The Biker's Doctor

Chapter Four

Trigger warning – this chapter mentions suicide

The Cadaver of a male aged in his mid-fifties was crackling with rigor mortis as I examined the loose bones of what was clearly a triple fracture of a completely shattered pair of ankles.

Dr Kline, my Professor, was trolling on, as per usual, with factual accuracy. I tried to focus with emotional detachment on the Cadaver and not think of it as a person. I was finding it difficult, but I knew I needed to be objective as a medical student and not view this body as a person or even as a patient.

Its limbs, laid out before me under a bleach-smelling crisp white sheet, are a learning mechanism, and that was all.

It was my own fault that I could not disconnect. I wondered about the man's death. He had a name once, and likely a family. He made a conscious decision to donate his body and organs for the benefit of a student like me and medical science.

The mid-fifties, I was young to end up with a broken carcass like this.

I could not help but ponder how this lost soul was now on the metal slab in front of a fifth-year medical student two weeks short of placement, which I was dead certain was going to be here as a Resident at Stanford Base Hospital.

Focus, I ordered myself.

I will need to know this for my last exam in about a week.

OK, two shattered ankles.

I moved my gloved hands to the knees that felt more like jelly implants. If I had been a detective in another life, then my conclusions would have been easy. It was rather evident that the cause of death was suicide by jumping.

People often think that a jumper would be a nose-dive off the rooftop of a building. It was not always the case. Gravity usually forces a person mid-fall to extend their hands to stop the inevitable impact instinctively. That, or they dove feet first, as was likely the case here, and no amount of reverse gravity could change that result. Body weight and physics gave only one outcome of that fate. The better sum of the 26 bones in the feet was not meant to support that blow.

It was not a doctor's place to further stipulate what happened here unless I was a Coroner. I unequivocally was not going to be a Coroner. My loner lifestyle would suit the quiet, desolate, and isolating working conditions that Coroners encounter with their lifeless cases in a morgue. I, however, wanted to work in the high-pressure environment of the Emergency Room. I appreciated the speed, the demands, and the absolute need for accuracy that left no room for error. It was an intense environment. One that allowed for no mistakes. Mistakes there cost people's lives.

Such a challenge was exhilarating and kept a doctor daring to belong there on their toes with razor-edge sharpness. That was the life that I wanted. A dream I had worked so hard for and would soon be realized.

The pale sight of this body brought back memories from six months ago at my father Dean’s funeral. My father, with his finely cut red and grey beard, was well-dressed for the final occasion in a black suit. That final attire was necessary, but I think he would have turned in his grave if he knew it was his last suit. He hated dressing up for any occasion. He probably would have preferred to be dressed in the leather jacket that he had once worn as a member of the California motorcycle club — The Devil's Protégés.

I had been so close to my father, and his memory was a daily constant in my life still. I wonder if there was a day in the far future when I would not spend ten times a day thinking about him.

I ventured to think that my father would be very proud of me as the young, intelligent, and beautiful woman I had become. I wish he could have at least made it to see my graduation later this year. It hurt to know he would not be here for that important day, and I tried not to dwell on it as much as I could. Graduation day was going to be a stern reminder that he was no longer in my life.

His death, even just six months ago, was still so raw.

Unfortunately, I did not have the same history with my mother. Eliza, as I called her instead of mother, had died when I was only six years old from lung cancer—the result of a life spent being a heavy smoker. I didn’t remember her much at all. All I really knew of her was that she was a spoiled rich girl with the last name Cole. When she was only sixteen and pregnant with yours truly, she married my father, Dean Levi, a member and General of the Devil's Protégés. I imagine that choice was a mixture of wanting to piss off my grandparents, also deceased, since it was a dangerous adventure with a man from the other side of the tracks.

I think both my parent’s decisions to get married were out of necessity because she was pregnant. Although their relationship was not founded on love, rather a few weeks of lust that resulted in a post-natal marriage, my father took being an actual 'father' much more seriously.

Whatever Eliza’s stupid reasoning was for choosing my father, I was grateful. My father, Dean, was the best in the world. Less than seven years ago, he retired from the Devil's Protégés club so that I would not be exposed to that crude world. It took getting shot to make that decision. Now, both of them were gone. At least he had good intentions.

An unfortunate positive outcome of Eliza’s death was that she left my father and me her half of a considerable inheritance, which had been split between my aunt Elenora and herself. Several million dollars would allow my father to retire completely. Neither of us had to work if we didn't want to.

I guess my life had been riddled by tragic loss. All of it had left me somewhat numb.

