Ducky's First Autopsy: Fifty Firsts, NCIS
It was the same, but yet, it was different, I mused. Like a parody of an original song or the way words and directions show in a mirror. The same but different. Backwards. Flipped.
The room, for example. The smell of antiseptic still clogged the air and white - as in clean, sterilized white, not glittering winter snow white - was still the primary color. There were still rows of shimmering metal tables, carefully aligned rows of glinting, serrated instruments, and limitless paper boxes of plastic gloves and transparent bags. That was all the same.
But the cavernous room was mostly empty, save for myself and Dr. Reed, where back at school the room would be filled to the brim with hustling, bustling medical students and instructors. And the cupboards, which were tall and wide but also worn and familiar at school, were new and alien and almost menacing here. It was like they were chanting to me that I didn't belong, wasn't allowed, should scurry back to whatever abominable medical school I came from. That I was an idiotic waste of space, as all students green as me must be, taking up too many of their precious seconds.
I didn't need them to tell me that, I could infer it all by the look Dr. Reed sent me as he walked in. Not that I was going to wilt at a look some pompous doctor sent me; I happened to work hard to get here and part of that process includes growing some backbone.
"Prep for autopsy." the doctor ordered as he walked past me, not even giving the courteous glance in my direction or offering his name. He ordered me around like I had been his medical assistant for years instead of fresh out of medical school. Like I had been here for years but still didn't know enough to anticipate his habits, or follow the correct procedures. Like the words flowing from his mouth were destined for the deaf but had to be spoken according to protocol. I instantly disliked him. I knew a big ego when I saw one, and this guy had one as collasal as the height of the Ben Nevis*.
But even colossal jerks can be commanding superiors, so I moved to the gurney, which had been rolled in by the doctor moments earlier, over to an autopsy table and loaded the body on, prepping it like I had been taught in medical school. The doctor moved into the back room, flipping open his phonebook as he did so. My jaw clenched, but other than that I didn't rise to the bait. However, that action really ticked me off. Who makes phone calls when they have a dead body to attend to? It's deplorable! I also knew there was nothing I could do about it, so I finished prepping the body and re-cleaning the instruments, then sat down, ready to grit my teeth and bare the wait.
Forty-five minutes later I was done baring the wait. My rating of the doctor dipped from dislike to despise. Who puts off their job like this, especially when somewhere out there a family's waiting for closure? What professional call, or personal one, for that matter, takes forty-five minutes? At this point I was convinced that Dr. Reed was just trying to drive me off the deep end. At the very least he could have asked me to do it. I may be young and inexperienced, but I'm not incompetent or unqualified. So, decision made, I stepped up, snapped on some plastic gloves, and started the autopsy.
The body was another of those mirrored, same-but-different things. The corpse was dead, but it wasn't donated for medical research like all the other bodies I've handled, so it was unpreserved and stank of death. The antiseptic helped choke out the smell, but it was a difference, no matter how subtle. Also, the corpse obviously didn't die of a natural cause, like a heart attack or old age. There were long, deep scratches on its chest, that didn't have the correct width for nails of any kind, but it seemed to have died from blunt force trauma to the brain. Seemed was a rather subjective term; the cause of death was painfully obvious from its caved in head, squashed and crumbling, shaped like a giant's foot mistakenly stepped upon it. There was also an array of bruises on its chest and lower back in every color from blue to black to green to yellow.
I was so shocked at my thoughts I paused my overall examination. It seemed to have died... The corpse wasn't an it. It was a he, a man with brown hair matted with dried blood and brain guts, and haunted hazel eyes that never would see again. A man, maybe once the definition of blithe, whom the sight of would now cause most people to become nauseous. A man who would be very much missed in death. I halted my examination of his scalp long enough to pull his eyelids over the motionless orbs, unwittingly smearing guts and gore over the lids, and to send out a quick prayer. Then I made a vow - never again would I refer to a corpse as and it. Their lives deserve a deeper respect than the term 'it' would grant.
After I finished the examination of the head - (he was hit several times if the bruising was any indication; basically his brains were bashed in and spinal cord severed) - I exchanged my gross gloves and moved to the chest. I carefully cut the corpse's polo shirt off, bagging the part sliced through in a separate bag than the rest in case anyone could use it to check for DNA. A small business card, adorned with the inscription Mr. Perry Lance; Bethesda, Maryland; accountant, slid out of the blood speckled chest pocket. I carefully maneuvered it back into the pocket, making a mental note to remember his name. Mr. Lance. Not 'the corpse'.
