London After Midnight
DISCLAIMER: I meant to write Fan Fiction Dot Net where there are funky missing words in the last two disclaimers, but I abbreviated it and for some reason the server didn't like that too much. Should be "Thanks for visiting my dark little corner of Fan Fiction Dot Net" and "When Fan Fiction Dot Net went down".
TO MY FELLOW JORDAN AND NIGEL SHIPPERS: There's a new RPG up on yahoogroups and the only characters taken are Woody and Devan. I asked to play Nigel. If there are any fellow J&N lovers out there who want to portray the twosome with me, (Aesear? NewMoo?) I suggest you visit the site and sign up as Jordan! Please -- I really don't want to play a lonely Nigel in a Jordan and Woody world, LOL. :) The site is and if that URL doesn't show up on here, then just Email me at screwydamexo at aol dot com and I'll get you a spot on the guild.
Chapter Five
"I Want An Autopsy"
Nigel
I told Jordan there was plenty of work to do and I wasn't lying; when I get back to my desk with a fresh cup of cappuccino my John Doe is pushed to the back of the pile and it's James Horton who has top priority - a bit of a John Doe in his own right, I can't find evidence that he's even existed these past forty years on any national or worldwide database on the Internet. No birth certificate, social security number, driver's license, work authorization, passport... Lord knows how he's managed to live under the radar for so long, and it really begs the question of how he earned that living.
Hours pass and I'm still here, yawning away at my desk and a bit later in Trace, my body beginning to verge on a barely functioning state. I shuffle along and wipe sleep from my eyes and knock things over in the midst of my fatigue. I'm on my fifth cup of coffee in the break room when Garret catches me spill a pint of cream and claps me on the shoulder, telling me to go home and get some rest. That sounds brilliant to me, but I can't stop myself from popping into Jordan's office again to check if she's still all right. Not that I believed her when she told me she was okay earlier, but she was at least functioning properly. She wasn't a mess. I want to make sure she's still that way.
I knock a few times on the door but there's no answer and I wonder if she's asleep. I hope she is, it would be good for at least one of us to rest, but especially her. I turn the knob hesitantly and wedge open the door, leaning just my head through the opening. The room is empty, but I have an inkling where she might be instead.
The crypt isn't as busy as it was when he was first brought in, mostly everyone has gone home again or is off doing other aspects of the job. I notice Lily in the corner, her hair tinted a greenish hue from the reflection of the lights against the walls. She sees me and smiles, and I return the favor, then she goes back to work. Jordan stands not far from the door, turned away from me, her hair a long dark broom straight down her backside. In front of her is a metal gurney, and on that gurney is James Horton's body, partially covered in a white sheet.
It doesn't feel right to disturb her. She's so still, like a stone statue of a guardian, head angled down, keeping watch. She barely blinks. It doesn't feel right to disturb her, not at all. At least not vocally. I take an unsteady step forwards, and then another, and another. Then I reach out and cup my palm gently against the silky sheet of ash brown that hugs her skull, and I smooth it all the way down to the frayed tips just above her lower back before I let my hand drop away.
She does look up at me, but the spell she was under is not quite broken; I can see it still shadowing her eyes, dark circles having grown beneath them since the last time I saw her. Her lips are pursed, her jaw tense, her brows furrowed. She looks lost, betrayed, abandoned.
"I'm going home, love." I don't know why I say that. It's a stupid thing to say. Her brother is dead on a stainless steel table, she doesn't care if I stay or if I go. The way she's looking at me right now, I can't even tell if she recognizes me or not. "For a few hours, anyway. I'll be back in the morning. Or at eight-thirty, because it is the morning, actually." I give a halfhearted, nervous chuckle but she stares at me still, blankly. No, not blankly. Jordan could never appear a blank slate. There's always something on her mind and she always looks as if she's carrying the troubles of the world around in her pocket. I want to touch her again, really touch her this time, not just her hair. Skin against skin. I want to touch her face. "Shall I drive you anywhere, love?" My words are oddly breathless, I hope she accepts.
"Is there going to be an autopsy?" her voice is rough and untried when she asks, as though it were the first thing she'd said for quite some time.
