BOUND TO THE POISON QUEEN

The smell of formalin always clung to my clothes. It was a sharp, chemical sting. Most people gagged when they walked into my lab. To me, it was just the scent of work. It meant another body was waiting. It meant another dead person needed a voice. My back ached. My neck felt stiff. I had been standing over a cold steel table for 6 hours straight. I stretched my fingers inside my blue latex gloves. The air in the morgue was always kept freezing cold. It kept the bodies fresh. It also kept me wide awake. I loved the silence of the basement. Up on the street, people lied every single day. They cheated. They made excuses. But down here, under the harsh white fluorescent lights, no one could hide the truth. The silver tray beside me held three scalpel blades. A pair of bone shears. A silver measuring cup. Simple tools for a brutal job. I reached down and pulled the white sheet off the corpse. The man was young. 24 years old. His name was Leo. He was a promising young politician from a wealthy family. His face was pale and swollen. His lips were blue. The official police report sat on my clipboard near the sink. I knew what it said without looking at it again. Accidental drug overdose. The head detective called me three times today. He wanted me to sign the death certificate. He wanted to close the file. He wanted to go home to his wife and eat dinner. "Sign it, Maya," he had grunted through the phone earlier. "The kid was a rich addict. Case closed." I picked up scalpel number ten. The stainless steel felt cool against my grip. "You were wrong, Detective," I muttered to the empty room. I pinched the cold skin over the corpse's sternum. I made my first cut. Y-shape. From the shoulders down to the chest, then straight down to the pubic bone. The blade cut smoothly through the flesh. Blood pooled slowly. Cold blood does not flow like living blood. It drips like thick oil. I peeled back the chest wall. My hands worked fast, practiced precision. I was a machine. I had to be. If I let my emotions take over, I would make a mistake. I severed the ribs using the shears. Crunch. The sound filled the quiet basement. I set the chest plate aside. I looked directly at the internal organs. His lungs were heavy. They were filled with fluid. But his heart showed strange dark red patches along the left ventricle. Micro-hemorrhages. I leaned in closer. My heart beat a little faster. The thrill of the search hit my veins. "Drugs don't do this to a heart muscle," I whispered. I sliced a thin section of the cardiac tissue and placed it into a clear glass vial. I grabbed my camera and took five close-up shots. The flash illuminated the dark gray walls of the morgue. This was not an overdose. This was a targeted execution. Someone had slipped a toxic alkaloid into his drink. A very specific, rare plant extract. It paralyzed the nerves first. Then it stopped the heart from beating within three minutes. It left almost no trace in the stomach lining. It was brilliant. It was near perfect. Whoever killed Leo thought they were smarter than everyone else. They thought no one would look closely enough at an addict. They forgot about me. My phone rang loudly on the metal desk. The loud sound bounced off the tiled walls. I took off my bloody gloves and threw them into the biohazard bin. I walked over to the desk and picked up the phone. "Dr. Maya," I said. My voice was raspy from lack of water. "Tell me you signed the papers," Detective Miller said. He sounded tired. I could hear the background noise of a busy police station. Paperwork shuffling. Radios crackling. "I didn't sign," I said flatly. Miller let out a loud groan. "Maya, please. The family wants to bury their son. The mayor is calling my boss every thirty minutes." "The family can wait," I said. "Unless they want to bury a murder victim as a junk junk*e." Silence fell over the line. "What did you find?" Miller asked softly. "Aconite derivative," I said. "Purified. Injected into his wine glass or mixed into his food. He didn't choke on pills, Miller. His heart was blown out from the inside." "Are you completely sure?" "I'm never wrong about the cause of death," I said. "Bring his inner circle in for questioning. Start with his business partner." "Sh*t," Miller swore under his breath. "If you put this in the report, it opens a massive investigation. High-profile people are going to get dragged into court." "Good," I said. "They should be. I'm running the blood work through the mass spectrometer now. Final report hits your desk at 8:00 AM." I didn't wait for his reply. I hung up the receiver. My stomach growled violently. I hadn't eaten since yesterday afternoon. A half-eaten sandwich was placed on my desk next to three empty coffee cups. I ignored the food. Hunger was just a physical reaction. Work came first. I walked over to the coffee machine in the corner of the room. It was old and stained with black rings. I poured the dark liquid into a chipped ceramic mug. I took a hot sip. It burned my tongue. I welcomed the pain. It kept me grounded. People often ask