Anger opened his eyes. "Find Watson. Tell him I need him to perform an autopsy. Now!"
"But the Commissioner said—"
"The Commissioner is in his office entertaining the brass. Would you like to go and disturb him?" Anger straightened up and walked away.
Anger sat in his office, waiting until Hendrick returned before heading to the morgue in the basement.
The temperature dropped with each step down the spiral stone staircase. Hendrick followed behind with the file box, their footsteps the only sound echoing off the stone walls.
Medical Examiner Edgar Watson was already waiting at the door to the autopsy room, a clipboard in hand. A flicker of excitement passed through his eyes when he saw Anger.
"Hastings," Watson's voice. "Hendrick said you have something interesting."
"Possibly more interesting than you'd imagine." Anger pushed open the iron door.
The walls of the entire autopsy room were lined with shelves filled with glass jars containing various organ specimens preserved in fluid. In the center, on the dissection table, the Viscountess's body lay covered with a white sheet.
Anger walked over and pulled back the sheet.
Watson leaned in, his spectacles almost touching the corpse's chest.
When he saw the mycelium, he also froze for a moment, giving a slight shudder.
"What... is this?" the examiner whispered, his finger hovering in the air, wanting to touch but not daring to.
"I don't know. That's why I need you." Anger took out the evidence bags, placing the mycelium sample, the oilstained cloth fragment, and the fingernail scrapings one by one on the adjacent tabletop. "Test these. The sooner, the better."
Watson was already putting on his gloves. Anger stood beside him, watching as he handled the samples on the table.
Anger waited for a good while. Watson paused, and only then did Anger speak. "Well?"
"These samples... are not right."
He used tweezers to lift the cloth fragment towards the light. "The mycelium lost activity rapidly after being separated from the body. This doesn't match the characteristics of any known fungus or bacteria. As for this oil stain... the light spectrum it refracts is one I've never seen before."
"And this." Watson picked up a small glass vial from the tray containing strange crystals. "Preliminarily separated from her stomach contents. I'm not sure what it is yet, but its crystal structure is bizarre."
"How long for results?"
"The mycelium and oil stain require special equipment. Tomorrow noon at the earliest. The nail powder and this red crystal... preliminary reports can be ready tonight." Watson looked up at Anger. "This case is unusual, isn't it? Not like the stabbings and stranglings in the dockyards."
"Extremely unusual," Anger said. "So, Watson. Only the three of us know about this. Don't write the reports into the archives. Tell me orally. Destroy the samples when you're done."
The examiner smiled. "Pure scientific curiosity. I love a challenge."
Anger turned to leave, then stopped. "Chamber B7. In the morgue. What's in Chamber B7?"
Watson frowned. "B7? That's in the old section. Holds unclaimed bodies or cases already closed. Haven't opened it in at least six months. The key is in records. Requires a request."
"Can we open it now?"
"In theory, yes. But we'd need a reason."
"Hendrick, go get the key."
"Right away!"
******
Hendrick stopped at the door of the archives, took a deep breath, and pushed open the heavy door.
"The key is on the third shelf in Section C," the old archivist mumbled without looking up, curled behind his desk in the corner, almost swallowed by mountains of files. Only the brim of his felt hat was visible. "The Bsection morgue keys are all hanging there."
"Thank you, Mr. John," Hendrick said softly, afraid to disturb the dead silence.
He walked through the iron shelves, the halo from the kerosene lamp in his hand drawing swaying circles in the narrow aisle. The archive boxes were lined up neatly enough on the shelves, each brown paper cover marked with a year, a case number, and a brief name.
Dockside Dismemberment Case 1851
Banker's Mysterious Poisoning 1858
Hendrick wasn’t in a hurry to get the key. His hand gently brushed over the labels, stirring up some dust.
These archives… how he wished his own name could be among them.
Hendrick!!!
He remembered last month when Detective Anger had asked for the autopsy report on the banker poisoning case. Hendrick had found it in just a quarter of an hour, under the financial crimes category.
