Almost everything about his physical aspects was average: height, weight, hair and eye color. Though his body composition noted an overly strong musculature. He was probably a fitness buff who spent a lot of time in the gym. Estimated age of late thirties to early forties. But, then there were the fingerprints, or finger smudges in his case.
His wounds consisted of a few scrapes on his knuckles along with bruising on his face and torso, indicating he’d been in some sort of fight. The killing blow was a single gunshot wound to the head from close proximity. The placement and angle suggested the oh-so-well-known, but rarely seen, execution-style.
I double clicked on his X-rays and stared in shock. I’d never trained in reading X-rays, but after looking at them for years, thanks to a combination of morbid curiosity and a constant need to know more, I’d learned to spot calluses: the signs of bone remodeling.
The extent of calluses on our Mr. Doe’s skeleton was staggering. I’d seen the X-rays of jumpers who didn’t have as many broken bones as this man had accumulated in his life.
Maybe Micah was right.
I wanted to laugh at the stupidity of that thought. A spy? In Cincinnati? Was he here to steal Skyline’s chili recipe? Or find out why people were obsessed with goetta? Because I’d like to know the answer to that one.
Then again, GE Aviation was based here and they did have government contracts…
Really, Paisley?
I shook my head and closed out the X-rays. There was one identifiable mark Dr. Mitchell found, so I pulled it up. When it opened, I squinted at the screen, trying to figure out what I was looking at and how Dr. Mitchell even noticed it.
Behind Mr. Mysterious’s left ear, underneath the backside of the concha, in the crease where the ear and the skull meet, were three dots. Permanent markings on the skin, almost like freckles, but they were black.
I sat back and stared at the screen.
What a strange marking.
I’d heard about gangs having a three-dot tattoo, but those were mostly in a triangle and in a noticeable place. His was in an almost invisible place. Plus, besides the bodily damage he’d suffered over the years, nothing about him—tattoos, apparel, et cetera—suggested any gang relations. Christ, the man was wearing a suit when he was killed.
For the next few hours, I went about my job and obsessed about John Doe in the back of my mind. Who was he?
Later, close to my clock out time, when the tests were done—thanks to my curiosity moving it to the head of the class—I pulled up the results and shook my head.
The tests brought up a startling and confusing combination of drugs in John Doe’s system. “This isn’t right.”
I printed off the results and walked over to where Damon was sitting.
“This can’t be right, can it?” I asked, shoving the piece of paper in his face.
He scowled at me as he grabbed the paper and looked down at it. The annoyance on his face morphed into confusion.
“How are the other tests coming out?” he asked, his eyes never leaving the page.
I shrugged. “Normal for this place.”
“Do we need to recalibrate and rerun?”
“That’s what I was wondering.” I turned back to my station and looked at the stack of completed, all normal tests from before and after.
The telltale beep and click of the door’s security flickered in the back of my mind.
“Holy shit.” Damon’s low curse was unusual, and my head popped up as I turned back and looked toward the door.
I barely had time to even comprehend who was standing there and why.
Time stopped.
The only thing I registered was the gun in a man’s hand and each snap as it fired off. Precise shots from its silenced barrel that ended emerging screams.
In my peripheral, three of my lab mates fell to the ground. Five shots in all, but I was still standing, staring straight down the dark, life-ending barrel. I shifted my eyes to focus behind the gun to the man, to see my killer before I died, and my heart stopped.
Simon?
His expression was calm and serious—a man on a mission.
His finger lingered on the trigger, but then his arm relaxed to his side.
My heart raced, beating against my chest so fast it felt like it was trying to break out from my ribs. I couldn’t think, couldn’t move. Could only stare at him. Complete shock had hijacked my system.
He reached out and grabbed my arm, pulling me toward the door. “I need you.”
Words that made my knees weak the day before made them weak again, but for a completely different reason. I stumbled, my feet seeming to have lost all memory of how to function. He was strong, and there was no resisting, even if I could.
As we moved through the door, I turned back and stared in wide-eyed horror.
The walls were dripping with red. Marcy, Damon, Murphy, Dr. Alma, and Ian were sprawled out on the floor. Their eyes were empty as blood pooled beneath them.
A scream built in my chest, but it wouldn’t come out. The world fell from beneath me as I tried to understand, to process what was going on, that they were all dead.
Pain in my arm brought my attention back to the man who just last night was a dream come true. Now he seemed to be a thing made of nightmares.
I was still asleep. That had to be it. None of it was real.