South Park © Matt & Trey.

Note: I'm no expert, so there might be some inaccuracies, but just ignore them.

Warnings: this fic revolves around violent crimes and might get grim / fic contains some slash

Full summary: Craig spends his days working in a lab, analysing human remains for Park County PD. After a series of bodies are found with their faces disfigured, fingerprints burned off and teeth removed, local authorities determine they are looking for a serial killer who knows how to cover up his tracks. Jane Does keep piling up and Craig is in charge of putting faces to the unidentifiable women, but when he becomes involved on an intimate level it becomes difficult to remain objective and separate his work life from his personal life. Craig is good at dealing with the dead, but he still has a lot to learn about the living. Now is the time to learn.

I'm sitting in the living room as Bebe twirls around, showing me her outfit. She's all done up in a little black dress and matching velvet heels.

"Got a hot date?" I ask, eying her up and down.

She nods her head when she's not longer spinning in circles. "Wanna come?" she offers me.

"On your date?" I snort. "No, thank you."

"Kyle can bring a friend. We can double."

I refrain from rolling my eyes. The offer isn't at all tantalizing.

Bebe started dating Kyle earlier this year after breaking things off with Clyde. Things seem to be going well. I never hear her complain about him. She used to complain about Clyde a lot. To Bebe, he was always too much or too little of something. I suppose it's a good sign that she doesn't think the same about Kyle. They seem right for one another.

"Who does Kyle know that's gay?" I ask.

"Kenny likes men," she reveals. "Kenny likes everyone."

"Kenny is a cop," I deadpan. "I don't deal with cops in my free time."

"Why?" she pries with a little laugh, making it seem likes she already knows what I'm going to say.

"I see them more than enough at work. They come barging into my lab like they own the damn place… demanding this and that. It's annoying. I can't work when they hover over my shoulder like vultures… Besides, the police force is corrupt. The justice system favours certain kinds of people and demonizes others. Governments were built on corruption. Patriotism is a joke. People are ignorant if they think the system is broken because it has always been this way. You can't fix what wasn't broken, so… nothing changes."

"You sound so cynical."

"I'm not cynical," I insist. "I'm pragmatic."

"So, you're a hippie-dippy cop hater?"

"If that's how you want to word it, then sure."

"Half of our high school friends became cops," Bebe says. "Lola, Clyde, Jason, Stan and Kevin are cops, too…"

"I'm not hating on individual cops," I point out. "I'm criticizing the system as a general whole. It's flawed and I don't like that... Plus, Sergeant Yates is a racist idiot."

She shrugs. "Still, you shouldn't be so bitter. Kenny isn't a power hungry asshole. None of our friends are. They're good people who want to do good."

"Either way, no," I continue, dismissing her attempt at reason. "Kenny used to date my cousin, Rebecca, so it would make things weird. I'd prefer to just stay in."

"All you do is stay in," Bebe whines. "Live a little… and maybe you'll get a good orgasm out of it."

I scoff at that. "I don't fuck on the first date. I'm not you."

I'm only teasing her. I don't actually care that she fucks on the first date. If I actually had the time and effort to date, maybe I would, too.

"When is the last time you've had sex?" she asks me straight up.

"I'll admit that I'm going through… a dry spell, so to speak," I confess. "Four years, to be exact… but it's because I'm not looking. If I was, I'm sure I would be able to find someone. I'd rather not have a relationship purely based on physical intimacy."

"God, you're such a dork," she murmurs. "You're cute as hell. You're young. You're smart. You have a really good job. You're independent. You could definitely find a guy. What's stopping you?"

"I prefer to just work," I tell her. "In the lab, people don't talk back."

"They're not even people, Craig," Bebe says factually. "They're just… bodies. Empty."

"At the end of the day they still were people, Bebe," I reason.

"So, the only kinds of people you can connect with are the ones who are dead?" She rolls her eyes. "You have no social skills, Craig. You need to come out more. You spend too much time with the dead. Come out and join me with the living, okay?"

People are far less complicated when they can't talk back. That's what I've learned. I work in a forensics lab identifying human remains to try and determine a cause of death. It's grim, but I like what I do. I don't tell strangers any of that, though. My job title is medical examiner, but I usually just say I work for the police or I am a doctor. It's true, though in a vague sense.

