Disclaimer: Nolanverse and DC characters/settings are not mine. For the curious, Innominata is the latin word for "unnamed". Incidentally, it's also the name of the first patented embalming fluid, created by Thomas Holmes, the father of modern embalming. In addition to that tidbit of funeral trivia, I'd also like each reader who has reviewed to know that you have my full adoration, and that I thoroughly cherished your words. I can only hope you continue enjoying, dear reader.
It was two thirty in the morning, and I was sitting in the middle of my bed. Knees drawn to my chest, I repetitively ran my fingers up and down my shins. Aside from the faint glow of the city lights fading through my plastic blinds, the lights were off. I couldn't sleep. In fact, I had just woken up.
From a fucking wretched nightmare.
Even after a full hour sitting still in the dark, I could remember it clearly. I was in the prep room, getting ready to embalm, as usual. A white sheet covered the body, as was standard procedure. As I pulled it back, I saw none other than Mr. Timothy Williams, mug beaten to a pulp and all. Not scary, I'd seen worse. He was wide eyed and staring at me, corneas starting to cloud from decay. His split lip stretched a smile, and his gums were already starting to recede from rot.
"The doctor said I had a heart attack, Miss." His voice was hollow and rattled horribly. "Right after I gave myself a concussion and bled my brain out."
"The correct term is myocardial infarction." I corrected, lifting a scalpel and putting two fingers against his clavicle. As I made my incision, he hacked out a long and painful cough. Blood stained spittle collected in the corner of his mouth.
"Stop moving, please. I don't want to nick a superficial vein."
"Sorry."
I turned away to place the scalpel down and picked up a couple of aneurysm hooks. When I turned back, it was then when the nightmare started.
It wasn't what I saw, but who. Mr. Williams was no longer on the embalming table, replaced by something more sinister. Something with blank hazel eyes and dirty blond locks matted with blood. Half his face was torn up, and there were pieces of glass embedded in his face and hair. My heart stopped, and I could feel bile rising up into my throat.
"Y-you can't be here," I jabbed an aneurysm hook in his direction. "I buried you two years ago."
"... Well, that's the catch about the things you bury." The all-too-familiar figure said, giving a slow wink as he propped himself up on his bloodied elbows on the embalming table. The sheet slid down to reveal the giant, rippled autopsy "Y" across his smooth, hairless chest. "They can always be exhumed."
Back in reality, I had stopped trembling and slowly stretched my legs out. After a moment, I pulled the suitcase out from under my bed and perched it on top of the mess of my bed sheets. I couldn't help but feel that it took a life of its own when I wasn't looking at it, like a monster brewing out of sight.
I stared at it for a good minute. Even though it was forced upon me with plain instructions, I couldn't help but worry about using it incorrectly. What if the money was fake? Or maybe it was stolen, and if I used it the police could trace it back to me? The longer I stared at the suitcase, the more agitated I became. I wanted to toss it into a dumpster, but if I did that, then where would my compensation for agreeing to Dr. Crane's abuse and being his dead men lackey come from?
...Unless I decided to annul the agreement entirely.
A shiver ran down my spine. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine how I would even begin to rescind this pact I bound myself to. He would probably strangle me before I even finished a proper sentence. Goosebumps erupted on my skin at the thought of those constricting hands, fingers curled around my neck. I could feel my stomach churning. My eyes snapped open and I pulled the covers up to my shoulders.
I was becoming delirious from lack of sleep and stress, and had to at least solve one of those problems before making any decisions on what to do. Shifting out of bed and heading for the sleeping pills in one of the kitchen drawers, I heard the melodic wave of strings from above. Easily recognizable as Samuel Barber's "Adagio for Strings", I couldn't help but be impressed. Apartment 1909 had great taste, despite seeming to live by a European time zone.
Flicking on the kitchen lights, I squinted to allow my eyes to adjust. I grabbed my kettle off the counter and filled it with tap water, allowing my sleepless dazed mind to sink into the music. The violins trembled in an achingly slow pace, and as I spooned the loose leaf jasmine tea into the mesh filter, I suppressed a shudder. I could still see those cold, azure eyes boring themselves into me, the tip of his tongue grazing his bottom lip as he suppressed that shit eating grin of his. This was the fate I resigned myself to.
It had been three days since that encounter, and I had signed all the paperwork to bury Mr. Williams in the morning. The moment he was in the ground, so were Arkham's problems. Gone, but not forgotten. A disgustingly perfect metaphor. As the tea was steeping, I took the melatonin bottle out of the top drawer and knocked back a couple of tablets, swallowing hard. 1909 was quiet now.
