow.

He sat back up. What the hell was that smell?

Mason was so used to the odors associated with the morgue he could no longer smell the formaldehyde. But that wasn’t formaldehyde he was smelling now.

“Shit.”

He tossed the pillow to the floor. His bet was those computers had gone off-line again, and that was bad news.

He walked down the hallway, turning right at the elevators. Ever since they had changed the refrigeration units from manual to computerized, they had been nothing but trouble. It had been a simple thing for him to check the temperature gauge every few hours and adjust the thermostat accordingly, but no, they decided they could save pennies, hell, even nickels a month in energy bills if a computer did it for him.

He pushed through the door of the control room. The first time this baby had gone down, the icebox had pretty much melted. Next-of-kin identification had not been pleasant that week.

Mason examined the controls thoughtfully. Everything appeared to be functioning properly. All temperature levels read normal. All computers seemed to be on-line.

His puzzlement growing, Mason pushed through the doors to the icebox and caught his breath. The smell was definitely coming from in here. He flipped the switch to his right, but nothing happened.

Oh, that’s right, he thought sarcastically, another energy saving device. The lights are controlled by computer, another cost efficient and totally impractical idea. Just what young aspiring trainees needed, the lights in the morgue going off and on, apparently on their own.

Mason stood for a moment while his eyes adjusted to the dim light. He scanned down the row of units. He was ready to turn away when out of the corner of his eye he saw what he was looking for.

Another drop of water landed on the floor.

Mason walked over and bent down to the puddle on the floor. He glanced up to the units where the condensation was coming from. He touched the lower unit and it was warm to the touch. He slid his hand up the metal surface as he stood. This unit was nearly hot. In fact, it appeared this unit was the one malfunctioning and radiating heat outward to the adjacent units.

Mason lifted the handle on the middle unit and pulled the drawer outward. He felt a pang when he saw the golden hair; he was hoping it had not been her unit, but apparently it was. He would have to let Susan know her research subject probably wouldn’t keep much longer. He leaned forward, though, puzzled. He was surprised the stench had not overwhelmed him. It appeared the smell was coming from the adjacent units.

Mason was just about to shut the drawer when he stopped and pulled it out a little further. Something seemed strange about the body he had put in here days ago. He pushed the plastic closer to the face so he could get a better look, but the plastic was still blurry. He reached in with both hands and unzipped the top portion of the bag so the woman’s face was exposed.

He stared at the face, trying to figure out what was bothering him. He was surprised at the lack of stench when he opened the bag. He shrugged his shoulders; so this body was not decomposing as rapidly as the others were. Hell, she looked better now than she had three days ago.

Mason stopped. Maybe that was what was bothering him. Maybe she did look better than she had three days ago.

Mason shook his head. Or maybe he had just mentally exaggerated her injuries. He didn’t know why he was so infatuated with this particular body; he was beginning to worry about himself. If he started having necrophilic fantasies, he was definitely going to find another job.

“Okay Mason. Enough of this. Time to go find out what’s wrong with those computers.”

He reached down and began to zip the bag. The zipper caught and he briefly struggled with it.

And then Mason’s heart stopped.

The woman’s face was framed between his suddenly nerveless fingers. The side that was crushed inward had left the orbit intact, as well as, presumably, the eyeball itself. This presumption was proved suddenly and emphatically correct.

Because the eyeball was looking at him.

Susan poured herself the first cup of coffee from her freshly brewed pot. She laced it with a touch of honey and a touch of cream, and was just preparing to savor her first sip when the phone rang. She pressed “speaker” and mumbled a hello.

“Uh, Dr. Ryerson?” came Mason’s uncertain voice.

Susan stretched her neck from side-to-side, still trying to wake up. “Yes Mason?”