I don't have to ask on whom, I know what she means. "I don't think so, love," I reply, my eyes sneaking a glance at the body on the table. His lower half is beneath the sheet but I can see the bruising on his ribcage, cloudy purples and blues. Bug's theory was right, then, it seems. "I think we're all in agreement..." My voice trails off. "Well, it's just not necessary, is all."
Our eyes catch each other for a long time, so long that it's almost uncomfortable, her gaze probing mine deeply. I wonder briefly if she can read my thoughts, and I can feel my cheeks grow hot at the notion. I bloody hope she can't. I look away.
"I want an autopsy," she says, so seriously that I wouldn't dream of arguing with her. "I'm going to tell Garret. I want to know... everything, I want to know what he last ate and what kind of scars he has and if he's had tattoos removed and if he's ever been to Mexico or Europe or the North fucking Pole... if he's ever done anything I should know about, then I want to know about it. But mostly I want to know if he was on something tonight. I need to know that. I need to know what kind of medication he was taking. I need to know what was wrong with him that he would go flying out of a fucking window and die with a smile on his face." Her words are sharp and almost angry, but I know it's not directed towards me, not really. I'm just standing in the way of whatever her true target is. Her brother. Her father, maybe. James's father. Maybe herself.
"If that's what you really want," I begin, my voice sounding softer in the aftermath of her outburst. Perhaps she, too, realizes how loud she was, because the edge comes off of her features slightly, and the darkness out of her eyes.
"I want you to do it, Nigel," she interrupts me, and instead of sounding agitated, now she just sounds tired, as tired as I feel. "That's what I really want."
Panic surges through me like a fire alarm, and for a handful of seconds I am wide awake. "I don't know, Jordan..."
"Please," her tone is desperate and her hand is on my arm, my wrist particularly, skin against skin. I can feel all the air escape my lungs, but it isn't audible as more than a sigh. "It's just that I trust you, and I know you'll be... thorough. Please, Nige. This is very important to me."
I look briefly at the man on the gurney. The truth is, I've never seen him alive. Never seen him until right this instant, laid out dead before me. The honorable, infamous James Horton, if that is his real name. I suppose I could cut into him without it being a conflict of interest. It wouldn't bother me much. But having to see Jordan afterward, and having her know that I'd just stuck my hand inside her brother's chest...
But of course that's why she wants me to do it. I'm a medical examiner, and a good one, and that's exactly what she sees me as. A medical examiner. A doctor. Professional, clinical... thorough. I wonder if my skin feels like a rubber glove to her, I wonder if I smell like a hospital.
"I, um..." Oh, come off it, Nigel. You're being absurd. "All right, love. All right. I'm your guy." She releases my wrist and I use that hand to pluck her chin playfully between my thumb and index finger. She gives me a smile, it's small and it's sideways but it's there, and I want so badly to dip my head down and kiss those thin, birthmarked lips. I've wanted it so many times, wondered what they taste like, how warm they are. But the gravity of the situation pulls me out of it, and I tear myself away from her, feeling thoroughly unraveled, my sudden desire for her reminding me how long it's been since I've... been in a situation that calls for desire. I recall suddenly that night at the goth club when I brought Woodrow with me, looking for Alistair Dark, the teenager who pretended to be a vampire, and that young girl with the bob haircut came up and licked Woody's skin, long, up from his neck and over the side of his face. I don't know why I think of that but now I can't seem to get that image out of my head. It's funny, the things that stick with you over time.
In any event, I wish there were a bucket of ice water around here somewhere, because my nether regions are in a very unsettled state at the moment, and I just hope she doesn't notice. I back away quickly, turning for the door. I don't look back until I'm a safe distance away from her.
"Are you sure I can't drive you someplace, love?" I ask, and this time I really hope she declines. "Your Dad's, perhaps?"
"No, I uh... I think I'll stick around here until morning," she replies, and then smiles a bit wider, and corrects herself. "I mean eight-thirty, because it is morning, actually."
Ah, so she was listening to me after all. A smile breaks out over my own face, brilliant and full of English horse teeth. "Good morning then, love," I say, giving her a wave as I exit the crypt.