My turn to entertain.
After sliding open the balcony door, I turned on the stereo player sitting on my coffee table and played the Arvo Part cd inside, "Cantus in Memoriam Benjamin Britten" crooning out into the Gotham night sky. I poured myself a mug of fresh jasmine tea, sans honey, and went outside. Minus the police cars tonight, the view was the same. Always publicly referred to as inspiring and enthralling, the people who lived here knew the reality of Gotham. Anyone who came from out-of-state to live in this city on their own terms was clearly insane. I blew on my tea and took a careful sip.
After a minute or two, I could hear the balcony door above open, footsteps shuffling. I froze in anticipation, waiting to see if 1909 was impressed. The next few moments seem to linger in between the flickering lights and echos of the gentle tolling of the bells, and as the song died down, the familiar creak of the metal chair signaled 1909 had decided to stay.
I fought to suppress a smile, but lost. I couldn't help but feel grateful for the silent company.
My eyes hurt every time I blinked. Red and puffy from lack of sleep, I dazedly stared at the list of names in front of me. Except that there weren't any names on the list.
"Is there something wrong here?" I asked blankly. Sam straightened his tie, standing next to me to look at the white board marked with only blank lines. He shook his head, glancing to me with a questioning look. "No cases to work on today, I guess."
"Thank God." I groaned, holding the mug of coffee in my hand closer to my nose. I hated the taste, but had the vague idea that the smell of it might revive me. Sam shook his head, scoffing. "Just make sure to casket Mr. Williams soon, I'm taking him to the cemetery at ten." He reminded, walking away. The aroma of coffee turned sour at that thought. I put the mug down and grabbed a couple of gloves.
Timothy Williams, like other county cases, weren't embalmed. It was the polite thing to do in case they didn't want it. I opened the walk in cooler, checked his tags and pulled him out. The cloth-covered casket was already waiting for him, standard for a county burial, as it was inexpensive and durable. I went through the motions like a well oiled machine, using the body lift to gently lower him into the casket, checking his tags again and signing off the remaining paperwork to be sent with him to the cemetery. As I sat at my work desk, checking name spelling and correct birth and death dates, I heard a whisper.
"Freddie."
Looking over my shoulder for Sam, I saw no one. The ventilator needed to be replaced soon, it was making weird sounds anyways. I turned back to my desk.
Something thumped against the casket. Spinning around in my chair, I bent down to see if a handle broke off, or if a jar of restorative makeup fell off the counter. Anything out of a run of the mill horror film failed to shock me, and strange noises were at the dirt bottom of the list of scary things. I stood up and walked around the casket, checking for any sign of damage. Then, there was another thump.
It was coming from inside.
I slowly laid a hand on the crown of the casket. When I lifted the lid, I saw the same hazel eyes from my nightmare staring back at me.
"Hello, Freddie."
"Augh!" I stepped back too quickly and fell, the lid crashing down in a loud crack. Sam scrambled inside, looking around wildly. When his eyes fell on me sprawled on the floor, they widened briefly. He stepped over and held out a hand, which I reluctantly took.
"Are you okay?" He asked, though his expression seemed more accusatory than concerned. Nodding, I fought back all the ridiculous things I wanted to say. Sam walked over to the casket and pulled up the lid. Mr. Williams was still there, just the same as I had placed him.
Carefully, he looked to me and asked slowly. "Freddie, what happened?"
Words couldn't come out. I shook my head, and shrugged. Sam let out a slow breath from his nose, which oddly reminded me of a dragon cooling the fire in its throat. After a pause, he shook his head and started making his way out of the prep room.
"Fine, whatever. I have to be leaving in ten minutes. The cemetery is expecting me there in a half hour."
"You can't!" I blurted, the words coming out of my mouth before I could even think.
He paused, asking stiffly. "...Why?"
"There's something wrong with the burial transit permit."
"What?!" He spun on his heels, fuming. "What's wrong with it?"
"I, I got the wrong doctor to write the cause of death." I lied, feeling my face get hot. Dad was going to kill me.
Sam stifled a groan. "Freddie…" Rubbing a hand against his chin agitatedly, he walked out without saying anything. Tears formed in the corners of my eyes, but I aggressively scrubbed them away. I walked over to the paperwork at my desk, picking it up and throwing it in the trash.
I was sitting at the desk for a few minutes, staring blankly at the wall when my mother came in. Her hair was in a neat auburn bun, and she was sporting a white billowy blouse and black trousers. All signs that she was in the middle of some sort of arrangement. I glanced to her listlessly, then back to the wall.