Mr. Anger had looked at him then, a flicker of surprise in those perpetually weary eyes, then nodded and said, "Good work, Hendrick."
Just three words. But Hendrick’s steps had felt lighter all the way home that night.
This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
Section C. The third shelf. The keys hung on rusty brass hooks. The labels were yellowed, but the writing was still legible. B1 – B12, Old Morgue Wing.
Hendrick found the key for B7, quickly took it, and was about to turn when something caught the corner of his eye.
Deep in the archive room was a narrow window, its glass thick with grime. Almost no light came through here. But just for an instant, Hendrick swore he saw a shadow move outside.
Fog. But all he saw was fog.
The thick fog of the back courtyard rolled beyond the window. The branches of the old elm tree in the distance swayed in the wind, their shadows twisting and warping in the mist.
Maybe just the tree. Maybe just tired eyes playing tricks.
But just as he was about to look away, he saw it—a figure.
Female. Stiff. Gothic attire. Standing under the elm tree, facing the archive window. There was no mistaking it—absolutely a woman. He could almost catch a faint, unique feminine fragrance.
The distance was too great, the fog too thick. Hendrick couldn’t make out a face, but he could feel the thing watching. Staring straight in.
Hendrick’s heart hammered against his ribs. His hand instinctively went to his waist—empty. He was only a thirdclass constable, not issued a gun.
He took a step back, his heel hitting the iron shelf behind him with a dull clang.
"Mr. John?" he whispered.
A snore came from the corner. The old archivist was asleep.
Hendrick forced himself to look at the window again.
The figure was gone.
The space under the elm tree was now empty. He counted his own heartbeats until he was sure there was truly nothing there.
An illusion. It had to be.
He had been running around with Detective Anger these past few days, short on sleep. The dim light of the archive, the thick fog outside, the eerie shadow of the old elm—it was enough to make anyone hallucinate.
He let out a breath, only then realizing he’d been holding it.
As he turned to leave, his gaze swept over the nearest shelf.
Special Incidents: "Werewolf Rampage."
The brown paper box was halfway pulled out, slanted awkwardly on the shelf, conspicuously out of place among the files.
Hendrick frowned. He remembered this category. He’d seen it last week when organizing the supernatural incidents files, but the box had been complete then, packed full.
He walked over. His fingers touched the lid. The dust was thick, but there were fresh smudge marks on the edge of the box. Someone had opened it recently.
"Who would be going through a fiftyyearold case at five in the morning? "Hendrick muttered to himself.
He looked around. In the archive room, only the intermittent snoring from afar broke the silence.
Curiosity overpowered his unease. He gently pulled the box out and opened the lid.
It was empty.No—at the bottom lay a slip of paper.
Hendrick picked it up, unfolded it. The kerosene lamp light was too dim; he had to bring it very close to read the hastily scrawled words.
[She is not the first, nor will she be the last. The answer lies in B7. ]
No signature. No date. Just that line.
Hendrick quickly folded the paper, put it back in the box, slid the empty box back into place, trying to align it with the surrounding archives as best he could. Then he hurried away from Section C.
As he passed John’s desk, the old archivist stirred, muttered something unintelligible in his sleep, and sank back into slumber.
Key in hand, Hendrick walked briskly away.
Back in the corridor, he suddenly felt followed. The corridor held only the sound of his own boots on the tile floor, yet he couldn't shake the feeling that someone, somewhere in the distant shadows, was matching his breathing, mimicking his rhythm.
He stopped. Somewhere far off—perhaps at the stairwell, perhaps around a corner in another corridor—another set of footsteps also stopped.
Hendrick didn’t look back. Detective Anger had taught him: when unsure of friend or foe, never show your fear or confusion. He took a deep breath and walked on, neither too fast nor too slow.
And the distant footsteps started up again, keeping the same rhythm, the same distance.
It wasn’t until he descended the stairs, crossed the atrium, and reached the stone steps leading down to the underground morgue that the accompanying footsteps finally vanished completely.