"I'm fine," I promise her. "Really. I'm just going to read a bit tonight."

"Read what?" she asks me. "Case files? Medical journals?"

"Yeah," I admit.

She rolls her eyes at me again. "Naturally. Well, I'll see you later I guess… but don't wait up."

I hold my hand up, waving her off.

I'm not lonely. That's the truth. I know Bebe thinks I am and wants more than anything to see me happily settled down with someone who will treat me right… but my work comes first. No one understands how much I value my job. It's my life and no one likes to be in second place.

I stopped looking after my last relationship. I thought it'd be end game, but the universe had other plans. I'm not waiting for anything, either. I have come to realize that things you desire always appear when you stop thinking about them.

The following morning, I head to the lab. I put on my white coat and am immediately annoyed when I see Kenny McCormick in my way.

"What do you got for us?" he asks.

"Give me a damn minute, I just got here and my assistant is off today."

My assistant is Sarah Peterson – a friend of my younger sister, Ruby. They live together along with Kenny's sister, Karen.

Sarah is young, but she's good at what she does. She kind of reminds me of myself in that way.

I slap on my gloves as I walk towards the counter. "Hm…" I muse, staring down at a gruesome looking corpse. This is the most mangled one I've come in contact with.

"Eughhhh…" Kenny says as he takes in the sight.

I glance up at him, smirking slightly. He's so squeamish. "You okay being here?"

"Fine," he insists. "She was found in the woods by hunters – Jimbo Kern and Ned Gerblansky. We questioned them at the scene, but they couldn't tell us much. It's a clear homicide, though." A pause. "So, what do you see?"

"Brunette female… Caucasian… late teens or early twenties," I start, making notes to myself. "No fingerprints because the tips were burned…" I open her mouth. "And no teeth, so no dental records. Great. Apart from that, her face is too mutilated to recognize. So, there goes that." I pause, grabbing the skull and turning it slightly. "She was hit in the head… I have a feeling that isn't how she died, though. Decomposition suggests she died seven to ten days ago."

"You can tell all that just by looking at it?"

"Not an it, Kenny," I say. "She was a girl."

"Sorry, sorry," he murmurs.

"And, yes, I can tell all that just by looking at her because I'm very good at what I do," I say simply.

I have my M.D. as well as a degree in forensic pathology. I worked hard in school and it all paid off.

"Smarty pants," Kenny comments. "She's in rough shape…"

"Because of her exposure to certain elements," I tell him. There are a lot of factors that can increase or decrease the rate of decomposition in a human body – temperature, oxygen, insects, humidity... I don't want to make any guesses, but I think rodents and insects got to her and made quick work. I glance up at Kenny and say, "Let me do my work and come back later on for a concrete answer."

With that, he nods and leaves me to do my work.

Eventually, Kenny inevitably returns. By now, I have all of the answers ready for show and tell.

"So…?" he starts.

"Is this your case or something?" I ask him before getting down to business.

"Yeah, sex crimes is taking over and that's my division. So, cooperate, Doctor."

"Why not homicide?"

Kenny stares at me. "Because it's obvious what happened before she was killed."

"That's guesswork," I say. "I don't like guesswork."

"Then do your job and tell me what the hell happened to this girl," he challenges.

"Should we wait for your partner?" I ask.

"Lola isn't coming in," he says. "She doesn't like this part, so I'll be relaying."

I grind my teeth. "Fine," I say. "All right, she wasn't buried, so she was exposed to natural elements for nine or so days. The exact time is difficult to determine due to the rate of decomposition. Decomposition was accelerated because she was left out in the open. Her body was likely found by scavengers – bugs, rodents and whatever else. They ate at her. I found maggots in her mouth and eye sockets as well as in the wound on her stomach. Scavengers were likely attracted to her open wounds. Rats can strip a body in days and flies oviposit their eggs in openings and wounds, which certainly didn't help the swelling in the trauma regions."

"Fucking gross…" Kenny gags dramatically. "Any defensive wounds?"