When Dad was back in the club, he would never have thought about monetary wealth. But the Cole inheritance provided us with a more than comfortable life. And it has paid for my education, which I would not have been able to afford without the burden of student loan debt.

Now, the only family that I had was my mother's sister, my aunt, Elenora. She was kind and involved as much as she could be in my life, even though we weren't that close. Half the reason I chose Stanford University was that I wanted to be physically closer to her, living in San Francisco.

Why did I conclude that this man was a suicide? And stop calling him a man, Avery! Focus, focus, focus. He's a Cadaver. A deceased body of decaying flesh, which was an instrument of study tonight.

Maybe this body was not that of a jumper committing suicide from some roof at all. That's why I'm not a detective; I schooled myself. That's why I am studying medicine. My personal views and deductions of the body's history beyond its medical implications had no place here.

"Miss Levi?" My name brought me back from the blurred words Professor Kline was waffling on.

Oh no, Professor Kline asked me a question. Why did he always have to pick on me?

My fingers let go of the pendant at the end of the chain necklace I was wearing, which I had not even realised I had started fidgeting with. I hope no one noticed how distracted I was tonight.

"What have you been able to deduce about your subject?" It was a repeated question I had missed.

Great, the Professor who has a pretty important say in my placement, now thinks I'm not paying attention to his lecture. Just what I need.

"The subject's joints have become completely locked, showing the third stage of rigor mortis. The muscles show no contortion at this point." I collected and reiterated my thoughts as quickly as I could return focus.

"Conclusion?" He insisted I continue.

"Conclusion: the Subject has been deceased for several hours."

"Can you place the time of death?"

I looked at the white-and-black school clock on the wall. It was 11 pm at this late-night lecture. Theater practicals were rarely this late in the evening. But a quick donation enabled several of us in the small class to study the progressive stages of rigor mortis.

"Between 4 and 5 pm. Seven hours ago, at least and not more." I answered as the clock indicated it was 11 pm.

"Outstanding work, Miss Levi."

Good… I was able to make up for my blunder.

Now move on to your next victim with your questions, Professor.

Dr Kline, our Professor, was good-looking for an older gentleman. He was of average height and pretty well-built for a man in his early sixties. But silver wavy hair showed his age. He took pride in his appearance, always wearing a suit with a black jacket that complemented his hair. It all gave more evidence that he was a respected doctor as well as a narcissist with a God Complex. It fit the perfect cliché of a professor at Stanford University, or any Ivy League school.

It was not hard to imagine that Dr. Kline would have been having an affair with one of his students. Not strictly against the rules, but not particularly welcomed either. I could easily picture him at some bar where the principal clientele were students, hitting on one of his stary-eyed students. It was not uncommon.

And of course, that student would be just as awe-struck by the great Professor, since they would view flirting or even sleeping with him as advantageous to their class grades. I am also damn sure that would help with where they wanted to be placed at the Hospital, which was a complete competition.

Not me. I was not the kind of woman who would use my beauty to advance my medical career. I wanted to earn my placement, and I was perfectly fine competing for it through hard work and diligent study.

Yes, I knew that I was pretty, and I was modest about my appearance. I did not hide it, no, I had pride in my wild, natural features. But I also didn't go out of my way to highlight them.

My emerald green eyes framed my light, white skin, which was freckled like a redhead’s. The matching wild red locks fell to my middle back and were long enough to define the tight curls—an uncommon and stunning combination, rare as much as they were unique. I always wore my hair out, too. I didn't see the point in trying to tame one of my best visual assets by pulling my hair back. I believe that the way I dressed framed my beauty. Even now, I wore a rather tight purple silk blouse tucked into a white linen skirt that fell just below knee-length. But my somewhat prickly demeanour, maintained with discipline, let everyone around me know that I was not free to date or, really, to be approached at all.

I believe, based on the looks of several of my male counterparts, that I was often viewed as sport, which I took absolutely no part in. I was here to learn, not be the next notch on a frat boy's belt.

The clock struck 11:30 pm, signalling that the practical lecture was over.

With calm respect, I pulled the white sheet back over my Cadaver's head. I was amazed that many of my fellow students did not show the same respect for the dead, already starting their conversations after the Professor had finished and leaving their Cadavers uncovered as they made their way to leave the theater.

I will return to the theater tomorrow and select this same Cadaver to study further. Tomorrow, rigor mortis will pass, and I can study the joints and muscles in the next phase of decomposition. I could manage that after my morning lecture on Exam Revision for Pharmaceuticals, followed by an advanced Biochemistry session.

It was going to be a long day, and the stress of the final exam I had to take to graduate from Medical School was looming.