I wrapped up my detailed notes on the head examination, along with the general examination. It was tedious business, documenting every little cut and scrape and abrasion, but I had it drilled into my head in medical school how important - no, crucial - writing decent notes was, so I didn't slack off. After jotting down the most miniscule details into concise bullet statements, I turned back to the chest, avoiding looking back at the accountant's head now that that part of the examination was over. I felt like if I glanced back at the spaghetti that used to be a brain I would be turned into a pillar of salt, like Orpheus in the Greek myth. Also, I was a bit squeamish, and the original examination had made my stomach roll.
It wasn't until I started to pick up the scalpel that I realized this was my first real autopsy - and by that, I mean my first autopsy I've done alone. At medical school I was always accompanied by an instructor, and even after I graduated I did group autopsies with other more experienced doctors and medical assistants. Never alone.
The realization made my hands tremble, old insecurities blossoming from the heads of severed weeds. What if I screwed up? My mind whispered to me the many time I screwed up because I was flustered, the many times renowned doctors refused to work with me after glancing at the numerous rookie mistakes on my profile. I wasn't supposed to be doing this in the first place. Maybe I should stop? Instead I quelled my trembling, told myself that Lance's family needed swift closure that Dr. Reed would not provide, and got ready to cut the full midline incision. I soothed myself with well-known facts - (full midline incision starts at the xiphoid process, goes through the umbilicus, and ends at the public symphysis) - but the repetitive thinking didn't comfort me. I needed a distraction.
When I was a child not more than eight, I heard about a dreadful accident from the older kids at school, which had resulted in the death of a family friend. As I cried later that night, she scooped me into her arms, and we mourned together for a while, a small huddle on the floor. Then she told me, "Hush, sweetheart, don't fret so. Mr. Seymour's soul is headed to a better place. Remember what Father always says at church? 'The mercy of our Almighty Lord has paved the path to heaven.' And all good people go to heaven."
When I started medical school I wondered, How long do spirits stay in their bodies after they die? Do they feel the dissections we do on them? I turned the questions over in my mind, rounding them out like the tide rounds out pebbles as I continued the midline incision, hands steady and sure.
Halfway through the incision I surprised myself by speaking aloud. "You managed to get yourself in quite a scrape, didn't you, Mr. Lance?" The words echoed throughout the room, dancing off the objects like a glittering beacon, and I had the strangest idea that they were cutting through the previously infallible wall between life and death and soaring into Lance's spirit's ear.
I probed the mess of muscle around his xiphoid process (the triangular bone at the bottom of the sternum), fingering a cut tendon and a clump of partially sliced muscle, all covered in blood from the ripped capillaries and veins. That was only the base of the smallest of the three cuts.
"Those cuts look like they hurt badly, Mr. Lance. And I bet if you could answer me you would confirm that these slashes were caused by a knife. Or course, if you could answer me I wouldn't be doing this to begin with, hmm." There was a pause as I continued my work. "Luckily for you, the knife would have to be distinctly serrated to cause this much erratic damage. Your family may get closure after all, Mr. Lance."
I spared a smile at the man, even though I wasn't sure he could see it. The rush of warmth that suddenly flooded the chilled room seemed to indicate he could. Then I charged through the rest of the autopsy, fiercely determined to do my part in helping Mr. Lance (beyond the grave or not) and his family. I wrapped Mr. Lance's dissected body up in plastic and stored it away in the labeled cupboard once I was finished. After that I sat down to file the necessary reports.
Less than ten minutes later Dr. Reed re-entered the room, this time noiselessly. The aura of arrogance had vanished, astonishingly, and had been replaced with curiosity. I ignored him for a good minute, letting it sink in just how miffed I was, before pulling myself away from the paperwork and facing Dr. Reed.
I didn't take much stock in his appearance earlier, but I now noticed his tousled hazel hair, cool mint eyes, and pristine uniform. I wondered for a split second where the arrogance vanished to, and where the unreadable expression he was now wearing came from. Was is disappointment? Anger? Livid fury? It didn't seem to be any of those. In fact it looked more like, dare I say it... excitement? Approval? Maybe a tinge of pride?
"That was a decent job, Mr. Mallard. You followed procedure to the book, made correct inferences based on the injuries sustained, and made it past your squeamishness and insecurities, although your coping method is slightly unorthodox. I personally have never heard of a forensic specialist talking to their corpses, but whatever gets the job done. I amend you on the assumption that the knife was specially serrated. What convinced you of that?"
The man talked like an Oxford dictionary, that was for sure, but his words were more shocking than the way he said them. Acknowledgement? Complementing a job well done? Where was the slimy voice, thick with resentment, that I had heard before? Bemused, I rose and started to explain.
