With the last of her strength she washes the last scalpel
and drops it onto the clean towel next
to the wash basin. She lays it down next to the rest of the pristine surgical
tools. Lining them up in parallel, a tiny bit of order in her otherwise chaotic
She turns and looks
at the body on the slab. Breathes in and sighs.
“It was only a matter of time”.
The bodies of Mortimer Tinsdale and Devin O’hara had been
disposed of. Mr. Tinsdale boxed up and shipped back to London to kith and kin. As for Poor Mr. Ohara, he was on his way to Potter’s Field.
The shape of the current body on the slab, was a woman. The
shapely curves obvious under the clean white sheet. A pretty woman. A dead
woman. Killed in the same manner as the previous two.
Well almost the same…
This one put up a fight. Skin tissue and fibers under her
finger nails were evidentury proof
positive she did not go down without of fight. She had a sword, I believe she
was a pirate. The sword slept quietly, still in it’s sheath. Undrawn. Ultimately she succumbed and
her thyroid cartilage was crushed just like the others and received a matching set of
bite marks for her trouble.
Dr. Nightfire turns and washes her hands in the basin. Looking around
for a clean towel, not finding one she wipes them on her lab coat and walks
over to the desk.
Taking off her coat hangs it on a hook. She sits down at her desk
and opens up the three postmortem reports. For just a moment her mind wanders
back to the East End, almost two years ago. More dead women. Another unknown
However, “Jack” was a man… just a man.
She smiles at that thought.
Thinking to herself, if you believe the official report.
Forcing herself back from yet another tangent, she knows this is
no man. She goes over her own careful
notes one more time. Knowing what she knows. Knowing she can’t say it,
can’t even write it down.
Leaning back in her chair she drops the reports back down on
She opens the bottom draw and pulls out a bottle of
Absinthe. Looking at the label. It’s the family brand. Noshphozar. Nightfire in
the hereditary Hungarian. She pours two fingers worth into the empty glass on
the desk. In one motion she downs the
familiar green liquid and with the other hand deposits the bottle and
the postmortem reports into the bottom draw of the desk. With her knee she
closes the drawer. She takes the key from around her neck and locks the drawer
for good measure.
Getting up she turns off the desk light.
For a moment she
stands in the dark listening to the sounds of the night, half expecting to hear
She turns and walks forward, the moonlight streaming through the windows. The only sound, the clack of her spike heels across
the hardwood floors and up the metal stairs to her waiting bed and a long …
long needed, good night’s sleep.