There was a barely noticeable, but no less unnerving chill to the air, like a steely whisper in an empty house. Harsh canopy lighting, gleaming off the two metal tables positioned toward the center of the stoic and unrelenting room, mitigated the presence of shadows. Spotless white subway tile lined the walls, while the immaculate vinyl floor tried to imitate a mirror. A row of pristine medical and filing cabinets sat adjacent to a small steel desk, occupying the corner of the room underneath a window looking out to the nearly vacant parking lot of the Coroner’s Office. Atop the desk, a monitor and keyboard, and a half-filled mug of tepid coffee sat next to a stack of papers, a framed picture of a family of four, and an award in pathology.

 Dr. Bradley Gile, sitting at the desk with greying hair, a wrinkled lab coat, and a tired expression cemented on his clean-shaven face, examined some dental records. He lifted his glasses and rubbed his brown eyes, stealing a glance at the clock over the door before settling back into his work. Meanwhile, a silver radio situated above the filing cabinet droned on with an assortment of songs and news reports:

“…Seventy-four tomorrow with a chance of thunderstorms in the afternoon, Friday is mostly sunny with a high of seventy, and our next cold front is expected over the weekend, where rain and cooler temperatures will continue into next week,” a meteorologist reported.

“Archaeologists from Gothenburg have uncovered a coffin in Sweden this week,” a second voice on the radio continued. “The coffin, believed to be the basis of a 17th-century Scandinavian legend involving the burial of an immortal by a coven of witches, was found to be empty. Archaeologist Dr. Åsbrink suggests the coffin was buried that way on purpose in a ritual to ward off evil spirits; however, others have noted that the recovery of the empty coffin strangely lends credibility to the myth it helped inspire…”  

 The dental records showcased a radiographic image of some withering, cracked, and lopsided teeth. It was evident to Dr. Gile that the subject of his autopsy had, at some point relatively recently, had two of his molars replaced. The pathologist changed tabs on his monitor, revealing an MRI of the same subject and a mass on the frontal lobe amid the decaying brain matter.

“This poor man,” Dr. Gile thought to himself. “Death was out to get you, wasn’t he?” He sifted through the stack of papers, selecting his formal autopsy report and studiously stenciling in some details with a pen:

Report of Examination by Polk County Medical Examiner

            Deceased Name: No Identification (John Doe)

            Eye Color: Green

            Hair Color: Unknown

            Height: 5’ 10 ½

            Weight: 128 Lbs. (Approx.)

            Sex: Male

            Date of Birth: Unknown

            Age: Unknown

            Occupation: Surveying Assistant, Meridian Surveying Technologies (Found on Business Card)

            Dr. Gile placed his pen back down on his desk before climbing to his feet. He turned the radio off, pulled open a desk drawer, and grabbed a Dictaphone. Turning around, Dr. Gile crossed the short distance to one of the two metal tables. While one remained without an occupant, the table closest to the desk housed a body draped in a white sheet. The pathologist exposed the upper torso as he activated the device.

            “July 21, 2022. Dr. Bradley Gile, Medical Examiner for the Polk County Coroner’s Office. The victim, John Doe, was recovered by Polk County P.D. from a cemetery after the Fire Department responded to a church fire next door on the night of July 19, 2022. Dental records have thus far yielded no clues as to the victim’s true identity.

The body has second and third-degree burns and laceration wounds across ninety percent of its surface. The victim’s eyes are bulging and bloodshot; initial analysis suggests Graves’ Disease, though it’s difficult to determine with his eyelids incinerated and the surrounding face trauma. The muscles along his face and torso have been critically damaged and torn, charred over most of the head, shoulders, clavicle, and the sternum down to the legs, and disfigured around the arms, neck, and face.