me why I became a forensic pathologist. Why choose to spend your twenties surrounded by dead bodies instead of building a family or going to parties? The answer was simple. People in the real world were exhausted. They wore masks. They pretended to love you while stabbing you in the back. They made promises they never kept. My ex-fiancé taught me that lesson three years ago. He took my savings, slept with my best friend, and told me I was too cold to be loved. He was right about one thing. I was cold. But the cold kept you alive. Cold kept your head clear. The dead never lied to me. They didn't have hidden motives. Their flesh, their bones, their blood held the facts. All I had to do was read them. I took my mug and sat down at my computer. I booted up the toxicology scanner. The screen glowed bright blue in the dark room. Graphs and chemical structures began to fill the monitor. I began typing the official report. My fingers flew across the keyboard. Victim: Leo Vance. Age: 24. Cause of Death: Homicide. Suddenly, the lights in the basement flickered. Bzzzt. The long fluorescent tube above my head clicked twice and turned off. Half the room plunged into deep shadow. I paused. My fingers hovered over the keyboard. The morgue was on the lowest basement level of the city hospital. It was secure. You needed an electronic key card to get through the thick steel doors at the end of the hallway. A heavy sound echoed down the corridor. Tap. Tap. Tap. Slow footsteps. The heavy rubber soles of work boots hit wet linoleum. I didn't panic. My heart rate stayed steady. I opened my desk drawer silently. My fingers wrapped around the cold handle of my scalpels in the tray. I pulled out a heavy stainless steel bone saw. It wasn't a gun, but it could cut through muscle in seconds. "Morgue is closed," I called out toward the dark hallway. "Visiting hours are over." No one answered. The footsteps stopped right outside my frosted glass door. I saw a dark shadow standing on the other side. Tall. Broad shoulders. Wearing a dark jacket. My phone on the desk buzzed again. An incoming text message. I kept my eyes on the door. I reached out with my left hand and clicked the phone screen open without looking down. The automated text-to-speech option chimed out loud: Unknown sender says: Delete the Vance file, Maya. Or you don't leave the building tonight. A cold smile touched my lips. So the murderer had connections inside the hospital. They knew I was working late. They knew I had found the poison. "You pick the wrong night to threaten me," I said aloud. I reached for my computer mouse. I clicked the red button on my screen. Send to the District Attorney. The progress bar hit one hundred percent. File Transmitted Successfully. The glass door shattered. Heavy boots kicked the frame open. Shards of glass rained down onto the tile floor. A man rushed into the room. A black mask covered his face. Gloved hands holding a heavy metal pipe. He swung the pipe straight at my head. I ducked fast. The pipe smashed into my desk monitor. The screen exploded in sparks and plastic. I drove the metal bone saw upward with all my weight. The jagged blade cut deep into his thigh. The attacker screamed in pain. Blood sprayed across his dark jeans. He stumbled backward, clutching his leg. "You crazy b***h!" he yelled. "You have terrible form," I said through gritted teeth. I turned and sprinted out of the room. My lab coat flew behind me. I hit the heavy crash bar of the emergency exit doors. The metal bar gave way. I burst into the rain-soaked back alley behind the hospital. Cold rain slammed into my face instantly. Drenching my hair. Soaking through my clothes. My car was parked twenty yards away under a broken streetlamp. I pulled my car keys from my coat pocket. My hands were shaking now. The adrenaline was hitting my system hard. I unlocked my sedan. I jumped into the driver's seat and slammed the door shut. I jammed the key into the ignition. The engine roared to life. I threw the car into reverse and slammed my foot onto the gas pedal. Tires shrieked against the wet pavement. I burst out of the alley onto the main road. The city at night was a blur of neon signs and flashing yellow lights. Rain poured in heavy sheets against my windshield. The wipers slapped wildly back and forth. I looked in my rearview mirror. A massive black pickup truck pulled out from the side street behind me. It didn't have its headlights on. It was moving fast. "Come on," I hissed, shifting into fourth gear. My car sped up to 50 miles per hour. 60. 70. The truck was gaining on me. It was heavier. Faster. The truck rammed my rear bumper. BANG! The impact shook my teeth. My head snapped back violently against the headrest. The steering wheel violently jerked in my hands. "Dammit!" I yelled. I fought for control. The car swerved on the slick asphalt. The truck pulled up alongside me. Through the dark window, I saw the driver. He didn't have a mask on anymore. Cold, dead eyes glared straight at me. He turned his steering wheel hard into my side door. CRASH! To Be Continued.........