"She was straining," I say, lifting one of her arms up, touching the wounds around her wrists. "There are a lot of deep rope burns on her skin. She was fighting hard to free herself. I found traces of semen. She was also pregnant by approximately four weeks, which is perhaps why the killer discarded the body. I removed the fetus, which wasn't growing at a healthy rate. At least now we have some DNA." I gesture to a metal tray where I've displayed the specimen, but Kenny's brows draw together and his eyes glaze over. "By that and the lack of food in her stomach, I think she was definitely malnourished, possibly being starved. Even if she was able to carry to full term, there is no way that baby would have survived at this rate."

"God…" he whispers weakly.

"If this is too much for you…" I trail off, silently telling him that he can leave.

He shakes his head. "I'm fine, I just…" he pauses.

For a moment, I'm quiet. I don't try to talk to him. I just give him a minute to collect himself.

"I'm new to sex crimes," he murmurs. "It's… definitely a whole other ballpark. I transferred here from the narcotics division."

Clyde, Lola, Kevin and Jason work sex crimes, too. Stan is narcotics along with many others. It's the largest division.

"Why?" I ask.

"People were needed," he admits simply. "Stan... isn't made for a job like this."

I know what it can be like. Kenny went from doing drug busts to investigating sex crimes. It's a big jump and maybe he wasn't aware of exactly what he was signing himself up for. He seems like a sympathetic person, so this can't be easy for him. It's hard for a lot of people to acknowledge that the world is this cruel and evil.

"So, there's a possible motive, hm?" I say.

"Yeah," Kenny says softly, frowning.

"So, moving forward, there are splinters of some sort behind her head, which tells me she was hit with a weapon that was made of wood," I continue. "It wasn't what killed her, but it could have incapacitated her. She has other marks on her body, though, so she may have just been getting a beating. Whoever did this may not have been trying to knock her out."

"Christ…"

I tilt her head up, exposing the ring around her neck. "Asphyxiation. Whoever killed her was likely strangling her, probably for some sick sexual gratification as he assaulted her. She has lacerations on her back, probably from a belt. There are welts on her feet, which is actually an old form of torture. He probably didn't want her to be able to stand up. With the piece of wood, she was also struck in the stomach and face numerous times, which is why we can't identify her as easily as we typically could. Her finger tips were severely burnt and her teeth were removed… probably to prevent us from being able to check her fingerprints and dental records. From the marks on the finger bones, I think they were cut off with something similar to a hand saw. We ran a blood test, but there were no matches in the system. So, I'm thinking this girl wasn't local or she simply never had blood work done."

"What the hell…" Kenny whispers, shaking his head in disbelief. "This sick fuck knew what we'd be looking for. He made things either really difficult or impossible…"

"Perhaps," I say. "DNA analysts will be able to tell us exactly what kind of wood and what it might be from. The killing blow was the stab wound in her abdomen. Whoever killed this woman brutally tortured her. She experienced weeks of abuse and then finally she is no longer desired. So, the killer pulled out her teeth, burned off her fingerprints, beat her until she was unrecognizable and then stabbed her and she finally bled to death. There was hemorrhaging on her wounds, so she was alive for most of it. I think she was stabbed with a long hooked object, a sickle perhaps. The incision is small, but it did a lot of damage internally."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Kenny whispers, looking grievous. "Overkill… They really did a number on the poor girl… She must have been in so much pain."

"Also… there are signs of past and present long-term sexual abuse," I add. "There is perineal scarring… which often means rape. Whoever this girl was, she had a very hard life."

"Well, she's still Jane Doe…" Kenny murmurs. "What we have of her so far doesn't fit any missing person reports. We're going to widen the search. Maybe this girl ended up in South Park because she was running away."

"A very real possibility," I tell him. "In my experience, this kind of scarring is often found in victims who are sex workers."

"So… it's possible she wasn't raped? Jane Doe was a workin' gal?"

"No, I'm not saying that," I explain. "She was definitely raped. People aren't kind to sex workers. They're too often treated like expendable humans – roughly and without care. The statistic of sex workers who are raped and brutalized is alarmingly high."

"It's not surprising, though," Kenny mutters. "I mean, it's sad, but… it isn't surprising. It's a dangerous career."

