The Brilliant Pathologist And Her Stoic Cop

Kylee Mcdonald pushed the curved suture needle through the cold, gray skin of the John Doe's chest.

Her movements were mechanical. Precise. She pulled the thick thread tight, closing the Y-incision with a flawless knot.

The assistant beside her immediately handed over a pair of surgical scissors.

Kylee snipped the thread.

The exact second the metal blades clicked shut, the personal cell phone resting on the stainless-steel counter vibrated violently. It rattled against the metal, the sound sharp and jarring in the quiet autopsy room.

Kylee glanced at the screen.

The caller ID flashed a single name: Dana Garner.

A microscopic crease formed between Kylee's eyebrows. Dana never called her during work hours. They had a strict boundary about the morgue.

Kylee stripped off her blood-smeared latex gloves. They snapped against her wrists before she tossed them into the biohazard bin.

She reached out and pressed the speakerphone button.

"Dana?"

There was no voice on the other end.

Only breathing. It was rapid, shallow, and deliberately muffled, like someone trying to suck air through a clenched fist.

Kylee's spine went rigid. Her eyes instantly lost their relaxed focus, sharpening into a dead, calculating stare.

"Dana, are you safe?" Kylee demanded, her voice dropping an octave.

The breathing hitched. Then, a whisper so faint it barely registered over the hum of the morgue's ventilation system came through the speaker.

"Curtain call."

Kylee's heart slammed against her ribs. The blood drained from her face, leaving her skin as pale as the corpse on her table.

Curtain call.

It was a phrase from their college theater elective. It didn't mean imminent danger. It meant the play was over. It meant a final, irreversible exit.

Before Kylee could speak, a sickening thud echoed through the phone. It sounded like a heavy body hitting a hardwood floor.

Then, dead air.

Kylee snatched the phone off the counter and hit redial. Her thumb pressed so hard the screen warped slightly.

"The number you have reached is turned off," the automated voice stated.

Kylee spun around. She grabbed the collar of her protective gown, ripped it down the middle, and shoved it into the disposal bin.

She walked out of the autopsy room, her strides long and aggressive.

She bypassed the locker room entirely, pulling up the direct line for Homicide Detective Justice Potts as she marched down the sterile hallway.

The line clicked open.

"This coffee tastes like battery acid," Justice's deep, gravelly voice complained over the background noise of the precinct.

"I need a search warrant for Dana Garner's apartment. Right now," Kylee said. Her voice was terrifyingly calm, but the words fired out like bullets.

Justice paused. "Kylee? What's going on-"

"Do not ask questions, Justice," Kylee cut him off, her fingernails digging into her own palm. "She gave me the distress code. The line went dead. Get the warrant."

The sound of a paper cup hitting a trash can echoed over the line.

"I'm on my way," Justice said.

Kylee grabbed her car keys from her desk. She sprinted out of the medical examiner's building and threw herself into the driver's seat of her black SUV.

She slammed the gearshift into drive and pressed the gas pedal to the floor.

The heavy vehicle lurched forward, tires squealing as she executed a highly illegal U-turn across four lanes of midday traffic.

Twenty minutes later, Kylee's SUV skidded to a halt in front of Dana's luxury high-rise.

Justice's unmarked police cruiser pulled in right behind her, its sirens dying down.

They met at the glass double doors of the lobby. Justice already had his gold shield in his hand.

He shoved it into the face of the startled security guard. "NYPD. We need the master keycard for Dana Garner's unit."

The guard fumbled with his lanyard. "Ms. Garner just came up half an hour ago. She didn't have any guests logged."

Kylee snatched the keycard from the guard's trembling fingers.

She and Justice stepped into the elevator. Justice hit the button for the penthouse level.

They stood in silence. Justice's jaw was clenched tight, the muscle ticking visibly under his skin.

The elevator dinged. The doors slid open.

They walked down the plush, carpeted hallway to Dana's door.

Justice knocked hard, his knuckles rapping against the heavy wood. "NYPD! Open the door!"

Dead silence answered him.

Kylee dropped to her knees. She pressed her face against the carpet, looking at the gap beneath the door.

No light seeped through.

But as she inhaled, a scent hit the back of her throat. It was incredibly faint, pushed out by the pressure of the apartment's central air conditioning.

Bitter almonds.

Kylee stood up instantly. Her stomach plummeted into a bottomless void.

"Kick it down," she ordered.

Justice didn't hesitate. He took two steps back, raised his leg, and drove the heel of his boot directly into the space next to the deadbolt.

The heavy wooden door splintered with a loud crack and swung inward, slamming against the wall.

Justice drew his weapon and rushed into the dim entryway. Kylee followed right behind him.

Her eyes bypassed the expensive artwork and the modern kitchen. Her vision tunneled straight to the center of the living room.

Dana was lying on the white leather sofa.

She was wearing a silk nightgown. Her eyes were closed. Her hands were resting peacefully by her sides.

But her skin was a horrifying, unnatural shade of cherry red.

Kylee stopped breathing. She stared at the quiet, unmoving chest of her best friend.

There was no rise and fall. Dana was gone.