Manner of Death

Manner of Death

N. Sumi

Published by Inkblot Press, 2016.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

MANNER OF DEATH

First edition. October 25, 2016.

Copyright © 2016 N. Sumi.

Written by N. Sumi.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Manner of Death

Also By N. Sumi

Two was suspicious.

Two was often a sign of more bodies that just hadn't been found: someone buried, someone burned, someone hidden, or someone drowned.  Or someone in another jurisdiction, even, someone that hadn't gone into Alan's office.  They were only just starting to communicate with other networks now, after finding the second body.

The first one had been a prostitute.  Female, African-American, 22; height: 5'5"; weight: 147.  She'd had bad teeth, gum disease, and fingertips yellowed from smoking cigarettes.  She'd also been missing approximately 40% of her blood, despite a lack of blood at the scene.  Just her, with a ragged little hole chewed into her forearm, and no blood whatsoever.  No signs of a violent struggle.  Her name had been Amanda, but everyone called her Mandy.

Weird.  Very weird.

The second one was more alarming: male, Caucasian, 20; height: 5'9"; weight: 162.  College student, excellent health; he'd been on his way home from a party when he disappeared, just the day after they found Mandy.  A homeless man found him in a dumpster the next morning, in an alleyway between home and the party.  Missing 40% of his blood again, but no blood in or around the dumpster.  The hole was in his neck, that time.  His name had been Jason.

Alan stepped back from the table and viewed Jason with a critical eye.  He liked to think that the guys at the mortuary liked him.  Oh hey, this is one of Alan's bodies, they'd say.  See those neat stitches?  You can barely even see the ones under the hairline.  Alan always does such a good job.

Probably they didn't even notice.  Alan sighed, rolled Jason into the freezer, and turned the lights out.

*

Quincy meowed at Alan and danced around his feet like he'd never been fed, even though his automatic feeder dispensed a quarter-cup of kibble at 6:15 on the dot every evening, whether Alan was home or not.  The kibble wasn't the point, though.  The point was one of the fish-shaped treats from the little ziploc baggie on the top shelf of the corner cupboard in the kitchen, where Quincy couldn't get to it.  The interior of the bag smelled strongly of nutritional yeast; the treats also doubled as vitamins that supposedly kept Quincy's black-and-white coat shiny and his joints well-lubricated.

Not that you need it, Alan told Quincy as the cat gobbled up his treat with yellow eyes squinched up in catly glee.  You always look great without any effort whatsoever.

Quincy finished his treat and washed his face with his paw for a little bit before wandering off to the corner to pluck at his scratching post.  Alan watched him go, then turned to the business of his own dinner: a leftover grilled chicken breast, kale salad, and a spoonful of quinoa.  He ate it alone at the table, with the news on in the background.  There wasn't anything about a vampire serial killer.  Not yet, anyway.

After dinner, Alan turned off the TV and washed his dishes.  He left the plate and utensils in the drying rack and retired to the armchair with his newest library book: The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz.  Quincy, recognizing his cue, leapt up into into Alan's lap and turned around in two-and-a-half circles, once causing Alan to wince, before settling down into a ball with his paws tucked under his chest.  Shortly after that, he began to purr.  Alan rubbed his ears and muttered good cat before settling down to read.

If Alan Spaulding had to describe himself, he would do it this way: male, Caucasian, 33; height: 6'; weight: 188.  Eyes: dark brown; hair: black.  No distinguishing marks.  Cause of death: natural, most likely, though he (or rather, the presiding examiner, since he'd be dead) wouldn't be able to determine that without a thorough examination.  But Alan didn't see how it could happen any other way.  He led an uneventful life: he arrived at work around 6:30 in the morning and was usually home by 6 pm.  He ate well, exercised regularly, and abstained from drugs or alcohol, except for the occasional glass of red wine and the even more occasional cup of coffee or tea.  On weekends, if he wasn't working, attending a conference, or performing research, he ran errands, went to the gym and the library, called his parents, and sometimes exchanged long emails with his friends who now lived in other states.

He glanced at the clock: 9:58 pm.  Time to get ready for bed.  Quincy had, in the mysterious manner of