"Well, sometimes careers aren't a choice," I argue with him. "Ever heard of survival sex? Prostituting oneself out of pure necessity. Often these men and women are extremely disadvantaged, homeless or living in poverty. Sexual intercourse might be exchanged for shelter, food or other basic necessities rather than just cash."

"Or drugs," Kenny adds.

"Perhaps, but this girl was clean," I say. "I ran a tox-screen. No trace of any illicit substances were found in her system. If she was drugged at any point if her captivity, it's out of her system now."

"How long do you think she was being held captive?"

"At least a month," I state. "I'm going to send the semen and the fetus for DNA testing… but something tells me we aren't going to find anything on the father. If he knew to eliminate our chance at identifying the victim by teeth and fingerprints, I doubt DNA will lead us to him. I highly doubt he's in the system at all."

"Damn it," Kenny hisses.

"There is a noticeable chunk of hair missing," I add, tilting the head to show Kenny where it is. "Cleanly cut, probably with scissors. A lot of killers like to keep souvenirs of their victims…"

"Could be the start to a string of serial killings… but South Park isn't a big place. It'd be a first… I'm not going to make any assumptions yet. We've only found one body."

"Yeah, wait for a few more bodies," I say bitterly.

Kenny sighs. "This killer might know how to cover his trail, but if he's beating her with a piece of wood and stabbing her with a sickle… he's probably not sophisticated."

"Probably not," I concur.

"Do you like your job?" he then asks me out of the blue.

"I love it," I tell him. "Why?"

"I was just wondering," he admits. "It's… a really grim job. What do you love about it?"

"I am good at it," I start. "I am comfortable. I am confident. Sometimes I take on students. I like to teach them what I know in hopes that they'll someday be as good as I am. Besides, I like to honour the people whose bodies are brought in here by finding out exactly how they died. I like finding out the truth."

Kenny nods his head. He probably needed incentive. He's probably wondering if he made the right choice switching divisions. "All right. That's good enough for me."

With that, he doesn't linger. He wanders off and leaves me to write up my report.

On my way out of the building, Kenny stops me. "Hey," he calls.

I pause and turn away as he catches up. "What?" I ask.

"Wanna get a beer?" he offers.

"No, I should go home," I say.

"Come on," he urges.

"Why? Did Bebe talk to you and tell you I need the stick removed from my ass or something?"

"Or something," he admits with a little laugh.

"Well, I'm fine," I insist.

"Why are you so cold and curt to me? We've known each other for most of our lives…"

"Cops annoy me," I tell him.

"Because they get in your face all the time?"

"That and other things, officer," I say.

"Well, either way, I'm a detective, not an officer," he points out.

"Same thing," I insist. "Still a cop."

"Why are you such a hater?" he asks, laughing in disbelief.

"Cops are pushy," I explain. "My skill isn't something that they seem to value. All they value is my convenience. I'm there to do the hard, yucky part." I pause and then add, "With how much Bebe loves to talk, I'm surprised she hasn't relayed all this to you already."

"She has," he admits. "I just wanted to hear the less embellished version… but it turns out she didn't embellish as much as I thought."

"Cops, military, navy…" I pause. "I don't like any of it."

"Why?" he pries.

"Because of the corruption," I explain. "Look, don't feign ignorance. Stan is married to Wendy Testaburger. I'm sure you hear about this kind of thing from her all the time." I pause and stare at him. His eyebrows are drawn together and he's frowning. I let out a sigh and say, "Please don't tell me you're a warmonger. We have absolutely no business invading other countries."

Kenny shakes his head and shrugs. "I agree with you and I can sense that this is something you are passionate about, but there are a lot of good people, too. Soldiers and cops aren't all trash."

"Look, I don't believe in moral absolutism and I know there are always two sides to one story, but I can't ever believe that all these wars are a good thing," I say. "Sure, there are reasons for why people go to war, why people kill and so on, but can a war be moral and pure in terms of motive? Well, certainly not when we're being lied to about why the war is going on and what is happening over there. We know America's side to the story, but what about the countries we invade? What is their side to the story?"

Kenny holds up his hands. "Fine, fine… I get it, you're liberal as hell, but you do realize you work for the government. You were appointed to this job and your office is in a government building."