"The three cuts found on the chest of Mr. Lance had a distinct pattern, although they were not all consistent in that pattern. The first cut was small and more shallow than the others, like it had been carved with the tip of a knife, but the other two were deeper and had more force behind them. They both had small nicks off the base of the cuts at even intervals - "
"Which led you to believe that all three cuts were caused by the same knife, since the deeper two have the consistent nicks and the other one was to shallow to be serrated properly." Dr. Reed interrupted.
Still bemused and slightly wary, I nodded at him.
"Yet the COD* was blunt force trauma to the brain, along with the severed brain stem. Why was that?"
"The cuts were made through the shirt, probably before Mr. Lance was beaten around the abdomen and lower back. The skull was pounded in with a blunt object; the bruises and skull shards show that there were three blows before the skull shattered, and then there must have been more to make it to the brain stem." I answered calmly and automatically. On the inside I was confused and suspicious. How did he know all of this about Mr. Lance if he didn't do the autopsy? Wait... he couldn't have, could he? Surely no one would go through that much effort...
Dr. Reed, seemingly reading my thoughts, headed over to an overlooked filing cabinet, and extracted an extremely thick stack of paper-clipped files. He riffled through them, pulling out the requested file with a flourish, and slapped it on the table next to my autopsy notes.
I glanced through both sets of near-identical notes, both on autopsies of Mr. Perry Lance, each paraphrasing the other. One in the script of Dr. Reed, written three years ago, one written recently by a Dr. Mallard. Each had a picture - Dr. Reed's had a man with brown hair and blue eyes and mine had a man with brown hair and hazel eyes. The injuries were exactly the same, so exactly the same that it was like one was duplicated. Looking through the notes I finally realized: it was just a big hoax this whole time, an elaborate test to judge my potential. Relief flooded through me; I wouldn't be working this the pompous, self-righteous jerk I first met. I also felt slightly ashamed. How could my first judgment have been so wrong?
I looked up from the reports. "What was the point of this?" I coldly asked, although I already knew the answer.
Dr. Reed smirked, but it wasn't the snide smirk I expected. Instead it was full of true mirth. "Come on now, you surely already know that answer. But I'll humor you. It was to judge your potential and work ethic, but it was mostly to save time. It's not fun to work with incompetent assistants, even if it would only be for a week or two."
Most people would be offended by being manipulated so easily, but I wasn't. It seemed that I would be working with someone interesting and unorthodox in his methods. It would be a nice breather, and a great new experience. But that would only be if I met his standards.
My lips curled up slightly. "So, did I pass?" I eagerly asked.
Dr. Reed hesitated, although I thought it was more to make me nervous than that he hadn't come to a decision. "If you can stand a week working for me. Most of the office bets only last for three days."
We circled around to the surgical instruments, which we both instinctively started re-sanitizing and polishing, checking for any faults in the equipment. "Looks like somebody's going to loose some money, because I plan on being here much longer than a week."
Dr. Reed gave a non-committal grunt. I just continued to work.
It may have just been my imagination, but I felt a brush of warmth on the back of my neck, and a short whisper of heat in my ear. Then the warmth slowly drained out of the room, leaving it frigid once more.
That was my first autopsy done alone. And it certainly wasn't my last.
* Ben Nevis - tallest mountains in Scotland (and the UK) at 4,409 feet (1,344 meters) tall.
* COD - cause of death
A/N: I'm not quite sure where this came from. I was sitting on my bed, around ten a few nights ago, thinking about how sad I was that I wasn't posting anything on fanfiction, and how stuck I was on writing the plot for Why Wasn't I Informed?, and how my other non-fanfiction writing project was taking up all my time... and then I thought - Ah ha! Fifty Firsts for NCIS!
And now here I am, starting a series of NCIS oneshots when I have so many other neglected stories and projects, and when I haven't even watched the show, only read about it on fanfiction... that would be why some of my characterization is off, btw.
I want to explain a few things about this. It was originally going to be only about Ducky's first autopsy, but I realized I wanted to explain where Ducky's monologuing to the corpses came from. Then I was hit with the realization that I didn't like Dr. Reed's character, and I wondered where Ducky learned to deal with someone as manipulative and short tempered as Gibbs, so the final conversation got added on.
I did a lot of research on autopsies and incisions and such, so all the medical talk I mentioned is all true. I'm glad I did the research; it added an extra spice to the writing, and I learned some cool new things, like, did you know that Ducky actually practices forensic medicine? Reminded me of Abby. :)
I hope this really long authors note explains my absence and theories behind writing this. If you have any technical questions, please ask in a review, and I'll put the answer on my profile page, seeing as I can't PM. And if you have any suggestions for NCIS firsts, please leave that in a review also. I just may use them.
More to oneshots to come!
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