TWO
Gabriel Waggoner had never thought himself particularly skilled in his interactions with the living. In his chosen profession, this turned out not to be a liability; he rarely dealt with upright and breathing humans for more than a few minutes at a time during his hours at work, and those interactions were governed by regulations and hung on a framework of forms.
The hospital or nursing home deliverymen or the Police dropped off the bodies. Papers were filled out and exchanged. The most that was ever required of him was a comment on the weather or the pretense for three minutes that he cared how the Sox had done last night.
Officer Giles flipped through the sheets on the clipboard Gabriel had just given him and made the current transaction utterly typical by saying, “Been outside tonight?” And without a single syllable pause, “Pissin’ down like you wouldn’t believe, a real Ark-floater.” He offered the clipboard back with an unexpectedly engaging smile having apparently found the last line on the sheets he needed to sign, the last box to initial.
Gabriel, who was certain he had seen Giles somewhere outside of work, tried to smile back and hated, not for the first time, that he couldn’t see his own expression. It felt friendly... and at the same time flimsy.
“No rush on the results.” Giles said flapping the clipboard in the air in an attempt to call attention to the fact that he was still offering it back to Gabriel.
Inwardly, Gabriel rolled his eyes at himself and took it off the officer’s hands.
“Mr. Dean was behind a locked and chained door, so this is probably all just dotting i’s.”
The Officer looked expectantly at Gabriel.
Trying for an efficient, yet friendly tone, Gabriel said, “Uh. Any special screens or panels Lambrechts wants us to run?” He wondered if he’d seen Giles at Pride... or maybe on dudesnude.com...
“It’s all there.” Giles said emphasizing the last word with his voice and directing his eyes at the papers in Gabriel’s hand.
“Oh, eh of course.” Gabriel tore off the copies of the forms that Giles needed to take with him. “Thank you Officer Giles.”
Giles touched the plastic-covered visor of his hat which still sparkled with beads of rain and offered another of those possibly-interested smiles. “Don’t get spooked down here by yourself.”
Gabriel turned and tossed the pen into the cup on his desk. “Oh, there’s nothing to be scared of here. The dead are far less...” He trailed off as he turned to find himself alone with the bagged body on the gurney. <If that ain’t the story of my life.>
He sighed. He was beginning to feel decidedly ungay... no, totally unsexual. <How many years without a date before I can apply for honorary membership in the International League of Eunuchs?> He wondered.
Gabriel tossed the clipboard on top of the body and pushed the gurney through the double swinging doors.
He’d had friends in college. He’d had lovers. He’d had actual relationships. <Robert lasted more than two months; that counted as a relationship.> He parked Mr. Dean next to the autopsy table and grabbed the clipboard. <What had happened? What wall did I hit? Why am I suddenly not able to make that connection? Any connection?> He knew he wasn’t kidding anyone; there was no 'sudden' about it. He had no life 'social' or otherwise, and it wasn’t a recent development.
After a quick perusal of the forms and reports, he could see there wasn’t much to do for the case. No cutting, at least not yet. He just needed to draw some fluids, take a few evidentiary samples if there were any to be found, and then put the body on ice. No need to call for assistance in getting the body off the wheelie. He could do all he needed to through the opening in the body bag; then zip it and chill.
Gabriel envied the gay men he saw on the Common during Pride or in the bars on one of his rare nights out. Gay men who surrounded themselves with friends, who chatted and laughed and punctuated their time together pulling out their phones to chat with, Gabriel supposed, more friends who were elsewhere. <What did people talk about at such length?> He wondered.
He locked the wheels of the gurney and unzipped the bag. Titus Dean had been a very handsome man. Whoever had bagged him had straightened his neck and limbs. The back of his head was likely not pretty, but the impact with the pavement had left his face completely unmarked. His skin was of a shade and degree of perfection usually only seen in makeup ads, and he had a James Franco/James Dean vulnerable tough-guy look with a short cap of dark curly hair that — <Crap,> Gabriel interrupted his musings on Dean’s beauty. <I really need to get HAPPY with a living man post haste!>
Gabriel opened the bag as far as he’d need to and glove-and-gowned himself. He drew several samples of blood, swabbed nose and mouth; he swabbed the ears for extra measure. The fingernails were clean and manicured. An x-ray or MRI were a possibility to be completely certain Mr. Dean hadn’t died before he hit the pavement, but his blood would tell a part of the story they needed to hear.
Gabriel paused. He glanced over his shoulder at the light box, currently dark, in the corner, the swinging doors, the industrial glazed brick walls. He felt uncharacteristically exposed, like there was a target on his back and a sniper somewhere not too far off. No one stood in the shadows, but Gabriel felt certain someone was there and working to sidestep his field of vision. If he could just turn his head fast enough, he knew he could catch them. He turned around to check the other 180 degrees of the room. Nothing.
With a half shrug, he turned his attention back to his samples. He labeled them with a deliberate slowness trying to lose himself in the mundanity of the task, trying to ignore his sense of being observed which had risen to a level he could almost call panic.
“Stop it.” he said out loud and actually jumped at the sound of his own voice. He’d never been creeped out before, never felt nervous to be alone with the dead or alone period even in the deepest hour of the night and it was barely half past evening.
What was different now?
“Sleep,” he said conversationally to the cooling immobile features of Titus Dean. “I just need a good night’s sleep.” Answered by characteristic silence, Gabriel patted Titus Dean’s cheek. Smiled at what was left of the handsome man and zipped him in.
He wheeled Dean’s gurney through another set of swinging doors, opened the door to an empty berth, and slid the body into the cool dark tube. As he flipped the handle into the locked position, he said as he always did, “Chill out.” His own private, totally corny joke.
His sense of safety bolstered by ritual, Gabriel was able to ignore the sensation that he was not alone. He went back to work starting what tests he could before the third shift arrived.