Page 36 of The Arbiter
The cold air usually keeps the ghosts at bay. But looking at the man on my table, I feel a chill that has nothing to do with the refrigeration. He’s someone I know. No. I knew. Now he’s just a canvas of systematic agony.
I click my recorder on.
“Case 404. White male. The subject shows signs of extreme physiological stress prior to death.”
I pick up my magnifying glass, tracing the faint, crystalline residue around the IV puncture in his arm.
“The toxicology screen came back an hour ago. The perpetrator kept him flooded with high-grade stimulants and neuro-sensitizers. They didn’t just want to hurt him. They wanted to make sure he couldn’t find the mercy of a blackout.”
I circle slowly around the table.
“Cruel,” I mutter under my breath.
I move the light over his torso. The marks are horrific, not because of their size, but because of their precision.
“The epidermal layer is covered in thousands of micro-punctures, most likely from a Wartenberg wheel, followed by localized thermal burns. But look at the patterns.”
I point my forceps at the bruising.
“The lack of typical shock-response in the tissue suggests his heart was being artificially stabilized. He was being held at the edge of a cliff, forced to feel every single needle, drop of wax, with a clarity no human should even endure.”
I pause, my throat dry.
I’ve seen a lot of things. But this. This is different. This wasn’t just a simple torture. It was all planned in terrifying detail. I can’t even begin to imagine how Jake must have felt.
“The subject was also found with evidence of total sensory deprivation. No sound, no light. Just the internal amplified scream of his own nervous system.”
I look at his face, his eyes are still slightly open. Frozen in final, jagged stare.
“This person didn’t just kill him. He disassembled him. Nerve by nerve, while keeping him perfectly, cruelly awake.”
I pick up the scalpel to begin the internal exam, but my hand trembles for a split second.
“The cause of death was a massive, brutal hemorrhage, but that was just the ending. The real crime happened in the hour before his heart finally stopped. He wasn’t just a victim. He was a prisoner in a body that was forced to stay alive for its own destruction.”
During the internal examination there is nothing unusual. No message. No symbol. No signature. He didn’t leave anything behind this time. But I know his work too well. It was him. He killed him. Not only that. He literally snuffed the life out of him in the most inhuman way.
“The muscle fibers show signs of extreme tachycardia. There is no sign of typical shock-induced organ shutdown. He was kept alive until the very last second.”
I move the light up to his neck, where the final act is written in a devastating line.
“The killing blow was a single, deep transverse incision across the throat. Carotid and jugular severed with surgical intent. The spray pattern and depth indicate he was at peak blood pressure when it happened, the adrenaline was still screaming through him when the blade hit.”
The silence of the morgue suddenly feels too heavy, too intimate. I reach over and click the recorder off. The red light dies. And finally, I let myself breathe.
For a moment I just stand there, staring at the body. Or what’s left of him. A strange pressure settles at the back of my neck. The kind you get when someone is standing too close behind you. Watching.
I glance over my shoulder. The autopsy room is empty. Just a stainless steel table. Cabinets. The low hum of the ventilation system. Still, the feeling doesn’t go away.
My eyes drift slowly toward the corners of the room, toward the small black dome of the security camera mounted near the ceiling.
We’ve always had cameras in here. For documentation. Liability. Training reviews. I’ve worked under them for a year without thinking about it. But since him. The lens feels… different. Like an eye. Cold. Unblinking.
I shake the thought away and pull my gloves off, tossing them into the biohazard bin. Get a grip, Madeline.
Still, as I turn toward the table. I can’t stop myself from glancing once more toward the camera. Just for a second. And the unease crawling under my skin refuses to fade. Becausesomewhere deep down, a quiet, irrational part of me is suddenly convinced. That he’s watching me.
The wheels of the gurney squeal softly as I push it down the hallway. Jake’s body lies zipped inside the black bag now, the white tag tied around the zipper pulling slightly with every movement.