"I do this because I love it," I tell him simply. "I can still be critical of the way our society works. It isn't like my beliefs hinder my work. I'm still working with you, after all."

"I suppose so," he relents. "Come on, stop arguing with me and let me buy you a beer."

"Fine," I say. "One beer, then you leave me alone."

He smiles smugly. "Deal."

We head to the pub my uncle Skeeter owns. It's pretty much the only place in town. I walked to work, so we take Kenny's car. When we get there, we sit at a booth and Kenny buys me a drink. Rum and coke.

"How did you know I like rum and coke?" I ask him.

"I, uh, remember you overindulging on them a few times when we were in high school," he admits.

I snort at the memory. "That was a long time ago."

"Guess I took a risk," he says.

"You're lucky they're still my favourite, then," I reply, taking the first sip. I'm just teasing him and I think he sees that.

He's drinking rye. He sits across from me, staring into his cup like he's searching for something.

"What is it?" I probe him.

"How do you keep it all so separate?" he asks me quietly, staring up from his drink and towards me.

"How do you?" I retort.

"I don't," he admits, "but there you are and you're so stone-cold and distant as you open up a person's body and dig through their guts… trying to figure out how they were reduced to that. You act like it doesn't even bother you."

I smile, shaking my head. "You have no idea, McCormick. During my early years, I saw a lot of horrible things. You get used to it. Well, perhaps that isn't the right word… I suppose you just learn how to distance yourself from it and look at things in a manner that is purely objective. You get the facts. You do the research. What you're handling isn't a person until you're out of the office. You don't call them by name. You refer to them as 'the victim' and it is easier." He pauses and then adds, "One of my first bodies was of a three year old boy. I didn't think I would be able to do this as a living. It was different than looking at things in a classroom setting. I was suddenly seeing it in real life: a child that was brutalized and killed. This tiny body was laid out in front of me and I was told to determine what happened to him, who he was, how he died, who may have done it…"

"And you succeeded?" Kenny ventures.

"And I succeeded," I confirm. "Because of that, the cops caught the killer and the boy's parents got closure. I mean, sure, I cried about it when I got home because it's always sad when it's a baby… but I still did it. And I keep doing it. I keep on my mask when I'm in the lab and when I leave, I take it off and my emotions return… but until then, I can't afford to take it off. If I get emotional, I can't think objectively and I can't figure things out. Emotions cloud your senses."

"I can't do that," Kenny admits. "I need to trust my gut… and yeah, sometimes it gets me into trouble, but I haven't been wrong so far."

"I suppose that's where we both differ," I tell him. "I can't channel my emotions in a way that is helpful. Everything is somehow slanted."

"How so?" Kenny pries.

I shrug a shoulder. "I don't feel things the way I should feel things. I know I should feel things more deeply, but I am detached. I care, but it's muted. Passion is there, but it's not intense. I think I just don't allow myself to feel things on a deep level because if I welcome it, then the mask will never go back into place. My work will suffer if I am subjective. I won't be able to do my job properly."

"I guess I can understand that," he says softly.

We continue to talk about important things and unimportant things. Well, he does most of the talking. He talks about himself. He tells me his divorce was just finalized. That surprises me.

"Are you happy?" I ask him.

"No," he admits. "I used to think I'd make a good husband… but then I actually became someone's husband and I managed to do everything wrong. I was never around. She hated that. So, she left me."

"You loved her," I assume.

"Yeah," he says. "I did… but I didn't treat her right, so it's probably for the best. I like to think I've learned from it."

"Do you see yourself getting remarried?" I pry.

"Someday, maybe," he muses. "What about you?"

I shake my head. "No."

"Why?"

"Marriage is a trap," I start. "Traditionally, it's a man and it's a woman. The woman is given away like property by her father to her husband. From one man to another. And then there are couples who deviate from this traditional model. Say, two men or two women. These couples are still looked down upon, even though if you go back science supports the fact that homosexuality has been around forever and is found in hundreds of species. I remember the anti-gay rallies that were going on in this town when I was a child. That scared me. By then, I knew I was gay and for a long time those general attitudes caused me to feel ashamed." I pause. "Anyway, if two people are meant to be together, they won't need to be legally bound."

