Morgue Drawer Four Read Free Page B

the dark, my body and I.

     
    Again, because of my confusion, and maybe as a side effect of the alcohol—I really didn’t know if you could be wasted as a ghost having a near-death experience—I lacked any sense of time, but at some point the drawer opened, my body was placed onto a gurney, pushed into a tiled room, and transferred onto a stainless-steel table with an outlet strainer at the foot end, and then Duffie/Martin stepped up to the table along with another man. The other man was holding a Dictaphone and spoke the introduction into it. “Autopsy of a male body for the Cologne District Attorney’s Office. Identified by the police as Sascha Lerchenberg, age: twenty-four, height: one hundred seventy-three centimeters, weight: sixty-nine kilograms.”
    I was still pretty confused, but that was entirely appropriate because what ensued was truly horrific. My initial confusion blossomed into full-on panic as I saw what Martin was holding in his hand: a gleaming scalpel that looked pretty damn sharp. He put it into position and sliced my entire torso open, starting at my chin in a straight incision going so far down you really couldn’t go any farther. I expected a torrent of blood, but nothing happened. Meanwhile, Mr. Blabbermouth commented into his stupid recorder on each incision and every finding while I circled above the autopsy table in extreme agitation. I felt sick. Layer by layer my skin was peeled off, the fat tissue underneath exposed and folded back—I don’t remember all the details very well anymore—until the situation started to get really disgusting: Martin grabbed my testicles.
    “Dude, get your monkey beaters off my balls!” I roared with the greatest urgency, and Martin spun around, so startled I thought he might slash his colleague right open. That was the moment I realized he could hear me.

TWO
     
    “What is it?” the guy with the Dictaphone asked. I couldn’t make out his whole face because slicer guys wear these ridiculous face masks when they’re dissecting bodies, but his eyes had grown a little bigger out of fear as Martin’s scalpel hissed through the air in front of his abdomen.
    “I, uh, I don’t know,” Martin stammered, and I sensed his uncertainty. Ditto on that, plus I felt really indignant (that’s another cool word Martin’s taught me), I’m sure you can imagine. I mean, what would you say if some perv in green scrubs started by professionally filleting you and then wanted to cut your balls off? That’s what I’m talking about.
    “Do we need to prepare the testicles?” Martin asked, sounding somehow sheepish.
    “Nah,” came the response from behind the mask, the guy’s eyes narrowing. He smirked big. “Only our female colleagues enjoy that. Leave them, it’s OK. Cause of death is clear, right?”
    Martin nodded. “Occipital blunt force trauma resulting in cardiopulmonary collapse due to massive brainstem injury, presumably the result of falling from the bridge onto the back of the head.”
    The other guy put the Dictaphone back up to his mask and said, “Preparation of testicles not necessary,” then he switched it off and stretched. “Gotta pee.”
    Martin nodded. Martin stayed with me but took a step back from the table and watched his diminutive assistant, who was putting the pieces that Martin had cut out of my organs into Mason jars. At the time I wasn’t able to make heads or tails of the scene, but since then I’ve learned that a fine tissue sample is taken from every organ, which in hospital slang is called a histo sample. Comes from histology , but you don’t need to know that. Cutting the body open is only one part of an autopsy. There’s also the toxicology report and even a genetic test, if they need one.
    During my own autopsy, though, all I could do was circle around gawking, but otherwise I kept quiet. Martin was also unnaturally quiet. It was as though he were listening intently, uncertain whether he should be listening outwardly or