The Monster Within by Jeremy Laszlo Page B

from him and our fingers touch as he wrenches it away. I immediately close my eyes and feel as if this man is sucking out every last drop of energy from my body. I feel my whole body shiver and I know that this is the closest to death that I will ever be until that final moment. I watch as his entire body seems to relax and as he takes the money from me, I stare at him with horrified, but curious eyes. All the edge on him has smoothed out and he takes the money without so much as a word. He smiles at me and I watch as he runs as fast as he can toward the door. He blows through the doors and out into the heat of the day, leaving me at the register, shivering and shaking. I feel like throwing up.

 
8
    “I bumped you up over an eight-person gang shooting,” Whitman says to me as he leads me personally into the bowels of the morgue. It’s odd that he would personally do anything since the white-haired, aging professional is notorious for his crabby, grouchy demeanor. I don’t understand why so many people are impatient with him or find him so infuriating to deal with. Whitman is a professional, a dedicated craftsman who understands his trade better than anyone. All he wants is respect and admiration for what he does and I guess that I’m one of the few in the world who is willing to give him the respect he wants. It’s never hurt me to give the guy a compliment or tell him when I’m actually impressed, which is most of the time. “You’re going to have some enemies for me doing this and you’re not going to like what I’ve got for you,” Whitman says, looking over his glasses at me as we walk down the corridor, passing the other doctors who have taken up residency in the morgue.
    I don’t like the sound of that. Why wasn’t I going to like what he’s found? But more importantly, there’s a very dangerous question that I need the answer to. “Who was in charge of the gang shooting?” I ask, with a small amount of worry in the back of my mind.
    “Detective Redman and a couple of boys from vice are interested in finding out who’s responsible for the shootings,” Whitman sighs. “I don’t particularly care for the breed of detectives that are coming out of vice. They’re all results these days. They don’t give a damn about the people, but that’s just me, after all.”
    Fuck Redman. If I make his life a little more difficult, then it’s no sweat off of my brow. In fact, I’d like to flip him the bird and clutter up his own investigations as much as I can before I leave—especially if he’s working gang cases now. The task force must be overloaded if they’re reaching out to homicide to help clean up some of their messes.
    It’s cold in this building, for obvious reasons, but it’s definitely the feeling that I associate with death, ever since I first entered this building, the cold has always been the power of death. Making our way down the hallway, Whitman pushes through a swinging door and we step into a concrete and metal room that makes me feel frigid, sterile, and completely dead. In the center of the room is an enormous light that cranes up from the floor and looks down on the table like an enormous sunflower. On the table is the familiar, naked body of Jenny Martinez. It’s a shame seeing beautiful women naked on that table when I would have much rather seen them alive and naked. There’s nothing appealing about a naked dead woman. They lose all of their form and attraction, much like a Renaissance painting of a bored, disinterested woman who also happens to be buck naked.
    “Miss Martinez.” Whitman holds out a hand as if he’s introducing us. Grabbing his clipboard with all of his notes and his report, he doesn’t even bother looking at them. He’s a professional and he knows each of his subjects with intimate understanding and memory. I wonder if he slips and forgets things like his keys or his wife’s birthday because his memory is stuffed full of dead bodies. There’s something