Kenny gives a long nod, but I can tell he wholeheartedly disagrees with everything I just said. "Bebe told me about the professor," he points out offhandedly.

I frown at the drastic subject change. "Remind me to talk to her later… I told her in a moment of weakness. I didn't think she would tell anyone."

I was drunk last year and Bebe asked me why I never opened up. So, I told her about a time when I did and how it blew up in my face.

"Well, y'know how Bebe gets when she drinks – chatty," Kenny says.

That is true enough. Bebe is a gossip. She is also a hair stylist and hears many rumours at work. When she finds out something juicy, she can't wait to spill it to the next pair of ears willing to listen. That's why I don't tell her much. Nonetheless, she has a good knack for finding things out on her own. She's good at reading people, too. She's the opposite of me – a very extroverted people person. I'm a total introvert with no social skills. She was right about that.

"Yes, I was sleeping with my professor," I say somewhat tersely, "but I wasn't sleeping my way to the top. I was already at the top of my class."

"Then… why?" Kenny pries.

"I fell for him," I say simply. "We were working closely together as I was doing my bachelor's degree. I was doing a report on osteogenesis imperfecta… or more commonly referred to as brittle bone disease. In a conventional sense, it's hardly romantic… but I suppose I'm not a conventional person. I barely realized what I was feeling. When two people have a passion, they connect."

"How old were you?"

"Twenty-two."

"And how old was he?"

"Thirty-four. He was still young, so it wasn't that much of a jump."

"Twelve years… that's a jump," Kenny mumbles. "What happened?"

I let out a long sigh. "None of your business, McCormick."

He smiles slightly. "Do me a favour."

"Depends what it is…" I murmur somewhat suspiciously.

"Call me by my first name," he requests. "Think that's something you can do?"

"Okay," I agree. "Yes, that's something I can do."

He smiles at me. He smiles too much.

On Friday, I head to my parents' house. I try to visit them weekly and Friday just happens to be my night off this week. My uncle Skeeter is over along with a few of my dad's friends – Carl Denkins, Jimbo Kern, Ned Gerblansky, Peter Nelson and Darryl Weathers. They're all rednecks and I'm not particularly fond of them. Plus, I know half of them think I'm a deviant for being gay. Darryl is notoriously homophobic. I don't know why my dad still associates with him. I think he's just hoping Darryl will change. They've been friends for such a long time; I doubt he wants to throw it away.

Nonetheless, I'm polite. I don't want to start conflict. I join everyone in the living room and my uncle immediately asks me about the possible serial killer. I guess everyone in town already knows. News spreads fast, even when it's supposedly confidential. Ned and Jimbo probably told everyone about what they found in the woods.

"Er, yeah, the cops don't really know much yet," I say.

"But you're involved?" my mom cuts in, worried.

"Strictly behind the scenes," I promise her. "I just identify the bodies, help run DNA tests to determine who the victims are and how they died… so on."

"Craig is good at what he does," my dad says proudly. "He's very important."

"You must make quite a load of money for that kinda science-y work," Darryl comments.

"I, uh, do well," I confirm vaguely.

Truth is, I make over 100K a year. So, yeah, I do damn well. I am financially stable. I got a full scholarship to a good school, so I didn't even have to worry about taking out loans or burdening my parents with tuition money.

For my parents' last anniversary, I sent them to Hawaii for two weeks. I wanted to give them the vacation they deserved. They dealt with my mood swings for years. They took care of me. Now I can take care of them. I can take care of Ruby when she needs it as well.

It's no secret that I was bratty growing up. When I was little, I was a very out of control child. As I entered puberty, the volatile behaviour subsided and I just got mellow. Too mellow, according to my parents.

Maybe it is because I knew I was gay from a young age and I knew I lived in a town that condemned it. My parents didn't, but it wasn't enough to ease me. Nonetheless, I worked through it and now I can be comfortable with who I am. I kept things quiet until I fell in love for the first time. I didn't want to keep that a secret. So, I didn't. I told people and people were fine. I was fine, too, knowing that things weren't going to break apart. The earth wasn't going to shatter just because I came out. For the first time in my life, things were perfect... but perfection never lasts, does it? It's fleeting, like most things in life.