******
Hendrick approached and handed Anger the key, looking as though he had something to say but couldn’t bring himself to speak.
“Having trouble?”
“No, Detective. I’ll head upstairs first. Call me if you need anything.”
Anger took the key and turned to Watson. “I’m going to check the old wing. Will you be alright here alone?”
“What trouble could there be? I’m already halfway into the coffin. What ghost would want to chew on these old bones?” Watson chuckled.
Without looking back, Anger turned and left.
The old wing of the morgue lay deepest within. The gas pipes did not reach here; the oil lamps on the walls had burned too long, their flames shrunk to faint, beansized flickers.
He walked to the third row and looked at the numbers on the cabinet doors: B6, B7, B8. The brass labels had oxidized black, but the engravings remained clear: B7.
Click. Anger pulled the cabinet door open.
On the sliding rack lay a body covered with a white sheet, its human outline unnaturally regular beneath the cloth. He gripped the edge of the sheet and pulled it back.
It was a man.
around fifty years old, with rugged features and high cheekbones. A old scar ran from his left brow to his ear. His hair was gray, cut short, and the skin of his scalp showed the tracery of blood vessels after freezing.
The body was preserved unusually well—the skin wasn’t slack, the muscles hadn’t atrophied. If not for the eyes, you might think he was just an old fellow lying there, playing a prank.
The eyes were open.
The pupils had dilated into two hollow black dots, staring straight up at the cabinet ceiling. The whites were veined with spiderwebs of blood.
Anger’s gaze moved downward.
The corpse wore a tattered military jacket—the wool fabric long faded to pale, patches on the elbows. On its chest was pinned a faded badge: crossed rifles and a sword, beneath which small characters were engraved: Fourth Infantry Regiment, Northern Border Army.
A veteran.
Anger’s eyes stopped at the corpse’s hand. The right hand was clenched tightly.
He put on gloves, gently placed his fingers on the veteran’s wrist, and carefully pried open one finger, then another. The joints made faint clicks.
In the palm lay a piece of torn fabric—a strip of silk, its edges ragged and uneven. Anger picked it up with tweezers and held it close to the oil lamp.
Same material as the Viscountess’s nightgown.
At the center of the fabric was a small, slightly darker stain. He leaned in and smelled it.
Bitter.
“Why is it so similar to the stain on the Viscountess’s gown… even the smell,” he murmured to himself.
“The stain on the Viscountess’s nightgown was just like this, exactly the same smell. I wondered back then why a stain would have a smell, but I didn’t think much of it.”
Anger turned and walked to the file shelf against the wall, found the section labeled B, and pulled out the register. Its corners were curled and yellowed.
He flipped through it quickly.
B7. Registered Name: Doe, Unknown. Found in the back alley of Blackhound Lane, East District, on November 7th, three years ago. Cause of Death Registered: Sudden heart failure due to alcoholism. Remarks: No next of kin claimed the body. Preservation funded by Parish Charity Fund.
Anger’s finger stopped at the next line.
Autopsy Record: Stomach contents contain large amounts of undigested meat tissue and small quantities of unknown crystalline substance. Heart shows slight hypertrophy, insufficient to cause sudden death. Recommendation:—
The words after Recommendation: were blacked out with ink.
He lifted the register and tilted it toward the oil lamp. Backlit, the blackedout text revealed blurred outlines. Squinting, he deciphered it word by word.
"Silver myceliumlike growth observed in chest cavity. "
"Sample deactivated rapidly after extraction."
"Sample No. 37."
"Transferred to Special Research Division."
Special Research Division.
An internal unit of the Industrial Committee. They claimed to be responsible for new energy materials and bioadaptive technology development.
Their labs were hidden beneath the factory complex in the East District—no signs at the entrance, accessible only with special passes.
Anger closed the register and returned to cabinet B7. He looked down at the veteran’s tightly clenched right hand, at that piece of fabric.
Three years already… same stain, still reflective.
“Hendrick—” he turned to speak, only then realizing his assistant hadn’t followed.
The morgue held only himself now.