"Freddie, what's going on? Are you upset about something?"
"I screwed up the burial for Sam." I could feel the lie tingling my teeth, my head pounding in a growing headache. She shook her head dismissively. "The city can wait, you did the right thing. Oh, baby." Putting a hand against my forehead and the back of my neck, she tsked gently. "You're sweating. Do you want to go upstairs and lay down? There's probably some flu medicine in the kitchen."
"It's okay, I'm fine."
"Just five minutes." She pressed, pushing a lock of hair behind my ear. I let out a sigh, nodding and standing up to go down the hallway to the main lobby. Being a fourth-generation funeral director in a long history of service, the funeral home was constructed in the way many New England funeral parlors used to be. Lobby and chapels on the first floor, arrangement offices and file rooms as well. Upstairs had the kitchen, family bathroom and my parent's bedroom. Third floor above that had two more bedrooms, which for the past twenty something years or so were for Sam and I.
Over time, the prep room and refrigeration units were moved from the basement to a constructed addition to the back of the funeral home, which was Dad's great idea as the basement made better storage for caskets. He was in the planning stages for attaining a retort for cremations, but for now we had a contract with another funeral home who already had one for the time being. I slowly made my way up the stairs, the wood letting out the tiniest of creaks with each step. Passing the dining table on the second floor, where many meals were taken together as a family just before or after a funeral, I continued up to the very top of the staircase.
My room had some new storage boxes and old equipment stuck in the corners now, aside from that it was still the same as I had left it. Most of the furniture went with me to my new apartment, but an old Pan Am map of the world was still taped to my ceiling. I sat on a parlor chair that had been taken upstairs for upholstering, fiddling my thumbs nervously.
I had officially cancelled the burial scheduled for today, pissed off Sam and freaked out my mother. It was only nine thirty in the morning, and I was stirring things up. The room was silent enough that I could hear the pounding of my heartbeat ringing in my ears.
This could be easily mended, I could fake a couple phone calls to Arkham, reprint the burial transit permit and schedule the burial for tomorrow. The suitcase could stay under my bed and I could hope police officers never had a reason to raid my apartment for the rest of my life.
There was the second option, though.
The small hole in the wood flooring near an old Porti-Boy embalming machine caught my eye. I stood up off the chair, bent down, and stuck a finger into it.
Normally this might have seemed like a stupid thing to do, but it was a small secret of mine since I had been in the room. When one curved a finger into the hole and pulled upward, the slim floorboard easily popped off. It was my hiding place for a cigarette that I snuck from my father when I was eleven, where I hid a purple swirled glass pipe when I was seventeen, and also where I kept condoms once I entered senior year. Those were all long gone, but the last thing I had ever stuffed in there remained.
A scrap of newspaper, a death notice. When I unfolded the small fragment of yellowed printing, I felt my stomach lurch. There was the face I'd seen in my nightmare, and in William's casket. Most likely a high school picture, his hair was slightly ruffled and eyes crinkled from his large smile. "CORIN DARCY, age 20, of Gotham died June 20th. Visitation: 6 to 10 p.m. Thursday at Rothschild Funeral Home. Services: 10 a.m. Friday at St. Martha's Catholic Church."
Tears clouded my vision, and I immediately replaced the clipping in the floor. Pushing the floorboard back into place, I let out a shaky breath and bit back a sob. There wasn't any way I could go through with Crane's directives.
'My grave is already occupied. I don't have room to bury your secrets too.'
Second option it was, then.
I arrived at Arkham unannounced. Leaving work early, I went home and showered, changing into a knee-length dress and boots, black cardigan and my hair in a braid down my back. The suitcase came with me, and I didn't intend on coming back with it. When I approached the lobby desk, the receptionist gave me a once over before recognizing me.
"Are you here for Dr. Crane again?" She asked slyly, appraising my change of attire. I gave her my best smile.
"I am. Could you tell him Miss Rothschild is waiting in the lobby for him?"
She wasted no time. I pretended to be interested in the architecture as she dialed his office, and from the sound of it, he wasn't pleased.
"Yes, the girl from Monday… Well, she didn't say. Would you like me to ask?" There was a long pause on the receptionist's end. She frowned slightly, then nodded. "Of course." Hanging up, she shot me a pitiful smile. "He said he'd be down in a few minutes."
It was then when the nervousness started to bubble in my core. "Thank you." I said softly.
