Chapter Three
24 Hours later
Physician, Heal Thyself
He's somewhat glad they didn't find him. Not that he wouldn't have preferred a happier outcome, but if Nick had to die, then he's somewhat glad that the body of the young man he was proud to call his friend never laid on his table.
Doc Robbins finished sewing closed his fourth autopsy since he'd watched Nick die. Each one of the bodies had been as physically different from Nick as possible, and yet, some trick of his brain turned each corpse into his friend.
With a sigh lodged deep in his chest, the doctor pushed through the morgues double doors, trying to quell the reverberating need to escape the cold companionship of the dead; to surround himself with the warm moist air in the breath of the living.
The halls of the lab were as quiet as the morgue.
No hallway conversations. No laughter coming from the break room. Locker doors weren't banging shut. The only sounds to be heard were the occasional buzz of a printer, or the ping of a machine, they joined the click of the doctors' metal crutches on the tile floor, echoing down the desolate hall with hallow thumps. Even the damn walls were mourning.
The lack of sound made his heart hurt. Unshed tears collected, pooling behind his eyes, threatening to overflow. He kept walking, putting more concentration into each step than was necessary, hoping that would keep the tears at bay.
Walking the halls aimlessly, searching for signs of life from a place that had just had its heart ripped out, he turned a corner, and stopped. The layout room. How long ago had that been? A year? Two? He was taken aback at the melding of days, cases, dead bodies. The guilty, the innocent. How long ago had it been when he walked into the layout room to find Nick standing there, the bits and pieces of someone's life laid out before him. Who had the victim been? A librarian? No, that wasn't right, but it was close.
What had they discussed? Doc stared at the floor, taping the fingertips of one hand against his forehead, as if trying to dislodge the memory. Chemicals. That's what they'd talked about. Chemicals, and the table, the table that lit up from underneath. He'd been impressed with the table.
Doc's heart sank, his stomach squelched, his breath caught in his throat. He'd had Nick; good hearted, gentle of soul Nick, right there in front of him, and he'd been interested in a damn table. Had he ever told Nick what a good guy he was? The fingertips on his forehead moved down, rubbed his eyes, his back falling against the frame of the open door, and he swallowed away the acid blend of shame and tears.