Based on the decomposition and loosening of skin and exposed cartilage, autolysis is in full effect, and I would suspect the victim has been dead for at least twenty-four hours—though again, difficult to determine with the extent of injury from the fire. More scarring and lesions over his face and torso align with bullet and knife wounds I have encountered in other autopsies, and he also appears to have had late-stage liver failure due to some yellowing seen in the eyes. There are malunion fractures along the victim’s jaw, spine, arms, legs, and ribs; based on X-rays, the varying stages of rehabilitation suggest there were multiple fractures on each of these areas at various points in his life.

Cause of death is a severed spinal cord between the levels of C-1 and C-2. I feel confident in hypothesizing that he suffered from blunt force trauma to the neck prior to his other injuries, based on his core body temperature and the weather over the last forty-eight hours. This man was murdered. Pending further investigation by the police—”

Dr. Gile was interrupted by a knock at his office door, prompting him to shut off his Dictaphone as one of the ceiling lights flickered. The pathologist curiously pocketed the device in his lab coat and made his way to the door. He opened the door to find a man with light brown hair, brown eyes, and some stubble standing on the other side.

“Dr. Gile?” The man asked, fishing a small notepad and a pen from his lightweight black jacket.

“Yes?” Gile responded suspiciously.

“My name is Greg Brostead, and I’m a private investigator,” Brostead introduced himself. “I’m working with Stacy Miller to solve the murder of Calvin Schneider. We talked on the phone.”

“Oh, yes. I remember,” Gile nodded. “I’m sorry, Mr. Brostead, but I don’t have any other updates on that case for you at the moment.”

“I was actually hoping you could provide some information about the body recovered the day before yesterday in the cemetery?” Inquired Brostead. “…We think the two and the church fire may all be connected.”

“You and Officer Miller?” Gile asked.

“Yes,” Brostead lied. “Schneider was buried at the same cemetery the day of.” Gile tilted his head downward slightly, recollecting the details of the investigation before nodding in agreement.

“I don’t disagree with that assessment, Mr. Brostead. It is coincidental at the very least,” the pathologist sympathized. “But I can’t give you any more than what Officer Miller has told you already.” Brostead pressed his lips together, disappointedly.

“…Yeah,” he acknowledged, slipping his notepad and pen back into his pocket.

“I’m sorry, but my hands are tied,” Gile reasoned. “I’m still unsure of the victim’s name.”

“No, no, I understand. It was a long shot anyway,” Brostead excused dismissively, before pausing for a moment. “I should get going. Thanks for your time, Doctor.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help,” Gile admitted. “Good luck finding whoever’s responsible for all of this—if they are in fact connected.”

“Thank you,” Brostead nodded. “Have a nice day!”

“You too,” Gile returned the nod before the private investigator turned around and walked away. The pathologist closed the door, looked down at his feet, and bit his lip.

“Just what this town needs,” he thought to himself. He looked over at his desk before deciding to walk over and situate himself in front of the monitor, failing to notice a few pages missing from his stack of papers. With two short strokes of the mouse, Gile checked his inbox, finding an email labeled ‘Lab Results:’

“Dr. Gile,

            The tissue samples you sent over came back with a match. Oswald Youngblood, born on March 16, 1977. From the little I could find, police records said he disappeared over twenty years ago, in 2001, in New York, and was never found. The courts declared him dead in 2009, and that was that. I’ll keep looking to see what else I can find, but I forwarded the information to the police for you. Strange case.

-Ryan”

Dr. Gile leaned back in his chair, looking out the window at the tree line just past the parking lot. A small flock of birds flew out of sight from one of the trees toward the blue sky. The pathologist huffed, digging his Dictaphone out from the pocket of his lab coat.

“Well, Mr. Youngblood,” Dr. Gile mused sympathetically, spinning around in his chair. “I’m not sure what—”

The Dictaphone fell out of the pathologist’s trembling hand, clattering hard onto the tile floor as the color drained from Dr. Gile’s face. One of the ceiling lights flickered once again before returning to normal. Through the harsh canopy lighting enveloping the room, Gile stared dreadfully at the two unoccupied metal tables in front of him.

Photo by Mathurin NAPOLY / matnapo on Unsplash