After what seemed like the longest five minutes of my life, I saw him coming down the staircase. My throat tightened as he approached closer. God, the sweater vest he was sporting today was particularly atrocious. I was beginning to think that his clothing choices were actually hurting my feelings.
As he came to a stop in front of the receptionist's desk, Crane cleared his throat, tilting his head as he shot me a tight smile. "As you are familiar with the fact that I run a busy schedule, I truly can't imagine what would necessitate a visit on such short notice."
'Lay the derision on thick, fucker. It's gonna cost you.'
My palms were sweating profusely, but I stretched a smile. "Oh, several things, actually. I think this belongs to you." I extended the suitcase out towards him. He eyed it for a moment, ignoring the receptionist's gaze moving from the suitcase to him in curiosity. Slowly, he reached out and took it from me.
Crane's eyes immediately narrowed as he felt the weight of the money in the suitcase, which meant he knew where I was going with this. "Why don't we discuss these issues of yours in my office?" He said carefully, offering his free hand to lead the way. I merely glanced at it, then looked over his shoulder to the chairs in the waiting area of the lobby. The receptionist quietly cleared her throat, trying not to bring attention to her presence so she could continue to watch the scene unfold.
Good idea. Stay in her view.
"I'm a bit pressed on time, it would be better to sort this out quickly." I pointed to the waiting area, and started walking past him to avoid any protest. Curling his fingers into an unclenched fist, he followed.
I chose the seat with my back to the receptionist, so he would be forced to be faced in her direction. He was undoubtedly picking up on each cue; lips pursed to prevent a grimace, eyes trained on me intently. Ignoring the beads of sweat forming along my hairline, I continued with the memorized strategy I had repeated to myself all morning. In order to avoid any nervous hiccups, I spoke to the collar of his shirt.
"I've decided to initiate an inquiry on Arkham. Mr. Williams will be sent to the county medical examiner, and not buried as planned. I'll also be requesting the investigation of three other decedents and their relationships to the doctors who signed their death certificates." My voice was quivering, but I pressed on. "In the meantime, I suggest you hire a good lawyer."
I was sure the only thing keeping my neck intact was being in the direct line of vision of the receptionist, who was watching intently. What I wasn't sure of, was his reaction. I had expected a glare cold enough to sting, nostrils flaring, some sort of scowl. Instead, he smiled.
"I can't help but wonder... if Donald Rothschild is aware that his daughter is fixing a lawsuit against the largest psychiatric facility in the state."
Anger flared itself in my chest. "He will be, once Mr. Williams comes back from the examiner with confirmed reason for suspicion of foul play." I hissed. "Don't try to belittle me, I'm not the one here who made a huge mistake."
Crane's eyes widened briefly in mock surprise. "Are you quite sure of that?"
He could threaten me all he wanted, but when it came to business, he was just a skinny man in a suit. I stood up, as did he. Nodding once, I turned and exited the building without looking back.
Outside, the air was growing chilly. I pulled my cardigan tighter around me, making my way to the bus stop. My lips were obscenely dry, half due to the cold weather, half due to nearly shitting myself for a full ten minutes while making enemies. After a couple of minutes waiting by the bench, the underside of it still occupied, I pulled out a pot of lip balm from my pocket and applied it liberally.
"I'm curious. What brought on this change of heart?"
My stomach clenched, and I spun around to see Dr. Crane standing right behind me, suitcase still in hand. Lips puckered in an effort to spread the balm evenly, I dragged a thumb across my bottom lip to avoid further scrunchy face. His eyes slowly followed my finger, then made their way back to my gaze.
"Oh, you know... the fact that I really wanted to do this in the first place." I said in a venomously sweet tone, feeling my lip curl in disgust. That was half the explanation, of course.
The cogs were turning in Crane's head, I could see it in the way he drank in all of my defensive gestures; white-tipped fingers clenching into a tight fist around the balm pot, shoulders hunched, the general look on my face that explicitly stated that I wanted to punch him hard enough to break his glasses.
"Surely, there's something else." He probed, gaze raking over my stiff countenance. "I'd highly doubt someone like yourself would put your family's business in jeopardy over a mere conviction of morality."
I deflected his simultaneous bull's-eye and half ass attempt at flattery, which I knew was only in a strive towards his benefit. "You don't know what kind of 'someone' I am."
Letting a half scoff pass his lips, he turned back towards Arkham's entrance as the transit bus came into sight down the road. He paused to turn and shoot me a condescending look, saving his most cutting words for last.
"You assume that guarding your words and actions occlude and protect you. A flawed notion. Such measures only make your vulnerabilities more evident."